WARNINGS: stanford!sam. characters are eighteen. john winchester's A+ parenting. angsty teen sam. mentions of weed. meet-cute. nerd talk. puppy love. life is strange references.
Sam Winchester isn’t scared of many things in this world.
He’d already faced some of the worst creatures on Earth by the time other kids his age could barely pronounce their names, and he’d torn monsters into pieces before most of them were even trusted with a butter knife.
Yeah, maybe he still has nightmares about rawheads after a close call back when he was eight. And he’d never admit it out loud, but just the thought of something happening to Dean makes him feel sick, like his spine’s been ripped clean out of his body. And yeah, he’s fucking scared of clowns—but they’re creepy, okay? Sam wouldn’t be surprised if one day clowns just start going out on the streets and killing people.
But he won’t be scared of college. Not when he worked so fucking hard to get here.
So when he makes his way through the Stanford dorm hallway—a lonely, almost-falling-apart box with the few things he can call his own in his arms—he watches the other kids in their rooms, boxes piled around, parents at the door with proud smiles and teary goodbyes, and he refuses to let his conviction waver.
Because maybe he’s alone. Maybe his father cut him off for choosing a future. Maybe no one helped him move in. Maybe he isn’t rich, or legacy, or sure of what he’s doing. Maybe he’s eighteen, and lonely, and terrified—and that could be scary.
But for the first time in his life, he has his own room. (Well—his and his roommate’s. But still.) He doesn’t have to worry about the next town or the next monster. All that Latin he was forced to learn will finally come in handy memorizing legal terms. His biggest worry will be finals. His clothes will be stained with coffee and ink instead of blood and guts. He’ll finally be able to make friends he doesn’t have to abandon in a week.
So Sam isn’t afraid. He’s ready for it. Hell—he’s been ready for a while.
But it isn’t easy. Nothing ever is with him. Turns out, to make friends, you have to be relatable. People bond over shared experiences and familiarity—he learned in psychology class. But Sam’s life has been anything but familiar. He grew up in a car, spent his childhood chasing monsters. He doesn’t have stories about summer houses or Thanksgivings. He can’t chime in when classmates brag about Christmas gifts or their parents’ high-paying jobs.
His roommate turns out to be some stoner guy who’s only at Stanford because Daddy has enough money to make up for a low GPA. He’s chill, but Sam’s first attempt at bonding ends with him smoking a joint for the first time. And apparently, this guy has some kind of voodoo swamp weed from hell, because Sam took maybe two drags and spent the rest of the night convinced a were-clown was coming to twist his limbs into balloon animals.
He woke up the next morning—in his bed, which is too small for him, feet and hands always hanging off the sides—to find he’d eaten all the jam he’d bought for when he was too late for breakfast, straight out of the jar. And that he’d fallen asleep with his phone still in hand, Dean’s contact one button away from being called.
So yeah, his roommate’s not an option.
Sam makes small talk with a few classmates. He even attends one of those events meant to “build community” and encourage school spirit. But he ends up leaving soon after spending his last bit of cash on a Stanford sweatshirt and awkwardly standing in a dark corner with it in his arms for maybe an hour.
So he throws himself into schoolwork, keeps his grades up, walks with his head down through the labyrinth of Stanford’s hallways without getting lost. He tells himself this is just the adaptation process, but worry chews at the back of his mind—what if this is just how it’ll be, for the next four years?
He’s about to give in and take another chance with his roommate and his weed from the underworld when he sees you.
It’s been almost a month since classes started, and by week two, Sam had discovered this little coffee shop.
A little farther away from campus, it isn’t as student-filled as the local Starbucks. It’s family-owned—fresh scones and just-brewed coffee every morning—and it’s peaceful. It has a homey feel that Sam quickly gets attached to, and it’s way easier to concentrate on his political science essay without the background noise of his roommate fighting with his father over the phone.
Sam has every corner of this place memorized—every hanging plant, every painting on the wall, every regular that walks in—so he’s sure this is the first time he’s seen you here.
You’re sitting at a table on the other side of the café, next to a window just like Sam is. He studies you over the screen of his laptop—the woolly, earthy green sweater, the wired earphones in your ears, the leather journal you keep scribbling in. There’s an iced Americano on the table, along with what looks like a squirrel-shaped pencil case and a Polaroid camera.
Sam doesn’t know why, but he keeps staring. He hasn’t seen you around campus—but then again, Stanford is fucking huge. He watches the way the sun makes your hair and eyes glow, how it reflects back in a spiral of colors. He watches you scowl down at your journal and scratch something out before doodling something else.
There’s something about you—something that feels different. Hazy, almost. Spiraling. But not in a bad way—in the way he’s so familiar with. It’s mystical, almost elemental. He keeps staring.
You look up from your journal, and Sam is sure he’ll get caught being a weirdo.
“Here’s your scone, darlin’.” The old lady that usually serves him snaps him out of it.
He turns to her just in time to not look like a creep, offering her a smile and muttering a small thank you before his eyes search for you again—instinctive, the way thunder follows lightning.
But you’re not there anymore. All that’s left is dust dancing in the air under the sunlight.
And once again, Sam is alone.
So he comes back the next day at the same hour.
He knows it’s a long shot, but he needs to try. He thinks it’s the isolation that's making him obsess over this. Over you. That, and teenage hormones, which keep bringing back flashes of your pretty face as he tries to fall asleep. After feeling like a fish out of water for months, your opal eyes felt like the perfect ocean—somewhere he could finally belong.
Sam always was too idealistic for his own good.
Dean would make fun of him for being so sentimental, snorting something about “chick-flick moments” and ruffling his hair. He would still sneak in some good advice between all the teasing, and Sam knows he would actually be rooting for him right now. Dean always wanted him to be happy—he just didn’t understand why he needed to escape to do it.
Sam tries not to think about his brother, and whether he’s even alive right now.
Instead, he walks into the coffee shop and immediately turns toward his usual table, eyes glued to the floor. He sits down, pulls out his laptop, and only once his half-done political science essay stares back at him, he allows his gaze to drift up.
You’re there—same table, same journal, same shining eyes.
You’re wearing another woolly sweater, this time brown. The light coming from the window accentuates your freckles, and your hair is all tousled at the top. You look like a fawn—unfettered but sage. Your wired earphones are still there, but this time you’re arranging and gluing down a bunch of Polaroid photos in your journal.
Sam can breathe a little easier then. You’re real, and you’re here. He’s not lonely enough to start hallucinating. Good.
He orders his usual—a vanilla bean scone and black coffee, the same thing he used to order at diners during research hours—and tries to work on his assignment.
It’s useless.
There’s something magnetic about you, a pull that calls him to look up again—in the way the moon influences tides and the planets rotate around the sun. By the third time he writes a sentence that makes no sense at all, he gives up and lets his eyes find your form.
This time, you’re staring back.
Your eyes widen when they meet his—looking for all intents and purposes like a deer caught in headlights. They dart down to your camera for a second, fingers clutching the machine the way Sam saw Dean do with his favorite rifle so many times as children—a grasp for comfort, for safety.
But then you look up again, giving Sam a small smile and awkward little wave before going back to your photos. You leave soon after—not before sending a few more fleeting glances his way, and then looking away nervously when Sam stares back—and he finishes his essay earlier than expected, words flowing through his brain like a river just freed from a dam.
Sam survives another week at Stanford.
It quickly becomes a tradition. Sam walks into the coffee shop, and you’re already there—always sitting at the same table, always facing his way. He sits down, pulls out his laptop, and pretends to work on something. You exchange glances, smile at each other when your eyes meet for a little too long, then look away.
Sam starts to notice things about you—you always order an iced Americano, but switch what you eat every week. Your camera is always by your side, even if it just rests there on the table untouched. You’re clumsy—papers slipping from your hands, your forehead hitting the window when you try to follow a flying bird with your gaze, spilling your coffee all over your journal more than once. One day you don’t have your earphones, and you look the grumpiest he’s ever seen you.
You always seem to intuit when Sam has finally built up the courage to approach you, because you’re walking out the door the moment the thought crosses his mind.
You always leave first.
But classes become more bearable because he has something to look forward to. His classmates’ snobby chitchat is easier to ignore when he’s replaying the way you gasped after almost spilling your second coffee of the day all over your camera. He isn’t even upset when his roommate starts a brownie business in their room.
He almost doesn’t even mind what the two of you have right now—this silent understanding, the casual meeting of eyes, the shared smiles. It’s not healthy, he knows it. He’s way too fixated on someone he doesn't know at all. But it’s comfortable, and simple, and safe. He’s afraid it’ll break if he meddles with it, that it’ll shatter between his hands like everything always does.
Because maybe Sam isn’t even worth this—maybe he should be grateful he got to have it at all. Because he doesn’t deserve good things. Because something burns in his veins, something wrong. Something evil. Something that’s always simmering under his skin, no matter how much he tries to wash it away.
But then one day, he arrives at the coffee shop a little earlier after a canceled lecture, and he sees you outside.
Bag hanging off your shoulder, camera in hand. You’re wearing a silly graphic tee and a brown hoodie, and it’s a little disorienting to see you upright after weeks of watching you curled over your journal.
It’s now or never—and he really doesn’t want it to be never.
Because Sam wants to deserve good things.
Your face is pressed to the camera, lens aimed at an old wooden totem nailed crookedly to a telephone pole. Sam’s walked past that pole a dozen times and never noticed, and he marvels at your ability to find the most ethereal things in what others consider insipid.
But then he really sees the totem. And he recognizes it. A hellhound ward.
He first saw it during his first solo research. He was fourteen, and his dad and Dean had decided he’d be of more use left alone in Virginia while they hunted something in New York. He’d been handed a stolen credit card, a shotgun, and—after a tense pause—Dean had pulled him into a brief, awkward hug while their father wasn’t looking.
In a family where physical touch was almost never gentle, Sam had leaned into his big brother’s arms and soaked in as much comfort as he could before Dean let out a fake cough and stepped away, walking out of the room with long strides.
They never talked about it, and Sam didn’t hug his brother again until the night he left for college.
For the next week after that, Sam had spent every day in the library, reading everything he could about hellhounds and reporting anything important to Dean during their daily calls. He found a book that mentioned that exact totem—believed to be used by ancient Greeks to keep hellhounds at bay when a deal with Hades went wrong.
Granted, the totem didn’t work. And by the fifth day of Sam being stared down by motel residents who couldn’t quite focus their eyes but still felt like danger, he’d begged Dean to come get him.
Dean hesitated for a second, but all it took was one snarled order from their father for him to apologize in a whisper and hang up.
Sam told his dad to at least book a safe motel next time he ditched him, and he was ready to yell when John spit out the usual bullshit. Only Dean’s heartbroken face stopped him from starting a real fight.
Like the one from the night he left.
Sam tries not to think about his father either. He always breathes easier when he forgets.
He shakes his head, walking toward you carefully, all soft steps and deliberate movements—like an ancient hunter approaching a nymph.
That’s when the click of your camera fills the quiet stillness that had been created, and there’s a satisfied smile on your face when you lower it. When the polaroid photo is ejected, you quickly hide it in your shadow and start shaking it. That’s when he talks.
“The Aegis of Athena,” he says, eyes still on the totem where Medusa’s head is carved into the top. “Greeks believed it offered protection and held the goddess’ power to ward off evil. Just like her shield did. Or Zeus’, both of them wear it. Even Apollo used it in the Trojan War.”
Sam flushes. God, he’s being such a fucking nerd.
He’s ready to turn and flee—leave the coffee shop behind forever and go bang his head against the wall until he forgets this ever happened—when you look up at him.
You turn toward him, and suddenly he's pinned in place by your eyes. They’re even more iridescent up close, your freckles even more adorable—like constellations waiting to be named. His mouth goes dry. He can’t talk—thank God— and he can’t move. He just stares, like he’s been doing for weeks.
“That’s the Helm of Darkness,” you murmur, pointing to the symbol carved beneath Medusa’s head. Sam gapes at your profile. “It was a gift to Hades from the titans. It makes the wearer invisible to mortals and even other supernatural beings, which is why I guess they used it for protection here.”
Oh. Wow.
So maybe Sam is a little in love right now.
You turn back to him, and he smiles. You smile too—sweet and soft at the edges—but your fingers fidget with your chunky rings, and your eyes keep drifting toward your camera before returning to his. The totem photo is developed in your hand, and you smell faintly of something floral and earthy—like a patch of lilies of the valley on a meadow after the rain.
“I’m Sam Winchester,” he blurts out, before the moment can collapse into awkward silence.
Your shoulders relax, and you give him your name as you tuck your hair behind your ear. Sam repeats it in his head, packing it somewhere warm and quiet in his brain—careful not to let it touch the rotten parts.
“I’ve seen you at the coffee shop,” you add. “You’re always working on your laptop. Should’ve guessed you’d be a total nerd.”
You wince a little at your delivery, embarrassment pinking your cheeks. But Sam laughs, and the tension slips away.
“Hey, takes one to know one.”
You nod solemnly, and a goofy grin takes over Sam’s face. “Oh, you have no idea.”
You stand there a little longer, smiling at each other like idiots. A woman walking her dog gives you both a puzzled look, and Sam clears his throat.
“So,” he gestures toward the coffee shop. “You going in?”
He’s not proud of how much his heart sinks when you shake your head.
“I’ve got a thing at school,” you roll your eyes. Sam chuckles. He’s about to ask if you mean Stanford when your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, sigh, and take a step back. “Sorry, I’m already late.”
“Oh. Don’t worry about it. Go.”
You’re a few feet away already when you turn back, nearly tripping over your own feet.
“See you here tomorrow?”
Sam’s grin is immediate. Something bright in his chest flares.
“Sure. See you tomorrow.”
You nod and disappear down the street. Sam watches you go before heading back to his dorm. He doesn’t feel like coffee anymore, and bed sounds good. He deserves it after acing that essay anyways.
Tomorrow can’t come fast enough.
But then he gets to the coffee shop, and you’re not there.
Dread rolls through him like a cold front. Your table is empty, no sign of you anywhere. He’s about to leave when he sees his table. On top of it, there’s his usual vanilla scone… and something else. Sam walks closer, grabbing the small white square.
The polaroid photo of the totem. He picks it up.
Behind it, scribbled with black sharpie, it says:
“sorry, had to leave. railroads at 4:30 pm? if you’re not too mad >_< ” and then your name under it—as if Sam wouldn’t know it’s you—right next to what looks like a doodle you scratched out, deciding to add a tiny spiral instead.
Sam grins. He slides the photo into his shirt pocket and checks his watch.
4:00 p.m.
He thinks he knows which railroads you mean—he’d seen them from the bus on the way into Palo Alto. His nerves coil tight in his stomach as he walks out the door, but he ignores them.
He won’t ruin this. Not this time.
When you make your way out of the woods and find the railroads, Sam is already there.
His back is turned toward the sunset, the golden light washing over him like the gods recognize his beauty and want to embrace him. You don’t blame them.
Before making your presence known, you stop at the edge of the trees and lift your lens toward him. The sun is hidden behind his head, so it looks like he’s the one glowing.
He looks beautiful. Majestic, even. Like the sunlight that wraps around you during a warm autumn day—not burning, but gentle. The kind of warmth that would make even Helios jealous.
This is the kind of moment you’re glad you can capture, immortalize forever with the flick of your finger.
The click of your camera is soft, and you immediately slip the photo into your pocket before approaching Sam. He turns around at the first crack of dry leaves under the sole of your beat-up Converse, his hazel eyes lighting up when he finds you.
“Hi,” you murmur when you’re right in front of him, having to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. He’s so tall. And so freaking pretty too—soft puppy eyes, shaggy hair framing his face, those dimples that made your breath stutter the first time you saw them, that smile.
It’s unfair. Boys shouldn’t be allowed to be pretty and smart.
“Hey there.” Even if Sam is all slender but firm muscle and movie-star features, he stands with a kind of sheepishness that makes your heart melt—his broad shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets, his laugh just the tiniest bit breathy. It’s cute, and comfortable. Like a place you’ve never visited before but that still feels like home.
Watching so many tragic romance films is rotting your brain.
You nod toward the railroad that stretches down the valley and slowly melts out of sight. Sam nods, and the two of you start walking along the gravel, the soft sound of cicadas and the occasional critter rustling through the woods helping you unwind.
Come on, you can handle this. Don’t be a dork.
“I meant to ask you yesterday—you go to Stanford?”
And so it starts.
You walk along the railroad for hours, well past the golden hour and into the twilight. You tell him that no, you’re not a Stanford student. You go to a small but prestigious—you have to swallow down the urge to roll your eyes as you say it—photography academy nearby, full of rich kids and pretentious teachers, but the doors it will open for you are worth it.
“The professors are tolerable, but most of my classmates are obnoxious assholes. It doesn’t help that I’m this year’s Amber Scholarship recipient, either," you laugh, and Sam’s expression shifts into something softer, a little somber.
“I know how you feel,” he mutters, and you study him carefully for a moment before deciding not to ask more. You simply blink at him slowly, and his mouth twitches for a second before he’s speaking again. “I’m kind of on the same boat. Some of the people in my classes…”
“I know.” This time you do roll your eyes. “This one girl in my class once told me to fuck myselfie after she wouldn’t let me walk through the door.”
Sam laughs, and when he throws his head back, the sun glints over the curve of his throat. The mushrooms growing by the wood line have never been more interesting.
“What is she, twelve?” he huffs, and when you turn back to him, his smile is sharp-edged and his dimples flash at you.
“She sure acts like it. But her mom’s the owner of some art gallery in Seattle, so everyone fawns over her. As if she’d ever give anyone else a chance to succeed.” you sigh, kicking a small rock out of the way. “One time I left one of my projects on my desk while I went to the bathroom, and when I came back she had written ‘crappy artist filthy whore’ all over it.”
“She sounds like a bitch,” Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “And like she’s jealous, because you’re obviously more talented than her.”
You blush and whisper a quick thank you as you try not to trip on your own feet.
Get yourself together.
So you exchange more rich kid anecdotes, geek out over more mythology, and you even end up recommending some films to him—you ramble a bit too long about Donnie Darko until you almost slip off the rail you’re balancing on—should’ve known better—and Sam has to catch you before you fall and sprain your ankle. Again.
He helps you steady yourself as you both burst into giggles, but even after you’ve taken a step back, his hand lingers on yours a moment longer than necessary.
Eventually he lets go, and you resume your journey with flushed cheeks and averted eyes. A deer finds you at some point near a lake—they always do—and it follows you back to the edge where the woods meet the asphalt.
You can’t help but pull out your camera, snapping a quick shot of the animal before it gives you one slow look and disappears into the distant fog. You think it’s trying to tell you something—its eyes tattooed onto your irises long after it’s gone.
When you turn back to Sam, he’s looking at you like he’s trying to decipher you. His gaze is charged under the moonlight, but it’s cozy. Warm, even under the blue hue of the sky. Kind, even when it burns on your skin.
You have the urge to turn around and melt into the shadows like the deer, but you don’t. You fight the urge to escape.
Instead, you walk up to Sam.
“It’s getting late, and I guess you have classes early in the morning, Mr. Full Ride.” Sam snorts, but something vulnerable flickers across his face when the nickname is said with affection.
“I wish I had a retort for that, but you’re right,” Sam sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.
His mouth opens, and you can tell he’s about to ask to walk you home. But that feels a little too risky, a little too open, a little too close. So you take a step back, fidgeting with the strap of your camera.
“See you tomorrow at the café? This time I promise to be there.”
Sam looks a little disconcerted for a moment. He blinks—once, then twice, and then he nods. You ignore the flicker of disappointment that glows in his eyes, and try not to think about how it matches the feeling wrapping around your lungs.
“Great. Sleep well, Law Boy.”
That makes him smile—dimples and all. And suddenly the night isn’t so dark, and the stars shine brighter, and nothing is scary anymore.
Like always, you leave first.
You’re already a few steps away when you hear him murmur something, his deep voice washing over you like the heat of a bonfire warms a lonely, cold night.
“Goodnight, Bambi.”
NOTES: Oh angsty teen sam winchester, you're so dear to me</3 as an expert in loneliness-induced obsessive crushes, I feel for both of them. they don't know they'll match other freaks, I love them.
if you have any thoughts or feedback, please feel free to leave a comment! it makes my sick little brain so happy. I love you all, and see you again soon!
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
summary: it's your birthday and you want to have a bit of normal fun, something that doesn't involve hunting. in the flashing lights of the club with music dulling your senses, the tension with Sam rises. will your birthday gift this year be him?
content warnings/tags: drinking and alcohol consumption (they're in a club), cursing, jealous reader, kinda possessive reader and sam (they're down bad), reader referred to as a girl, reader is described having boobs but size isn't specified, reader is shorter than sam (thank god he's 6'4" it's hard being a tall girlie out here), dean being the wingiest wing-man to exist (he's tired of watching the yearning), does dancing in a club need a warning, kissing, tension, suggestive material
words: 7,296
♡ ♡ ♡
Multicolor club lights flash around you with music loud enough you can feel the bass in your chest, vibrations coursing through your body. There’s a bar to your right, bright blue LED lights lining its edges and making it glow. It lures everyone towards it regardless of a sober or drunken state. The strobing colors emanating from the ceiling and various stands throughout the club cause you to squint for a moment, eyes adjusting.
Weaving through the bodies writhing on the dance floor you head to the bar, finding an open seat. Pulling out your phone you begin to text Sam and Dean your location, telling them you found a lead on the case.
Last you saw them, they were getting ready to work another lead, dressing up as FBI agents to question the local doctor after hours at some strip club.
hunting whores
your favorite girl ever
meet me at this location – 9:32pm
pin drop – 9:33pm
burger boy
change my name first – 9:37pm
your favorite girl ever
no. – 9:37pm
burger boy
I’m not coming – 9:38pm
sam :)
We’ll be there as soon as possible. – 9:38pm
your favorite girl ever
thank you sam. – 9:38pm
you’re my new favorite ;) – 9:39pm
sam :)
Thanks :) – 9:39pm
burger boy
ew – 9:39pm
get a room – 9:40pm
your favorite girl ever
kiss my ass dickhead – 9:40pm
burger boy
you offering? – 9:40pm
your favorite girl ever
ew – 9:40pm
burger boy
rude – 9:41pm
sam :)
We’re about 40 minutes away, you okay waiting that long? – 9:41pm
Are you safe? – 9:43pm
You don’t notice Sam’s last messages come through as a bartender appears in front of you and asks for your order. Since you’re alone for now you don’t want a drink you’ll have to guard as you wait so you get a shot. Downing the liquor, you drop a twenty on the counter to start a tab, knowing you’re going to be here for a while.
Giving up the seat at the bar you choose to go around the edges of the room. Cataloging all the exit routes, checking for anyone who might be a threat, sizing up the area as a whole. Feeling properly aware of your surroundings and more comfortable in the large crowd you open your messages with Sam, who started texting you directly.
sammy boy <3
Are you okay? – 9:46pm
Hello? – 9:50pm
Please answer. – 9:51pm
On our way now. – 9:54pm
Call me. – 9:55pm
I’m sure you’re fine but please let me know you’re alive. – 10:00pm
As you read through the texts you get a notification from your private conversation thread with Dean.
dean!!
dude – 9:59pm
Sam is about to have a breakdown over here – 9:59pm
it’s getting kinda embarrassing now – 10:01pm
at least one of you cares about me – 10:02pm
You switch back to reply to Sam.
i’m okay!!! – 10:02pm
i'm so sorry, didn’t even see your last message in the groupchat – 10:02pm
pocketed my phone after you said you’d be here asap – 10:03pm
I am alive and well Sam, sorry to worry you – 10:03pm
Don’t be sorry! You didn’t do anything wrong. – 10:03pm
Thought you might’ve found the demon since you didn’t say where to meet you. – 10:04pm
Not that I don’t think you can handle yourself – 10:04pm
I know you’re fully capable. – 10:05pm
What is this place anyway? – 10:05pm
You smile as the texts come through, amused at his immediate backpedaling in fear of offending you. Sam’s always been protective of you, but never unbearably so. He never undermines your competence, allowing you to handle yourself without interruption or arguments. He’ll just stay close by, ready with those brown puppy eyes if you ever decide to ask for help. It’s maddeningly sweet.
just make sure you take off those narc outfits – 10:05pm
Why? – 10:06pm
casual clothes are fine, I’m sure dean will be happy ;) – 10:05pm
??? – 10:06pm
As you put your phone back in your pocket, smirking at Sam’s confusion, your prediction of Dean’s reaction is confirmed as you see “i forgive you for my groupchat name” pop up on the screen. You go back to the bar and order another shot, knowing they won’t be here until at least 11:00pm if they have to go back to the motel and change. At this point, what’s the harm in having some fun without them?
There’s no thoughts of self-consciousness as you dance along to the beat, the alcohol helping ease any apprehension you may have at the way you sway your hips. You seamlessly fit into the crowd around you, twenty-something-year-olds and people in their thirties grinding to the music blasting in the dimly lit space.
Three shots in you’re still on the dance floor, moving with the bodies around you when you feel your phone vibrate and see you missed a few messages from Sam again.
sammy boy <3
Leaving the motel now. Be there soon :) – 10:36pm
Pulling up. – 11:02pm
Is this a nightclub? – 11:03pm
:) see you soon sammy – 11:03pm
You don’t acknowledge all of the messages, too preoccupied on dancing, only focusing on the message Sam sent a half-hour ago; hitting send and returning your phone to your pocket.
Dean wastes no time exiting the impala to head into the club, already making comments about tonight being a good night. Sam shakes his head and scoffs as he stuffs his hands into the front pockets of his Carhartt, following behind Dean. When they adjust to the lighting and booming music they begin to scan the crowd for you.
Upon seeing the bar, Dean smacks Sam in the arm and points. Nodding Sam trails behind him as they work through the crowds. Sam expects that they’ll probably find you sitting at the bar, or maybe leaned against the wall somewhere quieter. If you could even find quiet in this place.
What Sam does not expect, and never could have prepared himself for, is what happens next.
“Sam!” Your voice is cheerful; anyone could hear the grin you’re wearing as you spot Sam’s hulking frame in the sea of bodies. Head turning in your direction Sam is met with your slightly sweaty appearance, all smiles and skin. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you wear something so revealing.
Sure, he’s seen you in various forms of undress. Taking off your shirt to stitch up a wound on your abdomen or back. Short little pajama pants that you wear in the summer heat. A bikini that he never let his thoughts linger on for too long, something you threw on one day two summers ago while you helped Dean tinker on Baby and wash her up. He’d sooner choke than admit the image haunts him in his sleep frequently. That every time he sees another slice of your skin he tucks it away into the corners of his mind for later.
Your denim jeans are hugging every part of you perfectly as your hips sway on your way to stand in front of Sam. He has to gulp as he forces his eyes back up. The top you’re wearing doesn’t help any, a halter neck with a deep v showing off your chest. Sam’s never thought collarbones were so attractive until he saw yours shining with sweat, rising and falling as you catch your breath before him.
“Took you guys long enough.” You’re smirking as you crane your neck to stare up at Sam. To anyone else you’d seem sober, but Sam knows better. He knows you aren’t drunk, though the glint in your eye and the fact that you’re dancing in a room full of people tells him you’ve probably had at least two shots.
“Seems like you’ve been doing fine without us. Having fun, are we?” Dean comes to stand beside Sam and people naturally move out of their space, not wanting to get too close to the large men standing still. It makes you realize how imposing they must be to everyone around you and the notion makes you smile.
“I’ve been waiting here for like two hours. Can you blame me?” Dean looks like he’s about to retort. Bickering with you is one of his favorite things to do, so you cut off any snark he might be brewing. “I’ve got a tab started at the bar, help yourself.”
The way he snaps his mouth shut is comical, giving you and Sam two thumbs up before retreating to his alcohol oasis. The light giggles you let out at the scene has Sam whipping his head back to you to try and catch the remnants of it on your face.
Three shots, Sam thinks.
He almost knows as well as you do how alcohol affects your body. One does nothing. Two gets you more comfortable, but you’re still on edge. Three shots and you’re still functioning like you’re sober but you’re freer. Sam thinks there’s something mesmerizing about you when you’re like that, open and unabashed.
Not that he thinks you have to be drinking to be mesmerizing. He just appreciates how comfortable you get with yourself, not afraid to laugh easily. He also likes that it makes you more comfortable with touching. The thought makes him feel disgusting and perverted, but the way your hands wrap around his biceps makes his brain go a bit mushy and you do it oh so frequently after a few drinks.
“Dance with me!” The words are shouted as a new song starts playing, featuring much more bass than the previous. Sam has to bend down to hear you as more people flood the dance floor. You step closer to him, cupping a hand to his ear as his hand instinctively comes to rest on your lower back, pulling you closer when people crowd you from behind.
When he realizes the close position, his cheeks start to burn a bit and he hopes you don’t notice. If you do, he hopes you’ll blame it on the heat in the club. Sam fights the urge to flex his fingers into your skin as he feels your breath fan across his face and he inhales a lungful of your perfume.
“Dance with me, Sammy.” It comes out sultrier than you meant for it to, he’s sure. The teasing tone was caused by your lack of air and the alcohol coursing through you. He’s sure of it. You pull back to look at him with a wide smile.
“Uh.” Sam sputters for a moment, brain unable to form a proper thought as your hips start to move along to the song and your hands reach out to grab his. “Let me take off my jacket first.” He’s abruptly pulling back, almost hitting a couple dancing behind him.
You laugh. “Okay, I’ll join you. I need some water anyways.” You press yourself close to him, making sure you don’t get separated in the crowd while you walk to where Dean has taken a seat at the bar.
“You want another?” Dean asks you.
“No, water for right now.” You squeeze to stand beside him in his seat and Sam closes in behind you, one hand on the bar next to you and the other on the back of Dean’s chair. His body effectively caging you in. A subtle protective gesture that he does subconsciously.
Dean says nothing at the sight, only smirks into his beer as he flicks out a hand to call over the bartender. He orders water for you and motions for Sam to speak.
“I’ll just take a beer, thanks.” Sam’s polite smile has the bartender smiling sweetly up at him, her bright blue eyes twinkling. The display has your own smile dropping a bit as she turns away to get your drinks.
Coming back with Sam’s beer and a bottle of water she hands them both to him, fingers deliberately grazing against his.
“Bottle okay, sugar?” That’s definitely not how she sounded earlier when you spoke with her. Now her voice is deeper, smooth and alluring. She’s flirting with Sam, no doubt.
“Yes.” Your voice comes out sharper than you expect. Her eyes land on you and a slight feeling of guilt has you offering a gentle smile followed by a, “Thank you.”
Nodding, she turns away from the three of you and goes over to the other end of the bar.
“Someone’s snippy tonight.” Dean looks at you over his shoulder and you roll your eyes as you turn around in the tight space. Your back is to the bar, left side lightly brushing against Dean as you face Sam. The crowded club has you squeezing closer together than usual, though it’s definitely not the most personal you’ve gotten with each other.
The position you’ve chosen has you tilting your head much further than normal in order to see Sam. It never matters how tall someone is, next to Sam they’re short.
He looks down at you and gives you the water bottle in his left hand. Sam’s large fingers are covering virtually the entire thing, causing your own to brush against his warm, calloused skin. He moves his arm back to your right side, forearm brushing against your waist. You can feel the heat radiating off his body through his jacket.
“Thought you wanted to take off your jacket? You’re not bailing on me, are you?” You quip.
Sam laughs at your comment, taking a swig out of his beer before replying. “Yeah. Guess you’re not gonna let me off the hook, huh?”
“Nope.” You pop the ‘p’.
He wordlessly hands you his beer, not needing to ask you to hold it before your hands are extending to take it from him. You and Sam were always able to silently communicate with certain things, it came in handy times like these.
Sam uses his newly freed hands to pull off the heavy Carhartt he’s been wearing for years, his head glancing over each shoulder to make sure his long arms don’t hit anyone. The movement causes the bottom of his dark brown henley to lift, exposing a sliver of his stomach above his jeans. The taunt muscle and waistband of his boxers visible. If you look hard enough, you’re sure you could catch a bit of the faint trail of hair you know is there.
“So, what’s the lead?” Dean’s voice drags your attention away from Sam’s body and you hope the man you were just ogling two seconds ago didn’t notice.
Dean certain did, if the sly look on his face was any indication.
“Ha! Funny you ask that.” Now you aren’t as concerned about your blatant thirsting over Sam’s stomach than you are at Dean’s reaction to the information you’re about to share. “Actually, that’s a really interesting story.”
Dean adjusts in his seat to face you, body turning sideways. You now have two Winchester brothers facing you directly. Anyone walking by probably wouldn’t even notice you behind them, their large frames shielding you from outside view.
“Oh?” Dean senses the anxiety in your words and is preemptively annoyed.
“It’s my birthday.” You say sheepishly.
“Yeah, we know that. That’s why I let you pick the music this morning and didn’t leave you when those people started singing at you.” Dean’s voice deepens as he recounts your trip to the local diner for breakfast. Your pancakes came out with extra whipped cream, a candle, and a line of staff singing Happy Birthday. You figured Sam must’ve told the waitress it was your birthday because Dean rolled his eyes at the ordeal.
“Okay, don’t be mad.” The words rush out of your mouth as a guilty smile appears on your face.
“Why do I feel like I should be mad?” Dean’s eyebrows furrow, pointing a finger at you while he says it. Shaking his head, he finishes his bottle of beer.
“Just tell us what’s up.” Sam’s voice is curious, not accusing or angry like Dean’s is right now.
“There’s no lead.” Before either of them can say anything, you begin rambling on. “It’s just- I don’t know. We never really do anything fun or take any breaks for longer than like, a day, ya know?”
You begin to absentmindedly run the cool bottle of Sam’s beer along your chest as you feel the warmth of shame rising in you, the drops of condensation cooling your skin.
“I didn’t know how else to convince you to come here. I know I probably could’ve just asked and you would have agreed.” Your hands fly in Dean’s direction, eyes not meeting either of their gaze. “After a bit of pestering, I’m sure. But it just feels so embarrassing having to ask! I mean it’s bad enough even wanting to take the time to celebrate my birthday cause that’s so selfish. Asking for it would have made me feel worse.”
You’re still dragging the bottle along your skin, fingers gripping harshly at the glass. Out of your peripheral you can see Sam crossing his arms and you’re sure if you look his shirt is bunching up again. Dean’s laughing stops you from trying to subtly peek.
“Are you serious?” He takes another second to laugh at your words, hand scrubbing over his face. You look at him and he sighs. “Nothin’ wrong with wanting a little celebration for your birthday, sweetheart. Hell, you know I’ll take any chance to wet my whistle.”
The double meaning to his comment has you making a noise of disgust at him while Sam cuts in. “Dude-”
“I’m kidding, Sam!” Dean mocks offense, then pauses. “Kind of. But I’m serious about you deserving a little party. You do good work, save a lot of people. You’re allowed to have a little fun for yourself every now and then.”
Dean can clearly be earnest when he wants to be. He doesn’t usually give out compliments, so the words hit you somewhere deep.
“Thank you.” It comes out quieter than you mean for it to but he hears you regardless. Neither of you acknowledge the moment of sincerity, not great at admitting the fondness you have for each other.
After a few long moments of silence, you glance sideways to Sam, who has yet to say anything else. You start to worry maybe you did piss him off. That maybe he’s actually upset with you for lying to get them here.
Dean readies to make a face at his brother, urging him to say something, but discovers that he isn’t looking at him. Dean follows his brother’s gaze, which is locked in on your chest. Your skin was already slick from sweat and now the condensation of Sam’s beer has extra wetness accumulating on your body. A single drop is slowly making its way from the bottle to the valley between your breasts. Dean nods appreciatively at the sight and hides his amusement at the fact his brother finally seems to be losing his cool.
Dean has been witnessing Sam’s many fumblings whenever it came to you for years now. He’s been watching the two of you pine for the other in what you assumed was secret, which it was to you two morons, but not to anyone else. He and Bobby would constantly share looks of frustration and disbelief at how stupid the two of you could be. One time he was genuinely debating not letting either of you on hunts again; how could you be so intelligent in every way but so emotionally dumb? A comment he knew was rich coming from him of all people.
With less than two seconds of thought put into it, Dean decides his mission tonight is to finally get the two of you laid. With each other, obviously.
“She deserves it, right Sam?” Dean pushes, amusement in every syllable.
Sam is quickly snapped out of his daze as you turn to look at him. He clears his throat before answering distractedly.
“Uh, yeah.” Sam sees your face falter a bit at his words and realizes how dismissive they sound. “Yes! Of course you do. I’ve actually been planning something with Bobby for you this weekend. Wasn’t anything fancy, probably just some beer and a cake, but I still wanted to do something for you.” He says it with a shrug of his shoulders, like it was the most obvious thing to do.
“I’d love that.” You say it immediately, chest tightening at the thought of him spending time planning something for you. “If that’s still something you’d be okay with.” You add, suddenly worried that he wouldn’t want to now that you dragged them both to this club with you.
“Definitely.” Sam’s smile is wide, showing off his teeth. Your eyes catch on his elongated canines, their curve distracting you for a moment.
You feel a particularly cold drip of water reach beneath your breasts, the chill shocking you out of your daze. “Oh! Shit, sorry. I’ve been hoggin’ your beer.”
Sam opens his hand wide as he takes the bottle from your grip, fingers contrasting with the cool liquid underneath your palm. You both stay there a moment too long before you awkwardly pull away to quickly open your water and swallow half the contents in one go.
Beer grasped between his fingers you watch Sam push the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, exposing his muscled forearms. Whenever Sam wore more casual clothes, it threw you off your game a bit, so used to seeing him in cheap suits or layered flannels.
The three of you chatter about nothing in particular. They give you a vague recap about the lead they tracked earlier, but you can tell they’re being very purposeful to not let the focus of conversation fall onto the case. Or anything to do with hunting.
The brothers begin to playfully call you the “Birthday Princess” at some point just to mess with you and every time they say it you laugh. Sam orders you another drink, which he refuses to let you pay for or put on your tab. All you can do is thank him with a shy smile.
You’re telling them about some old birthday memory from your childhood when the opening to one of your favorite songs begins to fill the club. “Oh my god! I’m cashing in right now, Sam!”
You knock back the rest of your drink in one smooth motion, prompting Dean to let out a whistle as he mutters out an impressed, “Damn, girl.”
Sam hasn’t caught up to what you’re saying, eyes trained on the way your throat works to swallow the drink. Thinking he’s moving already, your head still turned towards the bar as you place the cup down, you step forward. Sam’s body is still firmly planted in its original spot, causing you to run into him. The feeling of his body makes you gasp, all solid muscle and heat. You thank the liquid confidence for keeping you sane. And for what you do next.
Hands steadier than you feel inside, you reach up to grab the beer in Sam’s hand and guide the bottle to his mouth with a small smirk. “Open up.”
He complies immediately, opening his mouth to let you press the glass to his lips. You adjust your grip to tilt it up, letting the malt liquor meet his tongue as you say, “Finish your drink and come dance with me. You promised you would.”
After a moment you remove your hand, content that he’s continuing to empty the contents down his throat. You bite your bottom lip to hold back a giddy look that Dean would definitely give you shit for as Sam listens to your instruction.
You offer your phone to Dean, not wanting to keep it in your back pocket when he’s got a perfectly good jacket to store it in. Dean subtly leans into you, handing you a full shot glass with a knowing look and you quickly down it before Sam can notice.
Dean pats your back, adding quiet enough that Sam can’t hear, “Go get ‘em tiger.” He raises his brows at you suggestively and you fight the urge to flip him off.
Sam reaches behind you to place the empty bottle on the counter, the movement causing him to press up against you even more. He makes no attempt to back up when he’s done, hands at his sides as he looks down at you with a smile. “Lead the way, princess.”
The nickname has you unable to keep the hungry smile from your face. Quickly grabbing at his hands, you spin to change your positions. Sam’s back to the bar and yours to the crowd. Letting go of one hand, you keep hold of the other as you turn away from him to walk towards the dance floor. You’re barely two steps away and Sam’s interlocking his fingers with yours.
You bite your lip again to keep from squealing at the feeling of his hand entangled with yours. When you find an open spot to dance you turn to face Sam, releasing his hand and letting it fall back to his side. You’re standing there staring at each other, neither of you doing anything but breathing.
Sam chuckles a bit as he moves a step closer to you. “Hi.” He’s close enough that you can feel the air shift, but not enough to feel the heat of his body.
“Hi.” Another silent moment passes. “You ever dance at a club before?”
“No.” Sam says it with a nervous smile.
You offer him an understanding look. “It’s okay. Neither have I.”
“Oh yeah? Then what was it I saw when I came in?” Joking brings a little bit of confidence back into his features, his spine straightening.
“I’ve never danced like that in front of people before.” You say uncomfortably, feeling a bit self-conscious now that Sam is in front of you.
Sam looks at you, eyes darting across your face before he answers. “Well, you’re good at it. C’mon. Show me how it’s done.”
The insecurity that was beginning to fill your body is washed away at Sam’s words. Almost like your body had no choice but to listen to him. You know exactly where the song is, that the beat drop is happening in just a few more seconds. You use the lead up to nod your head to the music, slowly loosening up the rest of your body so it follows the movement.
Turning your head to the side, you let yourself move more freely, eyes closing as you hear the music building. Arms rising above your head, you find your groove, hips swinging to the sultry music filling your senses. After a full circle like that, you face Sam again and you open your eyes to find his gaze.
He’s only focused on your hips though, too transfixed to realize you’ve caught him. You step towards him, body barely brushing against him as you grab both of his hands, interlocking your fingers with his.
“Doing okay there?” You ask it with a hint of amusement, his eyes a bit wild and dazed when they meet yours.
He nods, lets out a huff of air through his nose before opening his mouth. “I’m good.”
Guiding his hands to your hips, you direct him to grab on to the skin there. He barely lets them rest on your body, so you squeeze your hands over top of his own, signaling for him to hold onto you.
“You can touch me however you want, Sam.” You’re not sure where the confidence to say that came from, but the way Sam’s fingers dig into your hips makes you glad it did.
Your hips never stop their movement, swaying in time to the beat. The two of you smile softly at each other and you move your arms to wrap around Sam’s neck. He’s still standing almost completely still and you laugh a bit.
“What?” He’s laughing too, not even sure what’s funny, simply following your emotional lead.
“Move your body, Sam.” You let him try and shift to the beat on his own for a few moments before you eventually laugh again and give in to your need to help him. “No! C’mon, like this.”
You grab his hips, fingers splaying over his lower back to drag him closer to your body before skimming them over the top of his jeans to grab the front belt loops. His one thigh is now partially wedged between yours, hips practically flush despite the height difference.
“Just focus on my hips and how they move, then follow it with yours. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?” You try and joke, diffuse some of the heat building that has nothing to do with the overcrowded space.
Sam says nothing as he moves his hands up your waist, large palms covering your ribs. His thumbs are just brushing under your breasts and he starts rubbing them back and forth in a soothing motion as he begins to move with you.
Your fingers are still hooked in his belt loops as you dance together when Sam’s hands move to lay between your shoulder blades. Shifting his body forward to make yours tilt back, spine curved, you press into him.
The angle has you scared you’re falling. Your hands scramble to find something more secure to anchor to and you don’t even notice that they fist the waistband of his jeans tightly, fingers brushing against his bare skin. Sam groans quietly at the feeling and drags your body back up, hand still pressing into your back. He uses the leverage to keep you held tightly to him.
“Thought you said you didn’t know what you were doing, princess?” You can feel your heartbeat pulse faster, if that is even possible at this point, and you meet Sam with a mischievous look.
“Thought you said you’ve never done this before, too? Ain’t that right, Sammy?” You pull away slightly and he lets you go, keeping hold of one hand. Before he can wonder if it’s because he did something wrong you spin yourself, lifting your conjoined hands above your head as you do.
Body facing away from Sam, you pull him towards you and meet his body halfway, his front now pressed securely to your back. “Guess it’s kinda like kissing. You learn as you go.”
Sam’s catching on now, both of his arms coming around your waist to grab at the front of your hips, fingers sliding into your pockets. The action is stupid hot, especially with the weight of him on your back. Your hands reach up to grab at the back of his neck, letting your eyes fall shut again as you enjoy the song.
If it wasn’t for other couples practically making babies on the floor beside you, clearly very comfortable with public displays of sexual desire, you’re sure the two of you would be more hesitant to dance like this. The alcohol burning through your bodies also helps build courage. The song changes and Sam’s hands start pushing at your hips, urging you to turn around.
Looking up at him, hands returning to hold his neck and running through his hair, he moves a hand up to your cheek. You can see the internal battle in his eyes, gaze falling from your eyes to your lips. The silent question is there. He knows that you know. You know that he knows you know. You also know he won’t do anything until he asks and hears you say it out loud.
His voice is pinched, restraint tight in his throat, “Can I-”
“Yes.” You don’t let him finish the sentence, leaning up before the word fully leaves your mouth.
His lips are soft against yours, hesitant but not inexperienced. After a moment, you pull away slightly before leaning in again. This time, Sam is more confident. His thumb brushing your cheek while he lets his lips slightly part when he goes back in.
You’ve been longing for Sam for, what feels like, as long as you’ve known him, but you never allow yourself to think it’s something that could be possible. Always assuming he’d want someone who isn’t a hunter, someone who isn’t as crass as you, someone softer than you could ever be. Your heart threatens to burst out of your chest at the feeling of his mouth on yours. Finally feeling it for real, no longer having to imagine it late at night or be plagued by it in dreams.
It’s not long before you’re breathlessly kissing. One hand gripping the hair at the base of his neck, the other sliding down his body to hold his hip and pull him closer. When he complies, you let your fingers slowly slide back underneath the edge of his jeans and he groans against your lips. The sound makes you smile, unable to contain your giddiness. Sam keeps trying to kiss you through it, but eventually his own smile breaks you apart. Faces close and just laughing with each other, drunk off the intimacy.
“We should probably stop before we start frenching in the middle of the club.” You giggle, still slightly out of breath.
“Probably a good idea.” Sam agrees, leaning in for another quick peck.
Unbeknownst to either of you, Dean had gone up to the DJ, bribing him to play a request. Some stupid song he hears you and Sam constantly singing along to while jumping around ridiculously, pretending like it can be called dancing.
Just as you begin to exit the dance floor you hear the DJ address the crowd. “Alright everybody, we‘ve got a special request here for-”, The man’s voice is quieter, and you assume he’s probably leaning over to whoever requested the song, “who’s it for?”
Clearing his throat awkwardly you hear him mutter, “Really?”
“Alright alright, this one goes out to the Hunting Whores. We got a little throwback coming your way.”
At the mention of the group chat name, you came up with ages ago, you and Sam freeze in place. The entire club is silent for a moment as the DJ queues up the song that isn’t on his set list.
The opening lyrics to Mr. Brightside by The Killers blasts from the speakers. Not even taking a second to register the absurdity of this song playing after some electronic beat meant specifically to grind to, you and Sam meet each other’s eyes excitedly.
Jaw dropping open and laughing wildly, you begin singing the lyrics. Sam joins you and links your hands together to pull you closer and you smile brightly at him. He watches you with an awestruck look as the song continues, trying to force his brain to memorize your face, to capture this moment forever.
The second time the line It was only a kiss plays, Sam kisses you sweetly. Laughing at his cheesy gesture, the pair of you continue to dance gracelessly together.
Dean watches from the bar while the two of you make fools of yourself. Part of him is impressed that you managed to dance so seductively together a few minutes ago and now you’re flailing like homeschooled 8th graders at their first dance.
When the song ends, techno beats resuming, the club returns to its original atmosphere. You and Sam wiggle your way to Dean, who is currently flirting with the bartender that was eyeing Sam up earlier.
She turns to face the two of you when you lean your front against the bar, hips digging into its edge. Sam is holding himself tightly against you. The position isn’t obscene but you can feel his chest on your back, his left arm on the bar beside you and his right hand on your hip. Once again, you’re effectively caged between him, Dean, and the bar.
The bartender must think your stance is friendly, familial and not claiming, because she’s right back on Sam the second she sees him. Eyes lighting up as she gives her best charming smile. “What can I get for you handsome?”
“He’ll do another beer.” You know Sam as well as he knows you, often ordering for each other simply because you can. Thinking on it, you realize you’ve always done it because of your affections towards him and wonder if he does it for the same reasons. If he, too, integrated casual intimacy into your lives because it was the only way he thought he’d have you. You make a mental note to ask later.
The bartender shifts her gaze down to you with distaste and says nothing as she leaves to grab Sam’s drink. When she returns, she makes her final attempt.
“Anything else I can get you?” She leans against the bar as she says it, exposing more of her cleavage and dragging out the word anything.
Sam grabs the beer with his right hand, removing his hold on you. The loss of contact makes you feel uneasy, leaves your brain reeling over what the last few minutes have contained. Maybe it was only a kiss to him, a one and done to try it out. Maybe it was just noncommittal intimacy for him. Not endless nights of pining finally breaking.
You didn’t let yourself get too caught up in the kiss and what it meant because you hoped there would be more. That Sam felt the overwhelming devotion you did too. You feel bile rise in your throat as you realize you must’ve read this whole situation wrong.
He probably noticed how pathetically you longed for him and decided to kiss you since it’s your birthday. Oh god. Did he only kiss you because it’s your birthday and he didn’t want to hurt your feelings and you made him feel like he had to? Or worse, because he feels bad for you. Because he pities you.
Sam takes a sip of the chilled liquor with an awkward laugh. You mistake the sound for flirtation, not the uncomfortable self-soothing habit it is. As you spiral deeper into a pit of self-loathing you feel a hand come to grip under your chin. Before you can register it, Sam is using the leverage of his hold to tilt your head up towards him.
He leans forward slightly so you don’t have to break your neck to meet his eyes, his hand now lightly brushing against your throat. “What do you want, birthday girl?”
The nonchalance of his actions paired with his subtly teasing tone has you gulping beneath his hand. Mind struggling to come up with an answer, or any words really, you let out a little sound of contemplation. You’re trying to appear calm, as if considering your options, not like you’re totally freaking out.
The noise from your throat is quiet, so indistinct that Sam probably wouldn’t have noticed it if he didn’t feel the vibration against his palm. Sam smiles down at you, shit-eating look on his face.
You decide in that moment that you’re using your birthday wish to request that Sam keeps whatever confidence he’s displaying right now. You’ve never seen him so commanding with his affection. Never had this kind of intensity directed at you.
You think you’ve gonna a little crossed eyed when you feel his fingertips press in ever so lightly on your neck as he decides for you. “She’ll have a vodka club and a water, please.”
Yes. Exactly what you would have gotten for yourself, had you been able to form words or remember how your mouth worked. Sam’s hand drops to your shoulder as he redirects your head to its original position, his thumb sliding across the slope of your neck and pressing in. The movement soothes the slight ache that had formed in your neck from the angle he had you in.
When the bartender returns with your drinks you barely notice her, focused on Sam’s hand now on your hip, still lost in thought. Sam mutters a flat, “Thank you.”
He pinches you slightly and it breaks you from whatever trance you were in. “Thanks.”
Dean chuckles from your right. “Oh, you are so whipped, girl.”
“Fuck you.” The words are spat out easily, something you tell him often. All three of you are aware that they don’t have their typical bite, your brain clearly still catching up.
“Wrong brother.” He says it smoothly, wrongly assuming that you would let it slide.
“Why are you only picking on me? In case you forgot, it’s my birthday and I seem to recall the right brother being so zeroed in on my tits that he couldn’t even remember his name.” You say it with a scoff, reaching forward to grab your drink.
You can hear Sam’s grimace behind you. “You noticed that?”
“Oh please, everyone noticed.” Dean laughs out, clearly amused at the situation.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be such a creep.” Sam’s apology is genuine, you can tell he feels embarrassed about what happened. Or, more so, being caught. It’s so endearing that it makes you want him more.
“Don’t be sorry, Sam.” You’d never admit it, especially not in front of Dean, but it’s kind of flattering that he’s attracted to you the same way you are to him. “I get it. I’m just soooo pretty you can’t keep your eyes off me.” You say the last part as a joke, laughing at your teasing.
Sam’s voice is serious behind you. “Yeah. Exactly.”
The weight of his comment has you gripping onto your glass tightly, biting your tongue to try and not freak out. Sometimes you felt like a tween girl with Sam, his chivalry and kindness making you go crazy, causing your brain to mush.
Dean laughs again, murmuring quietly, “Both of you. Whipped.”
“Shut up, Dean.”
“Shut up, Dean.”
Sam’s voice overlaps your own, the identical retort leaving you at the same time.
You turn in Sam’s hold, back once more pressed against the bar, but this time Sam stands closer. His thighs brushing against your own as conversation flows easy between you and the Winchester brothers. When the three of you finish your drinks, you decide to call it a night.
As you walk out to Dean’s car, having got here on foot earlier, you pull out your phone which Dean slid back to you before exiting the building. Intending to check the time, you’re instead met with a string of messages from Dean over the last few hours.
dean!!
I think he’s gonna have a stroke – 11:57pm
he’s about to start drooling – 12:01am
or come in his pants – 12:01am
where the hell did you learn to dance like that? – 12:13am
slutty – 12:16am
I like it – 12:16am
he’s so not gonna be able to keep it in his pants now, this is hilarious- 12:20am
I’m taking pictures – 12:24am
also “open up”???? – 12:28am
you evil, sexy woman – 12:28am
you definitely broke his brain – 12:29am
haha. he broke your brain – 12:46am
that was disgusting by the way – 12:46am
never want to see that again – 12:47am
I taught him everything he knows. I raised that kid myself. – 12:50am
he’s so into you it’s embarrassing me – 12:52am
attachment – 12:55am
I go piss for two minutes and you’re gazing longingly into each other’s eyes? nasty – 12:55am
you’re lucky you’re family –1:06am
The last message is followed by a picture of you and Sam, taken only seconds ago. Sam’s hand is on your back, fingers subtly disappearing underneath the fabric of your shirt.
Noticing your attention focused downwards, Sam’s arm tenses so he can guide your steps more deliberately and he glances down at you. “Everything alright?”
You smile up at him. “Yup. Just wanted to check the time.”
Quickly typing out a reply to Dean, you hit send before locking your phone and sliding it back into your pocket.
thanks, dean. love you too :) – 1:08am
♡ ♡ ♡
A/N: trying to learn how to do cute headers n' shit :( wanna seem cool and whimsical. i can write i gotta work on my branding. this is part one of a two part (for now) series, second part is smut but can be read alone too :)
summary: your dad hosts the neighbourhood Fourth of July get-together every year, and every year, his best friend, Beau Arlen, is there. After Beau meets your new boyfriend and realizes you deserve better, he wants to make sure you know it.
♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, outdoor sex, angst, taboo-ish relationship, lotsss of pet names, unprotected sex, nothing rlly kinky or freaky, no mentions of y/n, reader insert, everyone is 20+.
.ᐟ.ᐟ : i just love beau i'm sorry
The Fourth of July, the damn biggest event in your neighbourhood, and your dad was the one who hosted it every time.
Families gathered in your backyard, kids running around, neighbourhood moms bringing their homemade goods, and all you had to do was sit back, smile, and tell the silly stories about college. It was pretty easy, and your boyfriend sitting beside you made it easier.
You’re sitting at one of the tables scattered around the yard, giggling to your boyfriend about something, his hand on your thigh, rubbing where the edge of your denim shorts stops. You met him in college, and he’s currently the talk of every grandma who comes by you, immediately accusing the young guy of being your future husband.
Yeah, right.
Your dad stands by the grill, quietly cursing to himself, and it catches your attention; he’s messing around with the propane tank beneath it, mumbling something about being out. He’s clearly stressed out; the entire neighbourhood’s stomach depended on him serving something.
Slipping off the lawn chair, you hurry to your dad’s side, and he turns to you.
“Dad, what’s going on?” you ask, eyes glancing at his struggle, then back at the kids behind you, asking their parents when the food will be done.
“Left the new friggin’ propane tank in the garage,” he groans, peeking up at you through a wrinkled brow. “You don’t mind grabbin’ it, do you, honey?” he asks, giving you a nervous-needy smile.
“No–no, I don’t mind,” you mumble, shaking your head and glancing at your boyfriend, who should be the one grabbing it, but he acts like he doesn’t notice. You roll your eyes.
You bypass the parents and kids, go through the side gate of the house, and head to the front yard, then to the garage.
“Kiddo,” a familiar, deep voice drawls behind you, and you quickly turn around, seeing him, in all his stupid cowboy glory; Beau Arlen.
He stands in your driveway, a grin curling at his lips, his beard untrimmed and unforgiving, his green eyes roving over your body, his hair messy, strands falling over his forehead. How the hell has this man babysat you before?
“Sheriff Arlen,” you say in disbelief, not having seen him in about three years, and his grin widens.
“C’mon,” he laughs with a shake of his head, taking long strides towards you. “You use’ta call me Uncle Beau, and now I’m Sheriff Arlen?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.
“It’s–it’s just been so long,” you stutter, shaking your head as he approaches. “Like… not since I went off to college, type of long,” you laugh, finally smiling.
“And ya’ missed me that entire time, yeah?” he teases, lifting his hand to ruffle your hair. “C’mon, give me a hug,” he says, not even offering; he just opens his arms, and you naturally find your way into his.
It’s not the same as when you were twelve, and he hugged you to calm you down after you fell off your bike.
He’s all firm and muscular now, warm and thick, his cologne wrapping you up just like his arms, and his large hands rest against your back, pressing into the white cotton of your shirt. It’s a longer hug than usual, gently squeezing your frame.
“Cannot believe the size of ya’,” he says, looking you up and down. “Remember when you were jus’ a little thing, could fit in my arms,” he shakes his head, looking back at your height.
“Yeah.. yeah, it’s been a while,” you agree, shyly backing up, and he adjusts his belt with one hand.
“Your daddy givin’ you trouble?” Beau asks, his grin still stuck on his face. “Even when you were off at college, still pissin’ me right off, callin’ me over and all that,” he laughs, briefly wetting his lips with his tongue.
“No… no, he’s been fine, everything has been fine,” you nod, and he huffs, resting his hands against his hips.
“Good… I’m glad,” he agrees, looking past you at the open garage. “Need help with somethin’, darlin’?” he asks, noticing you’re not in the backyard with everyone else having a good time.
“What on earth is taking you so long?” your dad suddenly blurts, stepping into the front yard to see you and Beau standing there, and he instantly drops the dad-mode he shifted into.
“Beau, finally, thought you were skippin’ this year,” your dad laughs loudly, instantly forgetting the conversation, leaving you to stand awkwardly there. You ignore the propane tank completely and walk back into the backyard to find your boyfriend again.
“Hey, babe,” your boyfriend grins as you return, and you cringe at the silly pet, giving him a small smile. “You mind if we leave before… like eight?” he shrugs, looking beside him as you sit down.
“Fireworks don’t even start until nine?” You furrow your eyebrows, staring at his boyish features twisting into an obnoxious glare.
“You wanna watch fireworks?” he laughs in disbelief, his mouth hanging open. “We have my car, babe… you know… maybe,” he teases, reaching over to pinch your waist, and you shift away, rolling your eyes.
“In your dreams,” you groan, crossing your arms, looking away, and sighing.
You watch as Beau enters the backyard; all broad and smiling, his strong hands carrying the tank. You swear you’ve never seen him this way, but it’s hard not to when everyone around him is fawning over him, and his jeans fit him a little too well. You look away when you notice him approaching.
“Beau,” you say softly when he reaches you and your boyfriend, and he glances between the two of you, suddenly eyeing the young man instead of you.
“And who’s this?” he drawls, his southern accent heavy.
“My boyfriend,” you nod, looking to him; he’s busy doing something on his phone, ignoring the Sheriff’s hand that’s currently hanging in the air, waiting for your boyfriend to shake it.
God, you want to crawl into a hole.
“Seems like a gentleman,” Beau says sarcastically, turning to you, and that’s when he finally looks up.
“Oh, hey,” your boyfriend mumbles, shoving his phone into his shorts. “You’re her uncle?” he asks, looking back at you.
“Close,” he shrugs, his thumbs resting in his belt as he stares down at the two of you. “She’s like m’daughter, ya’ hear?” he mumbles, and there’s a threat laced into that tone that makes you shift in the plastic chair.
“Yeah… I hear…” your boyfriend mutters, mostly confused, awkwardly looking away from the much taller man, whose eyes do not leave that poor son of a bitch.
“You havin’ fun, sweetheart?” Beau asks, switching his attention to you, and he looks at your shy body, curling into itself in the chair.
“Yeah,” you mumble with an unenthusiastic nod, and he knows you well, so he purses his lips.
“Why don’t ya’ come with me? I’ll make you somethin’ to eat,” he offers, waving you over, and you look to your boyfriend, who is currently flipping through something on his phone.
You hesitantly nod, but smile the minute Beau grabs your hand. It’s like you’re twelve again.
“Piece o’work, I’ll tell you that, darlin,” Beau mumbles quietly to you, still holding your hand as he walks towards the table filled with food others brought. “That boy… the hell are you thinkin’?”
“Shut up,” you mumble to him, laughing a little, and he grins at the way he’s made you laugh more than your boyfriend ever has.
“No… no, darlin, I’m serious,” he laughs along, stopping in front of the table, and he releases his hand from yours, gently resting it against the back of your arm. “Dumbest decision I’ve seen ya’ make… and I use’ta watch you go barefoot in ponds,” he shakes his head, clicking his tongue.
“He’s better when you get to know him,” you explain as Beau hands you a paper plate, and you reach for one of those sugar cookies that make your teeth rot. “He’s just… shy, awkward,” you defend, shrugging.
“Mmm…” Beau hums, giving you a knowing look as you shuffle down the long table. “We’ll see,” he shrugs, reaching over to add another sugar cookie onto your plate. He knows your taste buds more than you do.
After the two of you finish loading your plates with food, treats, and appetizers, Beau carefully walks you back to the table you were sitting at; two random people have taken the other spots, and your boyfriend stands there idly, realizing there are just two spots left.
“I don’t know what the fuck happened. I left to take a piss, and suddenly they’ve taken up the spots,” your boyfriend rambles on, and Beau cringes internally at the foul words leaving his mouth, and he glances at the disgust curling in your features.
You deserve better, and a mere 10-minute observation tells him everything.
Beau had been there before you could even remember; he was in the audience at your middle school graduation, watching you win award after award, and he even made it to your high school graduation, your GPA as high as ever. He couldn’t have been prouder of you. He braided your hair, tied your shoelaces, wiped your tears when boys picked on you, and now you were grown as ever, with a boy who did not deserve you.
“I got you, kid,” Beau suddenly chimes in, taking a seat in one of the chairs and immediately glaring as your boyfriend awkwardly takes the other.
Unfortunately for the poor kid, it plays into his plan.
You look between him and your boyfriend, suddenly noticing Beau patting his thigh, and your eyes widen.
“C’mon, it’ll be like y’er ten again,” he laughs, and you look at your boyfriend; back on his phone, completely oblivious to Beau asking you to sit on his lap.
You look at Beau, and he’s looking right up at you; those green eyes pour into yours, eyes crinkling in the corner from his gentle smile. You look back at your boyfriend again, then slowly turn around and lower yourself onto Beau’s lap.
“There’s m’girl,” he mumbles happily, leaning back in the plastic chair, one hand holding the plate, the other resting lightly against your hip. This feels a lot different from how it used to.
You glance down at your plate and realize your appetite is mostly gone; the pressure of Beau’s thick thigh between your legs is doing for you more than your boyfriend’s lousy thumb has ever done. You really want to die right now.
Your shaky hands pick at the food on your plate, lifting the sugar cookie to your mouth and taking a slow bite. You glance at your boyfriend, who is either oblivious or simply doesn’t care that you’re sitting on another man's lap. You sigh.
“Ya’ doin’ okay?” Beau draws quietly from behind you, and you turn your head slightly to glance at him; he’s looking right up at you, and the summer breeze stirs the stray strands of his hair that fall against his forehead.
“Yeah… yeah, of course,” you smile nervously, and Beau’s eyebrows furrow as he glances at your mouth.
“Hey, c’mere,” he mumbles, and you look around nervously, laughing at the way he lifts his hand. “Icin’ on your chin,” he explains, his thumb lightly wiping away the red-and-blue mess.
Beau smiles in satisfaction, looking up at you. Maybe he really does see you as the little girl he drove to school, but it’s hard to tell with the way he’s gently rubbing your hip with his free hand.
“Hey,” your boyfriend suddenly mumbles to you, nudging your shoulder, and he grimaces when he realizes the position you’re in; on Beau’s lap, his warm hand holding your hip.
“What?” you ask quietly, trying not to let Beau tune in to the conversation, but he already has a hand gently squeezing the soft skin beneath his palm.
“Too hot out, can we go to your bedroom?” he asks, his tone casual and carefree, glancing back down at his phone. Your cheeks burn red, knowing Beau obviously picked up on his implication.
“No… no, we can’t,” you mumble awkwardly, looking away from your boyfriend, who is huffing dramatically, shaking his head. You feel the embarrassment creeping up your neck and settling into your cheeks, all red and warm.
A silence settles around the table, and you shift on Beau’s thigh, looking down. You make the softest noise when you do, and he lightly taps the waistband of your shorts with his thumb, and you shift again.
Beau looks at you from behind; your hair draped down your back, the white cotton shirt glowing in the warm sun, and he has the strongest urge to slide his hand right up the back of it. He holds back and shifts his hips in the chair, glancing at your dad, who occupies the barbecue.
“Ya’ havin’ fun, kid?” Beau suddenly asks you, and you look behind, seeing those eyes looking right back at you. God.
“Of course,” you say, smiling and nodding.
“I can get ya’ somethin’ to drink if y’er thirsty, or anythin’,” he offers, nodding towards the cooler packed with drinks. He taps your waistband again, watching your expression shift in real time.
“I’m okay,” you practically whisper, and he pats your hip in confirmation.
“Jus’ makin’ sure, baby,” he drawls quietly, and you feel yourself melt onto his thigh, all soft and warm, and it’s not from the July heat.
By the time dinner is finished, the evening has fully settled in; the sun is setting, and it begins to cool down, soft lanterns lighting up the backyard, kids already with sparklers. You’re still on Beau’s lap, the half-eaten plate in front of you, while he chats with another neighbourhood dad, all the while you occupy his thigh.
“Babe, hey,” your boyfriend says, and your eyebrows furrow as he stands up, looking down at you. “Gonna head out now… something going on with my friend,” he lies, gesturing toward the backyard gates.
“What?” you ask in confusion, standing up too, and Beau naturally guides you with two hands, not breaking away from the conversation he’s having with the man beside him. “Fireworks are in like, forty minutes, you said you’d stay.”
“Yeah… but, you know, there’s booze at this party,” he laughs, acting like you’d understand his reason for dipping early; his friends are having a better party, with alcohol.
“Yeah… but you said you’d stay for fireworks, and then you were going to sleep over,” you explain more, shaking your head. “My parents don’t care if you sleep in my bedroom.”
Beau raises an eyebrow, glancing at the two of you as you have a light argument, then returns to talking about the things Sheriffs usually talk about.
“Yeah, like we’ll have sex,” he scoffs, and you grimace at how loud he’s talking.
“Stop,” you mumble through gritted teeth, and he rolls his eyes, looking over his shoulder.
“I’m just saying,” he waves you off, looking around the yard, crossing his arms.
“Fine, then go,” you say, dismissing him, not wanting to beg someone to stay who clearly doesn’t want to. “Just… I don't know, text me when you get there,” you shrug, looking away from him and back at Beau.
Your boyfriend scoffs and turns away from you, slipping out of the backyard and bypassing the kids running around with their moms. You sigh, taking a seat where your boyfriend once sat instead of Beau’s thigh, and groan quietly to yourself.
There’s a beat of silence before Beau chimes in, leaning forward a little, resting his forearms on his thighs.
“Kid,” he mumbles quietly, clearly seeing that interaction. “You doin’ okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say quickly, raising your eyebrows at Beau in defence, and he sighs quietly, realizing he had missed most of the angry young-adult stage.
“No, you’re not, darlin’,” he drawls just as quietly, and before you can snap back, he reaches over and gently pats your knee, shutting you up.
“Remember when you were jus’ a lil girl?” Beau starts, blinking slowly, gazing at the side of your face. “I use’ta drive you aroun’ whenever you got upset, to calm ya’ down,” he explains, and you slowly turn your head to realize what he’s offering.
“Right now?” you ask in surprise, remembering all the times he had you sit in the passenger’s side, driving you around town, buying you ice cream, and sneaking you back in when your parents were tucked away in bed.
“Right now,” he agrees, and you quickly smile, standing up from the chair, and he’s standing too, with a soft groan, quickly remembering he’s pushing fifty and can feel it in his knees.
Beau lightly takes your hand again, and you pass your dad, who is currently hunched over, messing around with fireworks in a way that would make anyone who knew anything about them have a panic attack. You don’t bother interrupting him.
Stepping into the front again, and you immediately spot it; the red Land Rover, years old, much too outdated, but it fits him perfectly; the rugged sheriff, spending his days off drinking. You remember it like it was yesterday and quickly head to the passenger side.
Beau watches you run across the lawn and towards it. He remembers hoisting you up, grabbing your waist, and you’d giggle when he buckled you in, wide eyes staring up at him, and now here you were, grown as ever without needing his help.
“Hold y’er horses,” Beau laughs as he jogs across the road, finding his way into the driver’s side.
“I remember all of this,” you smile, gazing at his dashboard, the CDs discarded in the centre console, bands and artists you didn’t know. He had a knack for that.
“M’sure ya’ do,” he smiles, quickly firing up the engine and rolling down the windows, immediately taking you down the street.
The summer breeze blows through the windows, your hair messy and blown out, and he can do nothing but watch you; streetlights occasionally dust across your pretty features you’ve grown into, and your teeth aren’t crooked anymore, all fixed by braces, taken off before he could notice them. He’s in awe of you and what you’ve become, and he knows that kid doesn’t deserve an ounce of your time.
You and Beau speed into the town square, and most people know his vehicle by now–dark red and completely vintage, and they smile as he drives by, occasionally waving. You forgot just how renowned he was in this small town, and you suddenly feel lucky for getting this time with him.
You glance back at the sudden loud sound; fireworks are going off in the background, being lit from your backyard, though you don’t care at all. You’re currently with Beau Arlen, soft music on the radio, the summer breeze in your hair, and all he can do is eye you. The pretty thing you are.
“Ya’ wanna watch em’?” Beau asks over the radio, reaching over to gently rub your shoulder when he notices you’re focused on the bright explosions behind you.
“You don’t mind?” you ask softly, and he instantly shakes his head, quickly making a sharp turn down a back dirt road, taking you both out of town.
“Use’ta take you here when you were just a lil’ girl,” Beau smiles with a slow nod, and he’s pulling up to a small clearing in a cornfield. “You loved it–the fireworks, watching them all damn night,” he explains further, taking a left into the driveway that leads to nowhere.
Beau parks the Land Rover on the dirt road, and you instantly hop out, taking his hand in yours as he guides you a little farther down the endless dirt driveway. Crickets buzz around you, and it’s still as humid as ever, but he’s taking you to the light clearing right beneath the stars. He’s always known this place.
With a thud, the two of you land on the hard ground, and he smiles at you, immediately wrapping his arm around your shoulders, keeping you close and into his side. You lean into him, resting your head onto his shoulder, and he doesn’t even hesitate before pressing a gentle kiss against the side of your head. Warm and grounding.
“Listen,” Beau starts quietly, and you lift your head up, turning it to face him. “That boy…”
“Beau,” you cut him off, biting your lip with a light tilt of your head.
“C’mon, baby,” he scoffs, shaking his head and lifting a hand to brush your hair back. “Smartest lil’ thing I’ve ever known, and y’er with him?” he asks in disbelief, eyes widening.
“Who should I be with, then?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, but you’re smiling now, and he lets his hand cup your jawline, a warm thumb brushing your cheekbone.
“You tell me,” Beau nods, his eyes narrowing, his tongue swiping over his teeth.
“No,” you refuse softly, shaking your head, and he finds it the most endearing thing he’s ever heard in his life.
Beau pauses and gazes at you, green eyes darker in the nighttime, and he slowly leans in, and you hold your breath. He doesn’t kiss you, no, he merely lets his forehead rest against yours, noses innocently brushing, and you’re still not breathing.
He leans in just a bit more, breathing quietly against your lips, and his tongue barely slips out, running over your lower lip, which is drooping from your mouth being agape right now. You exhale, and that’s when he finally leans in, pressing his lips against yours.
A soft sound slides by your lips, slipping right into his, and Beau doesn’t hesitate to carefully slide his long fingers in the back of your hair, long fingers curling into your strands, tugging, and you pull back, moaning softly at the grip. You’ve never been treated like this.
“Baby,” Beau breathes out at your reaction, staring at the way you’re already melting, breathing heavier. “He never touch ya’ like this, yeah?” he asks, and you quickly shake your head.
He immediately kisses you again, pressing his warm lips right into yours, tugging even harder to get that sound out of you again–a soft moan breaking out of your mouth and right into his. He’s basking in it, the feeling of you finally experiencing something, instead of just serving some stupid boy.
You’re kissing back sloppily, not used to being kissed properly. You lift your hand and gently hold the side of his face, his light beard pressing into your palm, and you slide your hand down, resting it against Beau’s chest, and he grins into the kiss.
You pant softly as he carefully maneuvers you, slowly but surely moving you to lie on your back, right against the dirt ground, and you whimper, and the thought of your shirt getting dirty.
Beau is nudging his way between your thighs now, gazing down at you; eyes wide, and soft lips parted and glistening in the mix of your saliva, and he swears this is the prettiest he’s ever seen you.
He moves down against, this time lightly kissing your jaw and then down the side of your neck, mouthing at the warm skin–he’s quick and feverish, breathing heavily, running on pure adrenaline, and your head is tipped back, gazing at the darkened sky and stars.
“Beau,” you moan softly as he lightly bites into where your neck meets your shoulder, and you grip his shoulder, squeezing. “Someone–someone is gonna see us,” you plead quietly.
“M’know this place like tha’ back of my hand, darlin’,” Beau mumbles into your neck, his hand briefly sliding down, long fingers finding the button of your shorts. “You trust me, dont’cha’?” he whispers, pulling back to look down at you.
You hesitantly nod, and he’s carefully unbuttoning your denim shorts, unzipping them. You gasp quietly when he lets them open, and he takes a look at your underwear; that’s when the guilt slips in, but he’s too far gone to stop now. You don’t even want him to.
“Jesus Christ, baby,” he whispers, lifting his hand to rub the side of his jaw as he shakes his head. “Prettiest thing ever,” he shakes his head again, fingers hooking into the denim waistband, and you whine.
“Beau,” you whisper again, and he looks up at you, his eyes narrowed. “I… I’ve always wanted this,” you admit quietly and nod, and he practically groans at your admission.
Beau curses quietly under his breath, breathing heavier now, clearly affected by your sweet words.
“Good, baby, that’s good,” he nods, reaching downwards, tapping the side of your hip, and you instinctively lift them, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide your underwear down with your jean shorts.
Beau leans back on his haunches, eyes blown out at the sight of you; spread out on the dirt ground, hair splayed behind you, wetter than you’ve ever been in your damn life–the pathetic sex you have with your boyfriend doesn’t compare.
“My God,” he mumbles in awe, glancing down between your thighs, and his jaw ticks; he sees the slick gathering, and he doesn’t hesitate to slide his hand down, two long fingers gathering it.
You moan softly the minute he touches you, head tipping back, and he quickly realizes how neglected your body is.
“He never touches ya’ does he?” Beau asks, referring to your boyfriend, who is off at some party, oblivious. “He don’t deserve a second with ya’, baby,” he shakes his head, shifting further between your legs.
You whimper, your white sneakers digging into the ground beneath you, and he lightly slides a free hand up your shirt, the other one mercilessly exploring your folds; he’s just touching around, almost analyzing. Your head is tipped back, mouth agape, breathing ever more heavily.
“He don’t know how to fuckin’ touch you,” he practically groans in disgust, his thumb immediately pressing onto your clit. “Can’t fuckin’ do anythin’ for my girl,” he growls this time, rubbing in quick, even circles.
You moan louder than you ever have–you didn’t think you could, not with the way you’ve been touched before; your back arches and your hips stutter, a small hand reaching to wrap around Beau’s strong forearm.
“Yeah? M’makin’ you feel good? Better than he ever could, huh?” Beau sneers, pressing harder than ever, and you feel every nerve in your body twitching and igniting. Dear God.
“Yeah–oh, my gosh, yeah,” you pant out, whining through a bitten lip, feeling the cool earth ground beneath you. It’s firm, keeping you somewhat grounded.
“This is all you ever should feel, sweetheart,” he mutters, watching your eyes practically rolling back into your head. “Sucha’ shame you’re datin’ some loser.”
“Sorry–I’m sorry, Beau,” you whine, feeling him picking up the quick circles, only to pull back, immediately going towards his leather belt.
“Don’t apologize for nothin’,” Beau says, quick fingers undoing the clasp, the soft clink clattering amongst the crickets. “Jus’ upsettin’ you’ve never been fucked properly.”
Your eyes widen at the vulgarity dripping from each word, and you glance down; he’s hard as ever, a prominent bulge right at the front of his denim jeans, thick and throbbing. He notices the look on your face and scoffs.
“Lemme’ guess,” he croons, letting his belt hang open as he pops open a button. “Doesn’t compare to ma’size either?” he practically laughs, his zipper following suit, and your eyes practically pop out of your damn head when his large hand wraps around himself, pulling it out of his boxers.
“No… no, not at all,” you shake your head in disbelief, helplessly staring at the way Beau is stroking himself, long fingers careful, his thumb rubbing the tip, and your legs fall open further, an invitation.
“Could tell,” Beau ticks his head, nudging further in between your thighs, his free hand resting on your bare knee. “Squirmin’ around like a worm on ma’knee… knew right then and there that no man has ever pleased ya’ in y’er life,” he shakes his head, and you whine at the call out.
“No… no, don’t get all shy on me,” he laughs, shifting closer, aligning himself with your entrance, just a slight pressure. “It’s me… jus’ me,” he coos, and you bite your lip.
Beau doesn’t hesitate to rock forward, pushing in without a single ounce of care in the god damn world–he just wants to make you feel better, wants to make sure you know what it’s like to be fucked by an actual man, and not some douche who uses you like a living breathing sex doll.
You cry out the minute he’s in fully. You didn’t know sex was supposed to feel like this; pure fullness and pleasure, your body instantly clenching around Beau, tightening and constricting, and he tips his head back, groaning aloud.
“Fuck, no man deserves this,” he groans out, one hand now holding your hip, the other one gently spreading your thighs. “So.. fuckin’ tight, baby,” he pants, not even in disbelief.
You whine, feeling him push even deeper, and your head is tossed back, right in the dirt beneath you, and he instantly is thrusting, gripping your hips tighter than he can even think.
“Beau,” you moan louder into the night air, feeling the light breeze against your bare thighs, the soft echo of fireworks crackling behind the two of you. “Beau, oh, my gosh,” you cry.
“M’right… right here,” Beau grunts, each word punctuated with a hard, deep thrust, sending your body rocking. “M’got you… gonna make you feel.. So good, so deservin’ of feelin’ good.”
You’re seeing stars, and it’s not the one in the sky; it’s behind your closed eyes; a burst of light and warmth, and all you can feel is Beau Arlen, back and forth, deep, consistent thrusts. You can’t even think; all you can do is mewl and whine, still gripping his forearm.
“Look at ya’,” he mumbles, staring at that pretty face, all flushed and sweaty from the summer heat. “He ain't seen ya’ like this, never will,” he taunts, relentlessly thrusting.
The mere thought of your boyfriend being unable to do this is motivating the ever-living life out of Beau, and he feels he can’t stop himself as he moves deeper and deeper, watching your head loll back, limbs limp and blissful.
“Gonna look so.. So pretty, filled with me, so pretty,” Beau mumbles, his head tipping back, groaning and grunting, just thinking of filling you up, stuffing you, not your stupid boyfriend.
You’re just taking it and taking it, whining loudly, your voice suffocated by the emptiness of the field you’re currently lying in.
“He ever cum in y’er pretty tummy? Ever make ya’ all full and warm?” he asks, and you’re shaking your head, knowing you never let him despite taking birth control every fucking day.
“Yeah… yeah, savin’ yourself for me? My girl… my sweet girl,” he mutters through gritted teeth, and he’s it; the twitch in your hips, the tensing of your chest, and he knows you’re close. First time in your life you’ve ever been close.
“First time cummin’ too,” Beau comments, and you whine louder, nodding to his words. “Pathetic boy he is, gonna teach him a fuckin’ lesson or two,” he’s getting himself angry, and it’s turning you on more than you’d like.
You feel it; the tightness, the knot, the coil that has your toes curling into your shoes, and your back arches, and Beau watches it, and feels it; warmth all over him, the loudest sound you’ve made in your entire life slipping by your lips. He swells with pride, and it only pushes him further and further.
Beau still fucks into you despite you finishing, and he’s just as close now, his hand pushing down on your hip, applying pressure, and he’s breathing heavier and heavier, eyes closing in bliss as he feels it build, and build. He cums without a single warning; just a loud groan, and a warmth blooming deep inside of you.
“Atta girl… mhm, stuffin’ you,” Beau groans, his other hand resting right beside your head, holding himself up, panting heavily, letting himself just stay pushed inside of you. He wants you to feel it, every inch, the warmth.
“Only… I can ever do this to ya,” he mumbles, out of breath, shaking his head. “He don’t deserve… any of you, baby, nothin’,” he rambles on, just groaning and grunting, refusing to pull out.
You’re blissed out, head still tipped back, eyes fixed on the stars above you, glowing and bright. You can hear the fireworks still, mixed with his breaths and pants and groans, and you’re completely out of it, just high on him.
“My girl,” Beau finally claims, fingers pressing into your hip.
You’re not sure how you’ll explain the bruises in the shape of Beau Arlen’s fingertips on your hips to your boyfriend.
Thinking about affectionate delirious Sam during the trials ・₊✧
thinking about Sam who's delirious during the trials. he's pale, circles underneath his eyes, hair mussed yet staring up at you with a goofy grin. his eyes are filled with adoration as you desperately try to lead him to bed.
"you smell nice" he comments, one hand coming up to absentmindedly play with your hair.
"sammy come on -"
he giggles, burying his face in your hair "i love it when you say my name" he mumbles.
you share a look with Dean who only grin and step back, "your problem now" he says before disappearing to go look for clues about Metatron.
you glare after him, bastard
with a sigh you try to pull back to reason with Sam, "Sam-" you try again, "you're sick. you need sleep" you try to be stern. you really do but the way he's looking down at you melts your heart.
next thing you know, he's wrapping himself around you, clinging as he leads you two down the hall. you're basically carrying him as he leans over you, "only if you come with me" he pulls back and taps your nose, "boop"
you fight a smile, heart clenching at how adorable he's acting, wide brown eyes gazing at you like you're the only place he wants to be. his warm arms wrapped around your waist, holding you.
"sam" you try to sound stern but made no effort in moving out of his hold.
your tone makes him pout and you have to psychically look away, facade already melting. suddenly he starts peppering kisses over your face. forehead, cheek, nose with urgent aggression, "no wait, if i don't do this you'll leave me" he sounded so earnest, your heart broke a little.
he pulls back to look at you again, hands cupping your cheeks and squishing them slightly, "you know you're important to me right"
his eyes are glossy, pupils dilated. you said his name again, muffled as he squeezes your cheeks, "Sam-"
"you're like... really pretty" he tilts your face up towards the light to study you before wrapping his arms around you waist and pulling you into a tight embrace, your face now burying against his chest.
"sam, bed" you say, muffled letting out a giggle.
he hums in agreement yet makes no effort to move. he abruptly looks towards a shelving unit. a moment of silence.
"want to see me climb that?"
"no" shaking your head, you lead this affectionate and sleep deprived man to his hotel room
and when you finally make it to bed, he's quick to pull you down with him. arms around your body, your pulled in warm and snug against him. you let out a surprised laugh as he settles like a cat.
"sam i have to go help Dean-"
he mumbles something incoherently already dozing off. you sigh, defeated. hopeless. and start to stroke your fingers through his hair to which he smiles, content.
pairing dean winchester x ex-wife!reader
fandom supernatural
word count 4.2k
warnings mdni / 18+, angst, smut, porn with plot, timeline wise somewhere between s8 & s9, dean is still john’s son at the end of the day, of course he can’t give up the hunter life, [adele voice] divorce babe divorce, italic flashbacks, brief sam appearance (flashbacks), girl dad dean winchester, champion yearner dean winchester, oral (f and m receiving), p in v
notes this started as a simple “dean still yearning for the mother of his daughter” fic but then i got carried away
in the beginning, it was perfect.
you were the one who finally got dean to settle down and leave the hunting life behind; you two got married almost a full year into his retirement, welcoming a baby girl in the following year. it was the picture perfect-white picket fence-cookie cutter lifestyle that dean always believed was out of reach and unrealistic for guys like him. it was natural for him to step into the provider role from years of taking care of sam and his love for you was practically second nature. it was never performative how he prioritized his two favorite girls, always genuine.
“let’s get married.” dean says as he slips an arm around your shoulders. you tilt your head up to look at him with a raised eyebrow, slotting your bookmark as you close and set your book to the side.
“i’d say yes if you asked me properly.” you tease him as you shift your body to face him slightly, slotting perfectly against your boyfriend as he pulls you as close to him as possible. “you don’t even have a ring and you’re not in front of me on bended knee; what kind of proposal is this?”
“i thought you didn’t care about all that crap?” dean mutters into your hair as he leans his head against yours. “you said as long as i don’t put a ring in your food-“
“i still don’t. i was just giving you shit.” you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek as he rolls his eyes at you, a giggle leaving your mouth as you pull away. “i’m pregnant though.”
dean scoffs quietly and rolls his eyes at you again, fully prepared to protest another round of your sarcasm before he noticed you lean over towards the nightstand, opening the drawer to pull out what he soon recognized to be a positive pregnancy test. dean’s eyes widened and he blinked a few times, looking at you for confirmation.
“you’re-“
“pregnant, dean. i’m pregnant.”
“she’s got your eyes.” you and dean are looking down at your baby girl who’s wiggling nonstop in your arms, toothless grin on her face as she coos.
“but she’s just as cute as her mama.” dean teases with a chuckle as you roll your eyes at him. “soon enough she’ll be big enough to help me work on baby.”
“dean, you are not putting our baby to work as soon as she starts walking.” he’s got a defeated look on his face as you scoop her into your arms, her tiny hands reaching for your loose strands of hair. you replace your hair with your finger and she latches her tiny hand on almost immediately, her face lighting up as you play with her.
dean watches the two of you and can’t help but feel his heart swell at his two favorite girls, a moment he thought that he was cursed to never have. ever. you showed up and changed all of that for him and he would spend the rest of his life proving that to you, and now to his baby girl. he would put his life on the line for his girls without question.
“okay i won’t have her work on baby, but there’s nothing that says she can’t learn how to hunt-”
“dean. you’re pushing it.”
“okay, fine.” he throws his hands up in defeat. “still wanna teach her how to shoot. you don’t know what people are capable of these days.”
that’s why you couldn’t fathom how in three years time that you’re now signing divorce papers. you should’ve known that a hunter doesn’t really ‘retire’ and at some point dean would get that urge to slip back into the life. the first time was forgivable because when you get that itch, you have no choice but to scratch. it was when his resurfaced hunting habits started to make you feel like the only one in the marriage and the only one raising your daughter that the strain was beyond repair. you were losing the love of your life and everything that the two of you had managed to build outside of his old lifestyle, just for him to turn around and jump right back into the life he had put behind him.
the final straw was the day he disappeared without a trace. he wasn’t answering his phone or responding to texts, not to mention that he hadn’t been home in days that were bordering on weeks. sam had called right when you had considered filing a missing person report to reluctantly break the news that he was in purgatory, and that he had no idea if he could get his brother back this time. it was a reckless decision on dean’s part knowing that he had a wife and daughter at home and it hurt not knowing if he’d even be around for most, if not all of his baby girl’s milestones.
you told yourself that you were gonna stop waiting up for him. it’s the last thing that the bastard deserved, but old habits tend to die hard.
dean winchester was a hunter before he was a husband and a father and you knew that going into the relationship. it was years of push and pull before he finally decided to settle down, and it took even longer for him to feel comfortable with the idea of proposing and being a dad. he wouldn’t have been able to go through with it if he didn’t have you by his side, but that urge to hunt was bound to rear it’s ugly head sooner rather than later.
it wasn’t bad at first, a few local cases here and there with a guarantee that your husband would make it home safe and sound when it was all said and done. those local cases graduated to a few days at a time before it’d be a whole week before you’d hear from him, which was another layer of stress on top of raising a year old baby girl. but here you were sat at the dining room table as you waited for dean to walk through the front door, your daughter fast asleep upstairs.
dean knew if the light was on by the time he got home that he was in big trouble and there was no question in his mind that you were furious; he was rolling into the driveway at two in the morning and it didn’t cross his mind once to call or send a text, getting caught up in the hunt with sam that he’d jumped back into his pre-domestic habits of neglecting his own wellbeing. it didn’t register until the drive home that he had other people to worry about outside of himself and sam, that he now had a wife and a daughter at home and that these longer hunts weren’t gonna cut it for much longer.
you only cared that dean made it home in one piece and as soon as he walked through the front door relief washed over you, but it wasn’t enough to cancel out the anger of not knowing if your husband was okay or not. he met your eyes and before he could get the words out, you stood from your seat and made your way upstairs. you didn’t have to use words to let him know he was taking the couch tonight.
all dean wanted when he got above ground was a hot shower and to kiss his wife. the last thing he expected was changed locks and going straight to voicemail. sam had gone to hell and back and stood toe to toe with lucifer himself, but somehow telling his older brother that his wife wanted nothing to do with him was one of the hardest things he had to do, on top of convincing you to at least let dean still see his daughter. as much as he wanted to be upset that his younger brother was playing house with his family, it was better that sam stepped into his uncle role over some random stranger around his baby girl.
“what do you mean she doesn’t want to see me?” dean’s voice is rough as he turns to face sam with raised eyebrows, arms crossed against his chest.
“i think she just needs some time to adjust.” sam responds with a shrug. “i mean, everyone thought you were dead for months. that’s not something that you process overnight, dean.”
“but that’s my wife and my daughter. i have a right to see them.” dean protests.
“then what happens when you show up unannounced? she calls the cops and you get hit with a restraining order?” sam retorts. dean knows his little brother is right, but damn if he didn’t miss you and his baby girl. “just give her time. she’ll come around. she loves you too much not to.”
“you think if i called her instead that she would be willing to to me at least?” dean suggests. “s’not like i’m showing up unannounced.”
“like i said, give her some time. she had to adjust to you being gone and to have you pop up like nothing happened would probably give her whiplash.”
“i want a divorce.”
the last four words dean was expecting to hear when you two finally reconnected. he should’ve seen this coming a mile away between the hunts and being sent to hell but it was still a punch to the gut. he didn’t bother arguing because he knew you well enough to know that you weren’t relenting in your decision and that it was final.
and it wasn’t like he was delaying signing the papers on purpose. hunting was the only thing that was helping him cope with the reality of losing his family, then you add the layer of his brother suddenly missing his soul and trying to get it back. he promised that the next time he and sam cycled through your neck of the woods that he would finally suck it up and put pen to paper, but he would only grant you the divorce if you kept him updated on his daughter which was a fair agreement on both sides.
you both knew that at some point your daughter was gonna ask why her dad was always gone on “work trips” or why he can’t show up on certain holidays or why mommy and daddy don’t kiss like the other mommies and daddies, but right now the priority was to co-parent and try your best to give your baby as normal of a childhood as possible.
his baby girl who keeps getting bigger and looks more like him with each passing day, which makes it harder to move on despite the fact the divorce was long finalized by now. the post-purgatory years had been good to dean winchester and you couldn’t pretend that your ex-husband wasn’t looking better with time. he was slowly morphing back into the dean that you first fell in love with all those years ago and you just couldn’t get your brain and your heart on the same page. your daughter would cling to his leg during pickups and drop offs at your place and it would take everything to not ask him to stay the night, but you always sent him back with some leftovers to hold him and sam over until the next time.
“can daddy spend the night this time?” your daughter looks up at the two of you with those big eyes, practically hanging off of dean’s shirt with her tiny hands. you start to speak before you lock eyes with dean and cut yourself off, matching his nervous smile; neither of you could deny your baby girl’s wishes and if she wanted daddy to sleep over, he would sleep over. you and dean exchanged a look and he shrugged apologetically, mouthing a ‘sorry’ in your direction.
“yes, daddy can spend the night.” you don’t break eye contact with dean, watching both his and your daughter’s faces light up. god, she was such a spitting image of him down to her tiny little personality. your daughter cheered and dragged her dad by the hand down the hallway to her room, shaking your head as you head to your own room.
after an hour there’s a knock at your bedroom door and dean with a tired smile on the opposite side.
“she’s knocked out. tuckered herself out after a round of barbie theater and a few bedtime stories.” he slides his hands into his pockets as he leaned against the doorframe. “i got invited to breakfast with something called a ‘bluey and a bingo’ though.”
“i’m surprised she doesn’t have bluey on all the time at your place.” you shake your head before walking over to the dresser, handing him one of his shirts and a pair of his pajama pants. “these were mixed in with the laundry. didn’t wanna get rid of them in case you didn’t make it out.”
dean pauses before he can get the words out, genuinely caught off guard by the gesture. his hand brushes against yours as he takes the clothes from you and it’s your turn to try and keep your cool, hand tingling from the contact. “g-guest room is down the hall.”
“right.” dean nods, turning to head in the direction of the spare room. you stepped back into your own room, immediately pressing your back to the door as you closed it, finally letting out the breath you were holding. it was obvious that there were still feelings on both ends but with co-parenting your daughter being the priority, those feelings never had a chance to get addressed properly. you couldn’t speak for dean, but you hadn’t dated anyone since the split and the eventual divorce.
you’re not even ashamed to admit that when it’s late at night and you can’t sleep, your hand slips between your thighs at the thought of him, wishing the fingers circling your clit was his tongue because there’s this one trick of his that you’ve never been able to recreate with your fingers and-
another knock pulls you out of your thoughts. you clear your throat before walking back over to your bedroom door, dean pushing himself off the frame and his lips immediately finding yours in a heated kiss. you’re caught off guard and you tense up at first, relaxing under his touch not long after. if dean had tried to kiss you a year ago, the palm of your hand would’ve met the skin of his cheek. right now he was taking your breath away like it was the very first kiss.
he breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against yours, the both of you breathing heavily as your eyes meet.
“i don’t know how much longer i could’ve gone without doing that.” dean’s voice is breathless as he confesses, hands cupping your face as his thumbs caress your cheeks.
“do it again.”
dean obliges almost immediately, backing you into the bedroom as his lips melted into yours desperately. he kicks the door closed behind the two of you before squatting slightly to hoist you up by the thighs, your legs wrapped around his torso as he carries you over to your bed. his lips never leave yours as he gently lays you back against the pillows, hands roaming over each others’ bodies and under t-shirts and pajama bottoms. dean’s lips trail down your jaw to your neck, stopping right under your ear to suck a mark as he rocks his hips against your core, bulge pressing right against your clit.
“dean…” you plea, bucking your hips up to meet his. he smirks against your lips, muttering an ‘i know baby, i’ve got you’ in return as he starts to trail his plump lips down your neck and chest, his large hands sliding your sleepshirt up your torso. dean’s mouth latches onto your breast almost immediately, not wanting to rush but wanting to make up for all the lost time. his thumb and tip of his finger roll and tease your opposite nipple as his tongue swirls around the other, still rutting his hips into your core and leaving you breathless under him, his mouth and his fingers alternating between nipples.
dean’s lips trail further down between the valley of your breaths and down your stomach, trailing kissing along the waistband of your pajama shorts. he hooks his fingers as he drags them down your legs, taking his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes focus on your glistening cunt. your heart races as he settles between your legs and the two of you lock eyes briefly, your hand instinctively reaching to cup his face; a silent gesture of forgiveness and understanding between the two of you before he flattens his tongue against your cunt, a slient cry of pleasure leaving your lips. his mouth engulfs your clit as you squirm and tighten your thighs around his head, fingers tangling and tugging in his hair as he slips a finger past your slit.
“c’mon baby, i know you can give me one before i fill you up.” dean mumbles against your pussy, watching you squirm through his lashes before a second finger meets the first. he curls them against your sweet spot and a pleased groan leaves his mouth as your back arches, the moans leaving your lips almost pathetic sounding as your lower belly starts to warm up. you clench around his fingers and dean knows you’re close, attaching his mouth to your clit as he sucks and swirls his tongue, your release covering his lips and his stubble and his chin all over.
“so good for me. always so good for me.” dean mutters against your skin as he kisses back up your body before capturing your lips in a slow, sensual kiss, the both of you working to push his bottoms and boxers down. he sits up to pull his shirt off before stroking himself a few times, running the tip through your folds to tease you, your whimpers simply music to his ears as he pushes his tip past your slit, inching himself past your gummy walls at a pleasurable, yet agonizing pace. he pauses to give you both a moment to adjust, not wanting to rush a moment the two of you had admittedly been waiting for the other to give in for. you toss your head back against the pillows as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours before he drags his cock back, rocking his hips at a slow pace.
dean’s hand cups your face and captures your lips in a gentle kiss as his free hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers with his as you lock your legs around his waist, moaning at the much deeper angle. your head is spinning as his cock fills you and his lips kiss all over your face, tears brimming at your eyes as you’re suddenly overcome with emotion, his forehead resting on yours as his thumbs wipe your tears away. “i love you dean. missed you so much.”
“m’not going anywhere. gonna be here for my girls.” dean’s lips are by your ear as he speaks, biting at the lobe as you moan and whimper. his hand slips from yours and slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit as he picks up the pace of his hips, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix with each thrust. “can you gimme one more baby? s’been so long since you came with me.”
you nod before your head falls back against the pillows, whining as that familiar warmth pooled in your lower belly again, dean’s grunts and groans picking up as his cock starts to twitch. he slams his hips against yours as ropes of cum coat your walls, the both of you moaning in unison as your releases wash over you simultaneously, your lips finding his as you both come down and find your breaths. dean pulls you into his arms and rolls you on top of his chest, peppering kisses all over your face before holding you close to him.
“i didn’t break any sleepover rules, did i?” dean breaks the silence and you roll your eyes, lifting your head to look at him.
“none in my book.” you lean in to press your lips to his once, then twice, then a third time as a smile crosses his face. “this doesn’t mean we’re back together, you know.”
“i know.” dean sighs, gaze shifting to the ceiling.
a brief pause.
“but it could be a start.” his gaze shifts back to yours and it feels like his heart stops for a split second, slight relief washing over him at your confession. getting his family back has been the only thing dean’s cared about since getting out of purgatory.
“you mean that?” dean’s face and voice lights up as you nod, him leaning in to press a long, gentle kiss to your lips in response.
“we still have to have a proper conversation about it, but it’s not like we’re in that place from three years ago.” you confess after he pulls back, fingers tracing the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. you have a matching one on your left shoulder from when you first started dating because he made you get one, refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. your protection was, and still is, his number one priority.
“babe, you know i hate tattoos.” you groan in annoyance, rolling your eyes at your boyfriend. he was firm in his decision and the one time that you didn’t have a say in things.
“i know, but it’s for your own good. can’t risk anything happening to you and i’m not there.” dean tucks your hair behind your ears before pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “in the worst case scenario, it’ll buy me some time so i can to get to you.”
“fine.” you sigh in defeat, crossing your arms across your chest. “you’re at least holding my hand the whole time and buying me a beer after.”
dean shakes his head at you with a chuckle. “i’ll buy you all the beer in the world if you stay alive for me to buy it for you.”
a goofy smile crosses your face. “deal.”
“i’ll take what i can get as long as it means i get my girls back.” dean smiles in content. “purgatory and hell are nothing compared to a life without either of you. i practically owe sammy my life for stepping up and taking care of you both.”
“i barely knew what to do without you and i really wouldn’t have known what to do without him. i’m just that our daughter doesn’t have to grow up without you.” you lean in to peck dean’s lips and you swear that you briefly see tears brimming his eyes as you sit up to straddle his lap, his hands sliding up your thighs to rest at your hips, the air thickening once more as the curve of your ass brushes against the tip of his half-hard cock.
dean runs his fingers up the curve of your ass to the arch of your back and back down, eyes trailing up and down the front of your naked frame, releasing his bottom lip from his teeth as you lean down to capture his lips in yours. this time around the kiss is more feverish, a lot sloppier than the first round as lips and teeth crash together. it’s your turn to kiss along dean’s jawline and down his neck, trailing your kisses down his chest. he hisses as you bite and suck around his nipples, kissing down his stomach until his cock was twitching in your face.
he watches through lidded eyes as you take his shaft into your hand, sucking in a breath as you run your tongue across his slit, the taste of his precum coating your tongue as you swirl it around the tip. “gonna show me how much you missed me?”
“mhmm.” you nod in response before taking him into your mouth, inching down until his pubes were tickling your nose, the groan that left his lips going straight to your wet cunt. you lift your head with a pop before taking him into your mouth again, finding your rhythm as the sound of your slurping and sucking mixed with his moans, taking his balls into your hand as you massaged. dean had a fistful of your hair as he held your head in place, lifting his hips to fuck your mouth as he threw his head back against the pillows with his eyes squeezed shut.
“jesus, fuck- goddamn.” dean breathes out as he continues to fuck your throat, the vibration of your moans adding to the pleasure of his cock. his breathing starts to shallow and his eyes squeeze shut, both hands now holding your head in place as he picks up his pace, fucking your mouth relentlessly as his cock twitches. his body tenses as he bottoms out into your mouth, the thick warm ropes of his cum shooting down the back of your throat as a long groan leaves his mouth. you slide your mouth off of him with a pop and he pulls you up into a kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he catches his breath.
“okay, now i’m really not going anywhere.” dean teases.
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: It's a hard life to lead, when you're in love with your roommate and bestfriend and you know you're never going to be able to have him. But when Dean asks you to be his fake-girlfriend for his brother's wedding, you start to see things you'd never seen before.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, roommate!Au, friends to lovers, angst, pining, Dean Winchester needs to talk about his feelings and get a hug, fake-relationship that's not so fake, fluff, shameless smut (oral f!receiving, dirty talk, body worship, p in v sex), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: based on an anon request! i had so much fun with this one it's very important to me plz enjoy it thank you <3✦
The light moves, when he walks.
You noticed it the first time you met. You’d walked up to the building, shifting on your feet and peer at the buttons, and he’d elbowed right past you with a grunted apology.
“Sorry, gonna be late- Shit-“
He’d walked right into the glass.
You like to think of yourself as at least an okay person. The kind that helps someone, when they run into a door like a bird. But you’d still almost laughed, at the dazed expression on his face as he stumbled back. You’d laughed, and you’d caught his arm to steady him. It had made you falter a little bit as well, because he’d been a lot heavier than you expected—even for someone so taller—and you’d sunk your nails into his arm. His bicep had flexed under your hand.
He’d grabbed your wrist with a grunt, both of you finding footing at the same time, and looked you right in the eyes.
He’d had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen in your damn life. His lashes might be longer than yours, the dark green almost hypnotizing, and his face-
You hadn’t known men were allowed to look like that. You’d been so sure that the face looking at you was from a dream. Full lips and strong features, a slightly crooked nose and, sharp clean-shaven jaw.
You’d blinked at him slowly. Held on a little tighter, in case this was a dream. Morning mist had bitten at your fingers, but his body had been warm. The haze of it all made it feel like a dream, and you’d leaned a little forward, but-
There had been ice under your feet. You’d slipped with a tiny yelp.
He’d grabbed you quickly. Wide eyed with an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. Your ankle had hurt—not a dream—and his breath had turned to fog over your face. Only a foot or so apart, something magnetic pulling you closer, something louder in your brain—call it a survival instinct—making you place a hand on his chest to stop yourself from melting into this complete stranger.
His mouth had curved into a small grin. The light had moved.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” You’d swallowed. “Are you-“
“I’m good.” He’d shrugged lazily. Still looking at you. “You?”
That had been a lie. You’d never felt anything like this, that made your heart go to your ears and your whole body sing. Light by an electric fire, sparking when his thumb brushed a small line over your waist.
He might’ve seen right through you. His smile had grown.
“You slip on ice while standing a lot?” He’d teased.
“You run into glass doors a lot?”
He’d stared at you for a second. You’d bitten your tongue. You didn’t need to be that angry, that defensive, you didn’t even know him and he probably thought you were some kind of standoffish bitch-
He’d laughed. Loud and clear, the first note of a song you’d been waiting to hear all your life. Your heart had skipped in your chest, and fallen into a beat you’d never felt before. It had felt right. He, with his arm around you and a wide smile on his face, had felt right.
Then he’d pulled back, grabbing your arms to make sure you were steady on the ground, before coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Still smiling. Still so close.
“Guess I don’t. Was just in a rush to get inside, I think I got someone waitin’ on me- Not like that.” He’d added quickly, ears going red. “I live upstairs, and my friend moved in with her girlfriend, and my brother was crashing with his girlfriend but they found a place and now I- Never mind.” He’d shaken his head, making a face that at the time you hadn’t fully understood.
Even now, you don’t understand. He’s only ever made the face when he’s talking to you. You know, because you watch everything he does.
Just to see if he knows he has your heart. That it’s wrapped around his hands, to pull and play with however he pleases. That he grabbed it when he caught you slipping, and he’d left a depression on your body where he’d touched you so easily. Fit so perfectly. You watch him all the time, because there’s nothing better than just watching someone you love.
You hadn’t known you loved him then. You’d only known that he’d seemed nervous, and it had been sweet. That his face had been confused and adorable, even if you were able to place why.
He’d extended his hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “Dean Winchester. That’s- My name.”
You would’ve giggled, if you hadn’t been so busy panicking. You’d heard that name before. It was saved in your phone, along with the ad.
And when you’d said your own name, you’d seen it hit him too. You’d slip your hand into his, fingers shaking—the cold or nerves, you’re still not sure—and he’d still felt right. So right. His fingers and wrapped, safe and firm around yours, and in another life you wonder if he would’ve pulled you forward into his arms.
But you don’t live in that life. You live where he needed a roommate, and you needed a place to live, and that was more important than anything else. That wasn’t something you had the luxury to jeopardize, even for Dean.
And you know now. You’d jeopardize a lot of things for Dean.
“I think you’re supposed to be waitin’ upstairs for me.” He’d rasped, and you’d laughed weakly.
“I couldn’t get in the building.”
“Oh- Uh- Right.” He’d glanced at the doors. Still holding your hand.
You hadn’t wanted him to let go.
“At least you’re not late.” You’d said with a smile, and he’d look back to you.
His eyes had shined, and in the mist, he’d still looked like an angel. A little more solid and real, but somehow less tangible. A little further away, but right in your hands at the same time. The light had moved. He’d chuckled, and it had moved something deep in your chest. Something final, shifting where it was supposed to be, as you flushed under Dean’s gaze.
“Yeah.” He’d said. “I guess I’m not.”
You have this whole life, in your head.
It’s a habit you built when you were a kid. It’s not a good one. Enough ghosted therapist have told you that for you to know. But knowing has never been your issue.
You know a lot of things. You know yourself. You know that living where no one else can see makes you lonely, and you know that you can’t complain about the silence when you never speak. You know that every time someone asks you if there’s something going on there and you say no, it’s a lie you feel in the pit of your stomach. You know every time you hear soft laughter from his room and smell the perfume in the morning, it makes you so sick you might just vomit your guts all over the floor to see if he’ll clean them up.
But you also know Dean. And you can’t tell anymore. If that makes it better or worse.
You know him so well he might as well just be another part of you. You know what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he uses, because you buy it for him at the corner store. You know he likes hot sauce but can’t handle it as well as he claims, because you’ve watched him eat a hundred burritos with a proud smirk, only for his face to go red and his voice to get rough as he pretends he doesn’t want milk.
You know he wears boxer briefs, because you do his laundry. You know he can’t sing for shit, because you hear him in the shower. You know he’s an amazing cook, because he makes you breakfast, and lunch, and dinner.
You’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. He always rolls his eyes, and ignores you, and you’re more grateful for it than you’ll ever be able to say.
You never want him to stop doing it. It feeds your small little world—the one you entertain at night before you sleep, the one that keeps you going when you walk into the apartment, and he’s on the couch with some random girl with a smile that’s brighter than yours and words that are softer—because they don’t get to have that part of him.
Not one girl that Dean lets into his bed—the one place in the whole damn apartment you’re not allowed to be, the one place you’d trade anything to be given just a glimpse—gets to stay until morning. They leave with a stomping feet and a slam of the door, and you hug your sheets as you hear Dean shuffle around outside your door.
He’ll sigh loud enough to be heard through the walls. The shower will run, and you’ll bury your face in a pillow, hiding the shame of your arousal from the ceiling.
You have no right, to picture him naked under the water. To imagine his broad chest and strong legs, the ripple of his muscles as he stretches to wash his hair with the shit you bought him. How he might bow his head to stare at you, if you massaged the soap into his soft, spiky hair. How close he’d be, how he might lick his lips, how his big hands would land on your hips.
How you’d sink to the floor, and run a hand up his thigh. How you’d tilt your head, pressing your cheek near his groin, how he might mutter your name and cradle your head as his chest began to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm.
No right. You hump the sheets like some pathetic animal, and you muffle moans of his name into your sheets long after he’s back in bed, but you have no right.
You don’t know how you look him in the eyes, in the morning, but it might be something about how it’s just you. His nightly company is gone. There’s a vulnerability, in how he shuffled around in hot dog pants and presents you with breakfast.
“Pancakes.” He mutters, ears red. “You, uh- Bought all those bananas. I cooked ‘em into it. Lemme know if it’s shit.”
You hum, pulling the plate closer. “It won’t be shit, Dean-“
“Could be. One day I might lose my touch.”
“No, you won’t.” You roll your eyes, and he smirks.
“Stop back talking and eat the damn pancakes.”
“That wasn’t back talking-“
“I’m sharing my fears, and you’re being invalidating-“
“Oh, shut up, I taught you what that word means.”
“That was your mistake.” He grins, leaning over the counter. Eyes locked on yours, hair still messy from sleep.
The light moves.
“You gotta know I don’t like lessons, sweetheart.”
You flush, and look down to the pancakes. You never know what to do, when he uses that voice on you. The deep one that makes your face heat, that feels like he’s testing a line you’ve told yourself you’re not allowed to cross. It’s the voice he uses on his company, and you know it’s just teasing, but it feed your dreams. It feeds the world you know isn’t real, that he’s never allowed to see.
“You made these with banana?” You say after a long silence, your face burning. “I love banana.”
Dean coughs, and when you look up, he’s making that strange face.
“Yeah, uh- I know. I gotta go- Bathroom. Need to piss. And- Shit.”
You blink at him, and he almost takes off down the hall.
“I didn’t need to know that!” You call after him, and he shouts back.
“Yeah, but I wanted you to!”
You laugh despite yourself, and look back to the pancakes. It’s just food. He’s just cooking for you, which he does all the time, but it’s still something that’s only yours. The smallest part of Dean that you get to keep.
Food. The only part of him that’s only yours. It’s priceless to you. It’s the most important thing in the world.
Because you live in your head. And in your head, you dream about a life where he loves you back. Where every time he comes home he walks over to you and picks you up. Kisses you on the counter, then pushes you down and eats you out like you’re the only dinner he’d ever possibly need. Where when you do his laundry, he comes up behind you and kisses your neck. Mutters something about you wearing his shirt, or wishing you’d just leave everything dirty so he could have you naked all the time.
In your head, you never have to turn on the shower to cover your tears when he brings another woman home. You never have to stare at yourself in the mirror, and pick apart your every feature and expression to try and rationalize why it’s not you. Why you don’t get to have him, why he’s out there touching someone else, what they can give him that you can’t. You give him everything. You’d give him more, if he let you.
But he doesn’t. And jealousy burns. It scars. It worms its way into your heart and festers, until you’re glaring at his door and curling your fists, fighting the urge to slam on the walls when you hear a high, pitchy whine of Dean through the wall. Some nights, the jealously turns in your stomach and you find yourself over the toilet bowl, literally sick with it.
The worst part is that he’s not doing it to be cruel. To mock or taunt you. He’s just not thinking of you at all.
After about a year of living with him, something in you had snapped. He might not think of you, but all you do is think of him, and if you’re going to be suck in the lonely and violent cycle, you might as well even your own playing field.
Dean doesn’t know it, but you’ve turned it into a sick kind of game. It’s not a healthy one, or one you’re ever going to win, but winning isn’t the point.
Numbing is the point. Escaping. Being anything but a toy that doesn’t get played with, stuck on the other side of the wall and picking at your skin until it bleeds.
You start going to bars. Not the one down the street—that’s where Dean goes—but one a few streets up. It’s next to a club made of suffocating heat and too many bodies that aren’t safe—aren’t Dean—but it does just fine. Some nights you go to the bar. Some you go to the club.
But you always come home with some nameless body attached to your hip. Kissing over your throat and mumbling your name. Touching your skin in a million different ways but never leaving a single dent. You let them sleep in your bed to one up Dean, but kick them out before he’s up. You wash their hands off in the morning, because your skin burns every single place they touched.
Dean notices. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he notices. His flow of women seems to pick up, but you can’t prove it.
You stop fucking yours at the apartment. You find beds all over the city, and stumble home in the morning with mess hair and your shoes in your hand. Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night-
She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.
“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”
“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow.
His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down.
“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”
You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”
“You walked-“
“Yeah. That’s what I said.”
Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat.
“Sorry, who are you?”
You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.
“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss.
“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”
“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”
You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole.
“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”
There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-
“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.”
The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctity you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes.
There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down.
You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns.
And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside.
When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all.
Not falling in a way he can see, at least. But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean. Not yours, not yours, not yours.
“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.
“What?”
“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”
You blink at him. Shake your head slowly. He cooked for you.
The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all.
“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.
“You sure?”
“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”
He stopped sleeping around.
And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning.
You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night.
It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week.
Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean-
He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed.
And he never does that. You know he never will. But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave.
“What’s your favorite animal?”
You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”
“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”
“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”
You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze.
“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”
You stare at him for a second. “Me?”
“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”
“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”
“On a favorite color?”
“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”
Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”
You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“
“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”
“I owe you-“
“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”
You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know.
“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.
“I hate cats.”
“What?” You sit up. “Why?”
He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”
“So?”
“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”
You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”
He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”
“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”
He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm.
“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”
“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.
“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”
“No.”
“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“
“Make a better one.”
He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles.
“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.
“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”
“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”
You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. He has no idea.
That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence.
“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.
“Reading and eating?”
He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”
“A… Book?”
That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”
“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”
Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”
Again. He’s not joking. So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation.
You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.
“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”
You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying.
A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. Right next to him on the couch.
And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch.
Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares.
You didn’t know he had nightmares. Apparently his mom’s family was kind of crazy, and his dad himself wasn’t much better. He enlisted in the marines to make his Dad proud. Got honorably discharged, after an accident that put him in a coma for a few weeks.
“You never told me that.” You murmur, staring at your shot glass. He sighs.
“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”
You swallow, looking up at him. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid.
Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized.
If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.
How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep.
But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”
He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction.
The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life.
“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back.
You mean it. Almost. There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know.
But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t.
So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world.
It hits you at the worst time. The realization. Dean’s not just the hot roommate you’re in love with anymore.
He’s your best friend.
It’s terrifying. It somehow makes everything better and worse all at the same time. He’ll be in your life for a long, long time. You can’t imagine a world without him anymore, and you think whatever gap he left when he took your heart, he’s filled up so well your body might just stop working if you ever lose him.
It solidifies what you already knew. You can never tell him, because it might make him walk away.
But one day he’s going to find someone else. They’re going to get married. Maybe have babies. They’re going to build a part of his life that you’re allowed to witness, but never be a part of. It’s going to kill you, but you quickly decide that you’ll let it if you must. You’d rather have him then loose him.
And at least this way, you can try to move on. And you really try to move on.
You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. “Alright.”
You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that.
“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”
Dean doesn’t smile. “Sure. Have fun.”
You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained.
“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”
It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing.
He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore.
You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went.
But only this night. Because the pattern repeats. You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment.
Far enough that he meets Dean. And that’s where it all falls apart.
Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices.
And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl.
“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.
“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”
You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up.
Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well.
“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”
“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”
“Really?”
“Mhm.”
Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name.
“Yeah?”
Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough.
“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”
“Why? We’re just-“
“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“
Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“
“He’s my friend-“
“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”
You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police.
He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”
You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again.
But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone.
He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb.
He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.
“You okay?”
You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here.
And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with.
All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light.
“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light.
You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”
“Anytime.”
There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile.
Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there.
You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. You’re not going to be able to move on.
“I need a favor.”
You look up from your cereal with a frown, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”
A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.
“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”
“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“
“Dean.”
He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.
“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”
“Fuck you.”
“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“
His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile.
“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“
“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”
You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.
You frown. “Dean, come on. The longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”
You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom.
“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”
Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard.
It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.
Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp.
He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up.
You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex.
You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say.
“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.
“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”
You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”
“I said never mind-“
“Dean Winchester.”
He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”
You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”
“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”
“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”
He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”
“You bought them.”
“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“
“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs.
“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.”
He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away.
“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”
You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place.
Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“
“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”
You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“
“I’m serious, I really need this-“
“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”
He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”
You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but-
All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.
“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“
“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.”
A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”
“Yeah. I talk about you.”
You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful.
“Aw, you love me-“
“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal.
“Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”
You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to back fire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive.
But he said please.
“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins.
You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing. It made Dean smile.
“I hate this.” He mutters. He hasn’t sat down since you got through security. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“
“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”
“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“
“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”
Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating.
It should. You’ve been practicing.
“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.
“Okay.”
He scowls. “I’m not.”
“I said okay.” You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat.
“I hate this.”
“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.
Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort.
But still not real. In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake.
“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts.
“We’re gonna die.”
“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”
He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night.
You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane.
It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door.
You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly.
“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.
“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”
“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“
He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.
“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand.
Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.
“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”
He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane.
You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay.
If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all.
He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious.
He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.
“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack.
You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart.
Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.
Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged.
“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but- Please.”
“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter.
And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods.
“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”
“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”
“I hope so.”
“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises. You don’t mind.
“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”
For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.
“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“
A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.
You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.
“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”
And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes.
“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. “He’s the best.”
It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.
“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin. “We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”
You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking.
And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch.
To seeing his family. To seeing his dad.
Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it.
But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.
You’re important to him too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to stand so close and ask you for such intimate favors.
Probably not close enough to trump his dad.
So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either.
“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”
“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all.
“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“
“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“
“Five minutes. Promise.”
And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone.
Bed. Single bed. Fuck.
Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”
You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either.
He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family.
He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.
“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward.
You think he drugged you that. That that single kiss did something to your mind and body, because suddenly you’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream.
Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh. You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy.
Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river.
Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.
But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place.
They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and-
“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”
You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.”
Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground.
“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar.”
“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary.
She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum.
And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too.
“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”
“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“
“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”
“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog.
This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face.
And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-
“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”
“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space-
Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.
“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”
“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”
“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”
Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”
“Sam-“
“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”
Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.
You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean.
But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift.
Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-
Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you.
But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.
“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”
“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“
“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”
The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped.
Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.
In your cover story, you don’t live together. But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti.
“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”
You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“
“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.
He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.
“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”
Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far.
“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”
You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out.
Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down.
“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“
“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”
“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“
You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.
“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect.
He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”
“Ah. The lowest bar.”
He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.
For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge.
“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”
“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.
“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”
You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless.
That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. It’s not the story Dean says.
“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”
You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago.
You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.
There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation.
But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it.
What if it hadn’t faded. Why does he remember.
Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it-
“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again.
You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”
“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.
“Dad, c’mon-“
“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”
“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“
“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow.
“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”
“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”
“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight.
This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.
But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. “You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“
“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding.
“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“
“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”
Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.
“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“
“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.
“Dad, don’t use us for this.”
John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“
“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”
The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter-
“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”
Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles.
“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”
John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this.
Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“
“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table.
You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams.
Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat.
It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-
“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow.
He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. Not real. So unfairly not real.
You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show.
He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again.
You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. It’s been a really long day.
You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.
You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back.
You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back.
But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real. i
“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“
“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”
He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“
“I know.”
“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“
“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”
Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”
“Dean-“
“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”
You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me.
“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”
That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”
“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”
“And you didn’t do anything about it?”
“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”
“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“
“I wouldn’t.”
“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.”
You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”
Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“
“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”
He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”
You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“
“And I said I’m gonna.”
“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”
He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.
“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”
“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“
“Yeah, you do.”
Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“
“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away.
You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips.
“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”
His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench.
He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire. Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face.
Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.
He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.
Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that-
There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks.
Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.
“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.”
“Dean-“
“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”
You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back.
Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh. Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask.
And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real.
Whatever it was, it was far, far too real.
The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s a ten minute to get through the brush fields and small wood to anything else.
You’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to go see it. That you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’d gotten away with it the first day, just lounging around the room and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out.
“You good?” He’d ask every hour or so, even just poking his head in without grabbing anything else.
“Mhm.” You’d mumble, tucked under the covers.
He’d frown. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“
“No, thank you.” You’d pull the blankets tighter, and he’d sigh. Stare at you for another moment.
Then Sam would call his name, and he’d shuffle away. Neither of you had spoken about last night. At rehearsal dinner, he’d started off touching you a little less than before, and you’d plastered a wide smile on your face, trying not to let it affect your show. Hands still held, but without fingers woven together. Elbows touching while you sat and ate, Dean offering you some of his whine and you adjusting his tie, but no casual stroking of his hair or secret laughter.
He’d given a sweet toast that made you smile at him stupidly. No matter how strange things were, you still adored him.
You’d glanced down the table and found John staring at you. Eyes narrowed, posture stiff. Dean must have talked to him. You’d looked back to your plate and bitten your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just looked like an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech.
He’d looked at you when he finished it. You’d smiled back, and something had flashed in his eyes. His hand had come up to touch your chin. Just like in bed.
You’d swallowed, and grabbed his wrist. The crowd has read it as romantic. You’d meant it as a silent, panicked plea for him not to play with you like this. But you don’t know how he read it. Dean had just sat down when he was done, wrapped his arm around your body, and kissed the side of your head.
It had been the first hole, punched in the dam. Now, in the morning, you can still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin.
You’d wiped some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then sucked it clean. He’d kept his arm around the back of your chair. You’d both drank, relaxing slowly. A few people came up to you. Spoke mostly to Dean, no matter how he tried to include you in the conversation. He’d started to get tense about halfway through the night.
You’d taken a risk. Placed your hand, right on his thigh, and rubbed gently. He’d jerked slightly, and you’d started to move away.
He’d stopped you. You’d looked at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he’d offered you the first real smile of the night. You’d smiled back, and that had been real too.
Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster.
Instead, you wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket. It smelled like him.
You’d shoved it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up.
The plan had been to waste the day the same way as before. Dean runs around doing wedding things. You sit here and fester in your own guilt, indulging in your secret world where all of this was real. You tried to tell Dean that was your plan, when he got up.
He’d made the executive decision that it wasn’t. That town wasn’t that far, and if he had to go out with Jess and Sam, you did too.
“But they know, we don’t have to sell it-“
“Yeah, but I want you to come. Just to hang out.”
“I want to stay in bed-“
“C’mon.” He’d said your name, giving you a winning smile. “We’re still friends, right? Friends hang out, and support other friends when they gotta go shopping with their brothers.”
You’d narrowed your eyes. “Friends do each other favors, like fake dating for a wedding.”
Dean had sighed. Winced, like you’d actually hit him, then retreated with a muttered agreement. And you had been right. You’d almost gotten away with staying in bed, and Dean wasn’t going to push you.
But he’d looked so sad. And he wanted you there. All you ever want is to be wanted by Dean.
You’d gotten changed, shoved on your shoes, and stomped out into the room with a scowl. Dean had said your name in surprise, and you’d grabbed the keys out of his hand.
“I wanna drive.”
His face had split into a wide, open grin. “Yes, ma’am.”
It’s a ten-minute drive into town, and you really have to learn how to resist Dean’s puppy eyes. You feel out of place again, trailing after them and smoothing your clothes whenever they stop to talk about something. You’re staring at the pavement, out of place in their lives, counting the cracks and trying to find an excuse to stay home-
Dean links his arm through yours. Doesn’t even look down, just holds you at his side and drags you into the conversation.
You smile to yourself. Let yourself lean into his side, and decide it’s for the small amount of guests you’ve seen milling around the town as well. Not because, just for now, you’re allowed to have him and you don’t want to waste a single second by letting go.
“Do you like flowers?” Jess asks, leaning down to look at some pots on the street.
You shrug. “I mean, I guess.”
“You guess?” She rises back up. “Well, what does your boyfriend get you.”
Next to you, Dean tenses. You glance up, and he’s still deeply engrossed in a conversation about horses or something with Sam. You shake it off, and turn back to Jess.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug, fixing your gaze on a bee buzzing near the pots.
“Really?” Sam says suddenly, and you blink. “I thought Dean told me you were seeing this guy named- Uh- Steve? Right?”
He looks to Dean for confirmation. Dean looks at him like he’s plotting a murder.
“It was Shawn.” You offer, placing a light hand on Dean’s bicep. “And we broke up a while ago.”
“Oh.” Jess exchanges a look with Sam. “Well, what did he get you?”
“Um- He didn’t, really. He wasn’t- It didn’t mean that much.”
Jess frowns. “That much.”
“Yeah. You know. Flower much. But-“ You glance back over to Dean, who’s started glaring at the sidewalk. “I have some flowers that Dean grabbed for our place. Those are nice, I just- Dean, what are they called-“
“Hyacinths.” He grunts, hand flexing on the table, and squeeze his arm.
“Okay. I like those.”
His eyes flick up to yours, nostrils flaring, and he wipes his mouth with a tight, controlled movement. You offer him a smile—he’s so tense you’re worried he’s going to have an aneurism, even if you don’t understand why—and his lips twitch.
Jess clears her throat. “How long were you and Shawn together?”
“Like, three months?”
“Oh. Hm.” She shoots a look at Sam. “I just thought- Never mind. Why’d you break up?”
You stare at her, your brain suddenly fogged and moving too fast all at once. A demand to know why she’d think you and Shawn were together for a while—it had barely been a month—almost spills out like vomit, but it’s blocked by the lump rising up in your throat. The thick, tense reminder that Shawn called it off the same reason they all do. The same reason you never get to flowers.
It’s Dean. It’s always Dean. Still rigid and silent next to you, but also still holding you right against his side. Your fingers have started mindlessly tracing his bicep, the sunlight moving around him and narrowing the whole world down again, and Jess asked you a question, but- You can’t answer it in front of Dean.
You could just lie. The halo forming around Dean is hypnotizing. You can’t stop staring at him, and can’t remember how to lie.
He’s looking back at you now, brow furrowed, and you’ve been silent for way too long. But his eyes are shining, and you don’t know why he’s this close, but you really don’t want him to move away, and this is another thing that’s too real. Dean’s looking at you like he’s trying to work out the answer, but it’s written all over your pathetic face for him to see, and the heat from his body is going to melt you into something sweet for him to either devour or kick into the gutter-
Sam coughs. Neither of you look away.
“So, uh- While we’re talking about exes, and everyone’s in a good mood.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Lana’s coming. To the wedding.”
Dean’s eyes shoot away from yours, wide and burning, his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s really angry. His grip on you tightens, and it somehow douses you in ice-water as the moment is broken, all while rekindling a different, tighter heat. He’s holding onto you, so, so tight. Reaching around to grab your further arm as he glares at Sam, and you’re really not sure what’s happening, but it takes a titanic effort not to give into the hazy fever of his proximity, and drop your brow on his chest.
“Sam.” Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “What the hell-“
“It was Dad!” Sam protests, and you glance back to see him retreating fast. Literally hiding behind Jess with his hands raised in surrender.
“Dad? You’re willing to push him, Sammy, we both know you got no problem with that, but Lana is where you cave like- Like a fuckin’ pussy-“
“He’s still friends with her dad, Dean.” Sam whines, and Dean’s lips curl like he tasted something sour.
“And you’re carin’ about that over me?”
Sam winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Jess sighs.
“Sam did try to push, but your dad was really aggressive about it.” She offers. “You know how he is, and we did what we could. She’s in the back of the room. You won’t even see her.”
Dean glares between them, still holding you tight, then gives the tiniest shake of his head.
“Whatever. C’mon.” He squeezes your arm tightly, still glaring at Sam. “They got Italian ice cream down the block.”
You blink at him, stumbling slightly as he starts to pull you down the street. “You- You mean gelato?”
“Yeah.” He steadies you, not breaking pace. “That.”
Sam calls after you, and Dean flips him off over your head, never releasing your grip. You shoot Sam an apologetic look, but don’t fight Dean as he half-carries you away.
You end up sitting in the small parlor, Dean beating up his gelato with a spoon while you open and close your mouth, trying to think of an acceptable way to ask what the fuck that was about. His knee is pressed firmly against yours, his attention flicking up every few seconds before dropping back down with a deeper scowl. Something starts to wither in your chest the longer the silence goes on. You look down to your own gelato with your lips pressed tight, trying to swallow down that painful lump and breathe through your nose until your head clears.
The world is blurring a little bit. There’s dusty light swirling around the parlor, and it makes Dean look like an angry polaroid photo, and you feel a little sick as pointless tears prick at your eyes-
“Lana’s my ex.” He grunts suddenly. “Wasn’t even that serious, but still ended like shit. Used to be that every time I dropped home, we’d hook up.”
The lump grows. “Oh.”
Dean’s silent for another moment, and you can feel something worse than the silence burning under your skin. It’s seeping in, toxic and hot, rushing through your blood to your head, an ugly feeling twisting in your chest, and-
“Stopped doin’ that last year.” His voice is a little stronger. He looks up at you with that strange expression you can’t read. “When I headed back in August. Remember, I called you to tell you about running into my math teacher at the bar?”
“Yeah.” You smile despite yourself. “You were wasted, you spent fifteen minutes telling me about your crush on her. And your teacher kink-“
“Hey, hey-“ He kicks you lightly under the table, the light creeping back into his eyes. “That was a secret, sweetheart, don’t shout it for everyone to hear-“
“You never told me it was a secret.”
“It’s a fuckin’ kink, smart ass. I don’t run around shouting about all of yours-“
“You don’t know mine.” You shrug, and that was the wrong this to say.
Dean’s eyes glimmer, something dark crossing over his face that you’d been trapped under that first night on the bed. There, it might’ve been a trick of the night. A little too much drink and stress from dinner, real but in the same was of smoke and mirrors.
Here, it’s inescapably real. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.
“You think that.” He drawls, leaning over the table. “Don’t you.”
“Um-“ Your voice is getting weirdly high. “Yes?” That was weak.“Yes. I do.”
“Hm.”
You frown. “Hm?”
Dean shrugs. Smirks at you, as he takes a large bite of his gelato. “Hm.”
“You- You don’t-“
“Don’t I?” He teases, and your mouth falls open.
“No. You- I’ve never told you any-“
“Words aren’t everything, baby.” Dean pokes your gelato cup with his spoon. “Eat up, we gotta get back to Sammy and Jess before they start manhunting us.”
You blink at him, he smiles back—wide and charming and doing nothing to help the haze in your head—and you start to eat your gelato slowly. Dean waits for you to have one bite, then two, and smirks. Presses his knee further against yours, dropping his voice to something low and dangerous and hot.
“Good girl.”
The spoon slips out of your hand. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, panicked shame wrapping around your heart, but Dean’s smirk just widens. He keeps eating his gelato, an almost innocent expression on his face, and you might’ve imagined it. Maybe your fantasies and the strange, blurred lines of this week are getting to your head. Maybe it’s the heat, and you’ve started to hallucinate.
But you’re sure that it was real.
And there’s no faking Dean’s arm wrapping around your low back when you leave the shop. His hand splayed on your hip, his posture relaxed and grin wide again. When you find Sam and Jess again and Dean doesn’t try to throttle anyone, they give you looks like you drugged him. You just grimace and smile weakly, because you don’t know what happened either. He was mad and sullen, then you were jealous, and now you’re… Here.
Drinking in a bar, Dean’s smile wide on his face, his body around yours as he fails to teach you how to play pool for the millionth time. His lips brushing over your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver up your spine that he seems far too smug about. He squeezes your hip too close to your ass, when you draw the cue back. It makes you grind back into him like some wanton whore, and he makes a deep sound from his chest, and you feel like you’re going insane.
You’re a little tipsy—everyone started drinking the moment you got to the bar—but this is real. All of it is real. Whatever had been bothering Dean about Lana is gone, and he seemed to have taken your own worry with it.
She was the kind of thing that should’ve freaked you out. That would’ve freaked you out, if he told you back home. It would’ve sent you out to the club a year ago, would’ve locked you in your room to cry last week.
But Dean’s gaze isn’t wandering from you for more than a moment, and all you can think about is his smug expression from earlier. How it hasn’t wavered all afternoon, how he’s teasing you the same as always, but slowly crossing boundaries that have always been open to him.
He kissed the side of your head, when you sunk a ball at the table. Let you go back to the bar with the single victory, but squeezed your hand before you walked away. He’s still looking for you through the crowd, every few moments. He smiles when he sees you, and you don’t know what’s happening.
“He talks about you.”
You blink over at Sam, who’d been silently sitting next to you for a while. “What?”
“Dean.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He talks about you.”
“We… Live together.”
“Yeah. You do.” Sam watches you strangely in the shadows of the bar. “He didn’t talk about Charlie, though. I mean, he’d tell me stories about stuff they did. But he didn’t talk about her.”
You frown. “That’s the same thing-“
“No. Not for Dean.”
“No, like, semantically, it’s the same thing-“
“No.” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.”
“Sam-“
“It’s- Look. When he and Lana were dating, I never heard about her. He’d say he was going out, say he had a date, tell me that she didn’t like things or wanted Dean to do something. Can I tell you the first thing he said to me about you?”
You nod weakly, and Sam sighs. Smiles slightly, like he’s fond of the memory.
“He said she likes my waffles. I did them with the strawberries. Think I’m gonna try banana next.”
“I- That’s-“ You frown at him. “Why do you remember that?”
Sam takes another long drink of his beer, making a face like he’s thinking far too hard about what should be a simple question.
“Ask Dean what the first thing I said about Jess was.” He says finally, something shining in his eyes. “He remembers that.”
Dean’s supposed to stay with Sam tonight. Something about keeping him on lockdown, the night before the wedding.
The room feels bigger without him. Even if he would’ve only slept on the floor, the bed is colder. You pace for an hour, still lost in the events of the day, still turning Sam’s words over in your head.
You hadn’t asked Dean. There hadn’t been a good time. You’d gotten back to the hotel, and he’d gone with Sam. Kissed your forehead, then gone with Sam. And that might’ve been for the show of it. There had been a few cousins and family friends in the lobby. It had barely been a graze of his lips over your hairline.
But his hand had also squeezed your hip. And he’d smiled at you so softly after, and Sam’s claim was still ringing in your head. He talks about you.
Dean talks about everything. Sam said that like it meant something, but Dean literally never stops talking. It doesn’t mean anything.
None of this is supposed to mean anything. Not to him. It means everything to you, but you’re in love with him. You’ve spent hours turning him over in your head, fantasying about the way he’d feel and taste, about a world where you just get to hold his hand, and life where you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder and he smiles at you like you’re sharing a secret. Where he doesn’t even think about other girls, because he’s too busy with you, the same way you’ve never been able to really think about another man.
A life like this week. But it’s not real. It still feels real. And that’s nothing, but it’s everything, and you’re so confused.
You have the room to yourself. Your legs get tired from pacing, so you take a hot shower. You pull on one of Dean’s shirts and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to make sense of anything in your own head. Most of your usual daydreams are blurring with reality, and it’s almost all to jumbled to lead anywhere but more confusion.
Almost. One thing is burning through the rest.
The heat. Dean’s voice drawling good girl like he knows. His hand on your hip, your lower back, your stomach. His crotch pressing against your ass, his weight around your shoulders, pinning you to his body. His lips brushing over your skin, teasing and so hot.
Your core aches, and you realize your body has started to move of its own accord. You’re grinding into the sheets, one hand under your shirt to palm at your breasts. You pinch your nipple and a soft moan leaves your mouth, your fingers slipping between your thighs. Your underwear is soaked. Your body shudders, when you press your clit, and a soft moan escapes your lips.
“De- Dean…”
The sheets still smell like him. You roll over, pressing your face into the mattress, and start to hump into your hand like an animal in heat. It’s so easy to pretend that it’s his big, rough fingers slipping into your pussy. How they’d fill you up, scissor you open as he pressed behind you like at the pool table. The pad of his calloused thumb swiping your clit back and forth, his deep voice right in your ear as he’d kiss up your spine.
“Good girl, baby, so fuckin’ pretty, takin’ my fingers so good, gonna be nice and ready for my cock-“
You moan again. Louder this time, barely muffled in the pillow. Your ass rises higher into the air as you try to get a better angle, the sheets sliding off your body, and you’re so close-
There’s a soft knock on the door, and you freeze. Flip onto your back, sitting up in a second, brushing your hair from your eyes as you take short, breaths.
“Ye- Yeah?” Your voice wavers, your thighs still rubbing under the sheets.
Dean calls your name from the other side of the door. His voice is so strangely soft. Almost nervous, and it clears your head fairly fast. You push to your feet, mind narrowing down to only Dean, and making sure that he’s okay.
You open the door, and find him slouching in the hallway. His head is bowed, expression open and vulnerable, eyes drooping. The low light of the hotel makes the shadows on his face seem longer, the red on his face clearer.
“Dean?” You whisper, your hands itching to reach out and touch him. Just trace his face, make sure everything is in the place it’s supposed to be. “Are you okay?”
He’s silent for a moment. His gaze slowly drags up your body, the red of his face deepening, and you forgot to put on pants. You swallow, wrapping an arm around your stomach, but still smile softly when his eyes meet yours. His throat bobs, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shakes his head.
“Yeah, uh-“ He shakes his head. “Yeah. Just-“ His throat bobs, and he takes a step back. “Never mind. I’m gonna- Sorry-“
“Wait, Dean-“ You grab his hand, and he freezes.
Stares at you like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling too fast.
You drop his hand. “Do you wanna… Come inside.”
He’s silent for another moment, then gives the tiniest nod. You step to the side, and he stares at you. Looks into the room, face twitching strangely, then back to you.
“If you- You’re busy-“
“I’m not.” You say quickly. “And- It’s your room too. You don’t have to knock.”
It’s a good thing he did knock. But right now, your own at wearing his shirt and nothing else save for soaked panties doesn’t outdo your worry for how fucking tired he look. And those words make him smile tightly, makes something relax in his shoulders, so you’d call it more than worth it.
He shuffles over to the bed, but just stands at the edge of the mattress. You grab his hand, and gently guide him to sit down. He doesn’t resist you. Almost molds over you, the moment you have him down. Leaning against you, his head carefully angled away from your body, and you’re so worried.
You slowly pull him closer. He lets you. Watches you in the dark with that same, vulnerable expression. His body curls over your lap, his legs tangled in your own. His arms wrap around your stomach when you guide them there. His head rests on your chest, between your breasts. He lets out a ragged breath. You brush your fingers through his hair, and his body shakes.
“Nightmare?” You whisper, and he nods.
He doesn’t seem to be willing to move from your body, not even enough to speak. You sigh, and rub his spine.
“Okay.”
You lean down, and kiss the top of his head. Dean makes a low, sad sound like a wounded animal, and holds you tighter.
Time passes slowly, or quickly, but it doesn’t really matter because nothing matters more than Dean in your arms. It could have been five minutes or three hours, and it all feels the same. You keep touching him gently, and his body slowly relaxes. His breathing evens out. You’d think he was sleeping, if he didn’t shift every few moments with a heavy sigh.
When he rasps your name, you only hum. You don’t want to risk breaking the moment, or spooking him away.
“You ever dream?”
You pause. “Dream? Like- Instead of-“
“No, not like-“ He sighs, hand splaying on your back. His face presses further into your body, words vibrating pleasantly over your skin. “Like- The future. Ever think about the future.”
“Oh.” More than he can imagine. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. I, um- Yeah.”
Dean’s silent for a moment. “Like what?”
“I don’t know.“ You laugh nervously, tipping your head back against the headboard. “A lot of things, I guess. What does anyone think about, with that? What do you think about?”
“Family.” He answers so fast, it makes you look right back down.
He’s staring at you in the dark. Eyes lined with red, drooping but fixed on your surprised expression.
“Family?” You echo, and he nods. You swallow. “Like what?”
Dean’s mouth twitches. “You know. What it’ll look like for me. Who it’ll be. That kinda shit.”
“And-“ You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to hold back the words. “What does it look like?”
“Hm.” He sighs, thumb drawing small circles on your back. “You really wanna know?”
You nod, a little too frantic, and a smile ghosts over his face.
“I like my job. Pays better than it should-“
“You work hard-“
“I make money for a hobby.” He corrects, and you frown.
“It’s not a crime to like your job. I like my job.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, but you should make more than I do, but- if you like it.” He sighs. “Guess it’s good I make so much. Keeps us afloat. Makes it all easier.”
You blink. “I- I guess-“
“And I got better insurance. Better in the long run. Plus, it’s gonna save a lot on certain costs, like when the kids need their own cars.”
“The- The kids?” You whisper, and Dean nods. Yawns, and turns his face back into your stomach.
“I’d like five.” He mutters. “But I’ll go down to three. Four, if I can pull it off.”
Your mouth falls open. “Four kids-“
“They’re gonna look like their mom.” He mumbles, and you carefully try to move his face. Try to get a good look at him, to work out if he’s fucking with you.
But when he turns, he’s just staring at you strangely under long, pretty lashes, his eyes slightly glazed. Tired, still clearly a little drunk, face more open than you’ve ever seen it.
And that expression. It’s almost reverent.
“We’ll need a bigger house.” He mumbles, and you swallow.
“We don’t own a house, De.”
“Yeah. Shit.” He yawns, mouth pulling into a smile. “I’ll work on that.”
“Work on… A house?”
“Mhm. I’ll make sure we got a backyard. And- Big room. Big bed. Lotta space.”
“Do you want space?” You whisper, and he hums.
“Nah, but in case you get sick of me.”
“I- don’t. Ever.”
He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining on yours. “Yeah?” He finally rasps, and you nod.
“Never. I- I don’t think I could.”
He smiles again. Wide and affectionate and real. “Awesome.”
“Dean…” Your heart is beating in your throat. “Can- Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything.” He mutters, and it’s so sincere it almost splits you in half.
“What was the first thing Sam told you about Jess?”
He chuckles, then yawns, turning his face back into your stomach without an answer. “Weird question.”
“I- I know, just- Can you answer it. Please?”
Dean nods, but still doesn’t speak. His hands are wandering over your body, slowing down to a drag, his breathing growing deeper.
“Dean-“
“She called me sweet.” Dean murmurs. “Said she liked the book I was readin’, then called me sweet.”
“Oh- Okay.” You blink, tearing burning behind your eyes. “And- Why do you remember that?”
“‘Cause.”
“Cause why-“
“Sammy’s my baby brother. I know ‘im.”
“I know, but-“
“Never heard him in love before.” Dean mumbles, and your breath catches. “Was nice. Gonna remember it.”
You can’t think. Can’t speak. Can barely breathe.
In love. Dean’s first snore rips through the air, and he’s out in your arms. You take a shaky breath, and press your head back, lips pursed tight.
In love. The words ring in your ears, until you fall asleep. In love.
The day moves too fast. You’re starting to get trapped in your own head.
Dean’s up before you are. Wiping his eyes and groaning as he comes out of the bathroom, running a hand through damp hair and giving you a sheepish grin as you blink at him.
“Gotta go get Sammy ready.” He says. “You can go back to bed, you got time.”
You nod slowly, scanning over his face to try and test if he remembers anything at all. If it meant anything at all.
He’s out the door before you find the words to ask. You’re left sitting alone, the sheets tangled around your body, wide awake as the days start to play back in your head. A broken record you’re trapped in. A world you’re not even sure is real, because it’s far too close to everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’d been so certain you’d never get to have.
Dean spoke about the future like it was for you. He touched you like he was for you. Smiled at you and kissed you and it can’t have all been for the show—there wasn’t even an audience to perform for—but it being for you feels far too good to be true.
He said keep up afloat. He said he wanted kids, said the kids like they’d be yours too, said he’d get to work on a house, and in love, and this was such a bad idea. You should’ve told him no, when he asked. Shouldn’t have given into your instinct to please him, should’ve held your ground for the sake of your sanity, let him come here alone so you could wallow in bed about a future you’d never to have-
A future he might want. With you. There had been no one for him to say that for, but you. In love.
And if you’d let him come alone, he’d be alone with the ex that he has sex with. Stopped having sex with. Seemed to stop thinking about all together, when he started teasing you.
You take a shower, hoping the water will wash away the spinning in your head. It doesn’t. You just end up smelling Dean’s shampoo and thinking about him in this same shower a few hours ago. How the water might’ve ran down his bare chest. How he might’ve smelled your shampoo, how his broad frame would take up so much of the space, how he’d crowd you if you shared the water.
How he’d hold your hips like yesterday. Hold you against his chest. Brush his mouth over your neck, and whisper low praise as you writhed on his hand. Good girl.
He said that. Actually said that. It wasn’t just another fantasy your mind conjured up, those were words that left Dean’s mouth.
You stare at yourself in the mirror for half an hour, before the reminder alarm goes off on your phone, and you actually have to get ready.
He picks you up in his suit. His eyes gleam as they take you in, and you flush under the attention. You don’t even remember getting ready, but suddenly you’re here and Dean’s smirking at you like you’re a something lewd.
“You look awesome.” He says with a wide grin, and you swallow.
“You- You too.” You whisper, because he really does. He always does, but right now it’s like the world is finally just tunneling down to Dean, and he’s the last fixed point that keeps the world from slipping out from under your feet.
He fills out the suit in a way that makes your mouth water. His tie is a little crooked, and he grins down at you when your fingers shakily adjust it.
You blink up at him. “Hi.”
“Hi.” His tone is a little mocking, but not mean. Just bright and clear and comfortable. The rest of the world is just shadows, compared. “Ready?”
You nod weakly, and Dean folds his fingers through yours. Swoops down and kisses your cheek, before herding you out of the room. To the wedding.
And you might be blacking out. All you’re certain of are moments where Dean’s hand is in yours. He kisses the back of it, then lets go to stand with Sam at the alter. You’re sure the wedding is lovely, but you can’t remember a single detail but Dean’s eyes, burning into yours as Sam and Jess say vows. Your heart thunders in your ears and drowns them out. All the sunlight seems to bend into Dean, until the world is truly only you and him, staring at each other through the whole ceremony.
It’s too easy to think about what it would be like if he was right across from you. If the small smile on his lips was because it was your wedding. The one you’ve dreamed about in your head, so many times. The one that drags you away from the moment, until people are cheering and Dean looks away, and suddenly you’re at the wedding party.
Dean’s holding your hand again. You don’t look anywhere but him, as he leads you around through the crowd. He’s introducing you to people. You can’t hear yourself when you speak, can’t really focus on anything but his presence at your side.
You dance together. Dean holds you like you are his, but you’re not. You are in the eyes of the crowd, but it’s just a lie, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, and it’s somehow more confusing and clarifying than anything else.
He tells you that you’re beautiful like a secret he wants to keep to himself. You smile. The cool lights of the party are moving around him, making him look like one of your countless dreams, and you just drop your face into his neck. He sighs, and keeps guiding you through the dance. You’ve had this dream.
It’s not a dream. Dean smiles at you, his nose bumping yours but without a single kiss, and it’s so real. How he holds you. Looks at you. Makes a soft joke that you giggle at, even if you feel like you’re getting high and crashing down all at once.
In love. That strange look. He looks at you like he’s in love, and the world is crumbling around you.
Mary corners you after the speeches and dinner. You smile at her sweetly. Hold Dean’s hand so tight it hurts, and he pulls you close. Rubs your back, as he talks to his mother about work.
“Did you get any ideas?” She asks you. “For your turn? I mean, I love the winter wedding in a sunny place, but Dean- I’ve always pictured him getting married in the fall.” She laughs to herself. “Probably because that’s what John and I did. And he gets my mother’s ring, which goes with fall the most. But it’s up to you, honey, right? Are you thinking of the fall?”
You’re not. You’ve always pictured the spring. But you can’t speak. Not even on auto pilot. Not about wedding, to Dean, like it’s real and not something you’ve sworn to keep confined to your head and the walls of your bedroom, and-
“Jesus, Mom.” Dean cuts in for you, and you blink at him with a desperate expression. “Let me propose first, you’re gonna spook her.”
Mary laughs, and says something about you not seeming like they type to spook easy. You stare at Dean.
He looks back, worry furrowing in his brow at your slack expression.
“You good?” He murmurs as John wanders over, saying something to Mary your brain doesn’t care to process.
You nod weakly, and his frown deepens.
“You wanna go for a walk?
You shake your head, and he looks really worried now.
“Sweetheart-“
“Hey, Dean?” Sam appears from nowhere, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and giving you a small grin.
You don’t smile back. You just stare at Dean, who seems to be trying to stare back, but keeps getting distracted by Sam. He’s dragged away to talk about something allegedly important, and tries to take you with him, but Mary grabs your shoulder and says something about bonding.
You black out again, the moment Dean’s arm leaves your body. You might tell her about your idea of the future with Dean. The one you’ve sworn not to tell anyone, but pours out of you with every question, because your skin feels like it’s about to fly off your body. Your every nerve is wired and buzzing and raw. You’re running on a thin, fraying line of electric, and if you’re touched, you spark.
Maybe you tell Mary you love Dean. You don’t know.
Then, suddenly, you’re alone in the middle of the room and everything is dark. You’re swaying on your feet. Lost at sea, the only lighthouse the same siren that lured you here, and now you’re confused and sweating and alone-
Someone says your name, in a voice you don’t recognize. It’s cold, and mocking, and when you turn it’s like you’re in a waking nightmare.
You’ve never met this woman before, but she’s all too familiar. You’ve seen her, a million times before. Inverted in the mirror, glowing with a confidence you’ve never been able to find. Smiling not softly, but like a beautiful monster that knows it’s got its claws in something. Put together like she rolled out of bed like this, her every feature swallowing and casting the shadows.
She’s every girl you heard Dean fuck through the walls, every girl you pretended not to care about, everything you’ve craved to be while never being able to figure out how.
She doesn’t need to introduce herself. You already know who she is.
“Lana.” You say, your voice faraway. She smiles.
“He’s told you about me.” She holds out her hand, and you can see yours moving to shake it. Your skin burns at her soft touch.
“Sam did.”
“Hm. Sam.” There’s something cold in her voice. “He’s always so annoying, isn’t he. Has he told you’re not good enough yet? This family, I swear-“
“No.” You breathe out. “Sam’s been nice.”
Something venomous flashes across Lana’s beautiful face. “Hm.”
You smile at her, but it makes your face hurt. You shouldn’t have worn heels. It would’ve been easier to run.
Lana’s still holding your hand tight in hers. When she lets go of it, she wipes her hand on her elegant dress. Like she knows the foul, selfish things that go out in your head, and they’re leaking all over her perfect skin.
“So you’re the new toy?” She looks you up and down, lip curling. “Dean’s lowered his standards. Or maybe he just… hit his head. Would explain why he turned me down last time.” She sniffs. “For you.”
You blink at her. His name cleared your head a little. Those last words make everything sharp.
“He what?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. This sweet little bunny routine doesn’t work on me. He might think he’s loyal right now, but he always thinks that. Then he gets sick of it, and comes back to me. It’s just taking a little longer this time.”
“He-“ You take a deep breath. Loyal. For you. In love. “Lana-“
She smirks. “Aw. You say it like Dean does.”
Your eyes narrow. This is something that would’ve folded you in a second, just a few days ago. Before all the touches and whispers and slowly stripped away veil. The light that might still be warping the world, but at least isn’t blinding you anymore.
It’s helping you see. He turned her down last time. Months ago. For you.
“What exactly.” You take a large step forward. “Did Dean say to you about me?”
Her nose twitches. She raises her chin. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me-“
“If it doesn’t matter.” You counter smoothly. “You should have no problem telling me.” She recoils, and you raise your voice. “Did he turn you down for me, last time?”
Lana scoffs. “Like you don’t know. But you were worse than I was, just stringing him along. At least I love him-“
“I didn’t even know who you were.”
She blinks like you slapped her, and you take a step forward. Things are falling into place too fast, a perfect storm that’s going to sweep you away in a moment. But right now, the sky is clear. Your head is quiet.
And you have no doubt about which parts are real, as you hold Lana’s gaze.
“He’d never told you about me, until this weekend.” You say softly. “And I do love him. I love him, and I like him, and- He won’t get sick of me. But he seems a little sick of you.”
Lana’s eyes narrow. Her tongue flicks over her lips, and you hold her gaze. But her lips twitch up. Cruel and hateful. Her voice cold.
“It’s so sweet that you think that.” She coos. “But girl to girl, I should tell you I was trying to warn you. About how he thinks he’s loyal.” She takes a step forward, voice dropping to a hushed taunt. “But he was in my room last night.”
You blink at her, the words ringing in your ears, and it’s like she pulled on a single thread. It unravels fast, the whole world going with it. Months and months of doubt, of fear, of the reality you’d taught yourself to pick apart and dissect, suddenly merged with your fantasy, unspooled into your greatest fear.
You take a step back, eyes wide, and Lana’s smirk grows. Dean isn’t there to ground you, as the world slips from under your feet. And you-
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. You can’t be here anymore.
The pillows still smell like Dean. It clears your head, after a few hours of crying into them.
You hadn’t had enough strength to just run. You’d stumbled out of the wedding and back to your room, mostly just trying to get away from the flashing light, noise, and sound of Lana’s voice. Your intention had been to leave. To pack your bags, text Dean that you needed to go home, and leave. Instead you’d found your clothing mixed with Dean’s and your knees had started to feel weak. You’d collapsed on the bed with shallow breaths and tears streaming down your face.
It had smelled like Dean. So you’d ripped the dress off your body, buried yourself under the covers, and sobbed.
It helped. It usually does. Dean couldn’t have gone to Lana last night, because he was with you. He wouldn’t have go to her first after a nightmare, especially because he’s told you that you’re one of the only people that knows he had them. It’s you, Sam, and his mom.
And you trust him. You really do. He wouldn’t do that. Not after being so disgusted just by Lana’s name. She’d just wanted to hurt you. Something you understand. You’d like to hurt the other girl’s you’ve seen with Dean too.
But now you’re the girl. The one he danced with, and brought to his brother’s wedding. Who he crawled to in the dead of night, and ran out the moment she got scared.
You mostly just feel stupid, now. You’d felt stupid for trusting him, then not trusting him, then stupid for hiding and stupid for being so confused over something so dramatic, stupid for caring, stupid for crying, stupid for being unable to do anything but cling to him all night, and stupid for hugging his pillow to your chest like some lovesick teenager.
And stupid for falling back into old patterns. Because you have this habit, when you’re upset. It’s another part of that secret world in your head.
You think of Dean. Imagine him comforting you the same way he’s done before, but in bed instead of the living room. His arms around you, voice deep and soothing in your ear, hands tracing your body in a gentle remind that he’s here. He’d brush his lips over yours, before kissing the space between your eyes. Mutter that everything was going to be okay, then kiss your cheek.
Hold himself gently over you, blocking you from the pain of the world, and smile gently. Say something stupid to make you laugh, and get those crinkles by his eyes when you try to hide your face.
And you’re going to be ashamed of this later, but not now. Now, you let your thoughts run wild, alone in bed. Let them carry you where they always do, when you think of Dean.
His lips on yours. The heat of him pressing down, the low grunts that would leave his chest, how his muscles would flex and hips would roll when you dragged your nails over his chest. Working yourself up fast, whining his name as he knee pressed between your thighs.
The heat is starting to build. You whine his name into the dark, and he’d chuckle to himself.
“So needy already.” He’d whisper in your ear. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby. I’ll make you forget all about those pretty tears.”
You bite your lip, and let your hand wander between your legs. Your hand fists the sheet, a soft breath escaping your lips as your fingers start to tease your folds.
“Such a dirty girl. Thinking of me touching her, still fuckin’ crying about. You can be a real brat sometimes,” he’d kiss your cheek, a smirk in his voice. “Get real dumb, for how smart you are. You think I’d ever want anything else? When I got this perfect fuckin’ pussy-“ He’d pinch your clit, and you’d squeak. “Soaked and ready for me whenever I want it?”
“Yes.” You whimper. “Ready, Dean- So ready-“
“Hm.” The Dean in your head drags his thumb down, pressing it over your slick entrance. “Look at you, crying for me everywhere. Jesus, you’re really this desperate for it, huh? Need my cock so bad I could bend you over at a damn bar and you’d beg me to take you.”
You nod at the air, trying to cover your mouth with your free hand as you start to fuck yourself with your fingers. It’s so so easy to imagine they’re Dean’s.
He’d press them into you fast and rough, unforgiving and brutal, all while teasing his thumb around your clit. Keep your mouths attached until your eyes were rolling back, lightheaded from the pleasure and lack of oxygen. He’d whisper filthy things, call you his slut and his perfect girl in the same breath, watch as you came undone below him from barely anything at all. His hand flying back and forth over your pussy as he dragged your orgasm out, your mouth falling over in a cry of his name-
Dean says your name. Not the Dean in your head. The real Dean.
You shoot upright, your face burning, and he’s standing in the shadows near the door. His face is red, your head still spinning from your orgasm—the thrill and embarrassment of being caught only making your stupid, traitorous body more aroused and needy—but you have enough of a mind to know you should’ve ran. Should run right now. Should jump out the fucking window, because he caught you.
It was all supposed to be a secret. Something you died with, a love that burned inside of you until it made flowers bloom over your grave. He was never supposed to know, but this another thing that’s real. Too real. Dean really caught you calling his name as you came. You’re really still shaking with desire like a feral animal.
Dean gapes at you, his eyes raking over your body. It’s mostly hidden under the sheets, save for your tits.
His eyes linger there, on your hardened nipples and swollen breasts. He takes a ragged breath, his tongue flicking over his lips. You pull the sheets higher, and his eyes snap to yours.
“Dean-“
“I thought you- I was worried. Just lookin’ for you, and you- You were shoutin’ for me. Through the door.”
“I- Oh.”
His throat bobs, voice dropping lower. “Thought you needed me.”
You blink at him, and maybe it’s the aftermath of the orgasm, but your every nerve feels like it’s lit up. Like he’s touching you, without a single hand. You open your mouth. Close it. Dean’s eyes flash.
“Do you?” He prompts softly. “Need me?”
You stare at him. Your back is completely bare, and the cold air pricks at your sweaty skin. Just uncomfortable enough for this not to be another fantasy. It’s not in your head.
Dean takes a slow step forward, his hands fisted at his side, and it’s not in your head. He’s here.
There’s a bulge in his dress pants, straining through the fabric. That’s not in your head either.
“Do you need me, sweetheart.” He almost growls. “‘Cause I need you.”
Your mouth falls open. Your legs spread under the sheets, like his voice alone pulled them apart. You nod, and Dean’s eyes flash.
“You-“
“Yes.” You breathe, rising up a little on your knees. Trying to get closer, but not daring to move and ruin this. “Please.”
He swallows. Takes one step forward, than another, then-
Dean yanks his jacket off, and almost runs to the bed. Grabs your face between his hands and dragging you up into a long, rough kiss.
A kiss. Not lips casually or teasingly on your skin. A real, deep kiss.
Sloppy and open-mouthed, as he angles himself over you. His hands fisting in your hair, body towering over yours, consuming your every sense. He tastes like champagne and cherries from dessert, feels warm and strong over you, smells like the spicy, warm cologne he saves for these special occasions. His tongue presses over yours, and you rise up to try and meet him a little closer. He groans, and the sound vibrates through your body.
You grab his wrists, and his knee lands on the mattress, letting the kiss deepen. One hand drops to your bare waist, and you arch into the touch.
Dean lays you slowly down on the silken pillows and sheets. Your legs spread wide in invitation, your pussy on full, wanting display, and you gasp when his clothed crotch presses over the aching nerves. He grinds himself against you, mouth working against yours until you’re gasping for air between kisses.
“De- Dean-“ You grab his shirt, trying to drag him closer. “Yes- Fuck-“ You hump against him, lips spreading in a wide, stupid smile. “Dean-“
“Jesus,” he groans your name, rising up over your body. You whine at the loss, but one massive hand finds your breast, and it’s like a drug.
Dean’s attention is fervent. Unyielding and hot, as one hand plays with your breasts, and the other keeps you pinned down with his palm flat on your stomach. You writhe into the torturous touch, but there’s nowhere else you’d ever want to be. Not when his fingers pinch and roll you nipple, dragging a high sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make.
His eyes flash, and he repeats the movement. Over and over until you’re squirming and fucking up into his crotch, clawing at his chest for just a little more pressure. You’re already sensitive from the first orgasm, already raw from the emotions of the night. You need more.
“More, Dean- Please- Oh-“
He stops playing with your breasts, and drags his hand down your side. The touch is light and teasing, making a soft giggle escape your lips. You look up at him with open adoration, some part of you still convinced this is another fantasy. That you can look at him like this, and there won’t be any consequences.
Dean swallows, another low noise rumbling through his chest. He moves his hand to trace your face, and you lean into him with a happy hum. His thumb brushes over your cheek, over a tear still stained on the soft skin.
He frowns slightly, eyes scanning over your parted, swollen lips and glossy eyes. You know how you must look. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror after crying often enough.
You smile at him hopelessly, hoping you’re a hot enough mess that he’s not changing his mind. He swallows, and lowers down over you with a heavy sigh.
Kissing you slow and gentle, the hand on your stomach dragging down.
Cupping right over your bare, dripping sex.
Dean groans, rubbing back and forth. He’s not changing his mind at all.
“I’ve got you, baby.” He murmurs against your lips, arms wrapping around your thighs. “Gonna make you feel good, pretty girl. So fuckin’ good.”
You moan, trying to lean up and chase his lips as he pulls away again. But once against the brief moment of cold is more than worth it.
Dean folds you up. Pushes your knees up to your chest, fully exposing your pussy to the air. You reach for him, and he catches your arm. Presses it over your head with a wink, before dropping his gaze down to your glittering, puffy cunt. Already leaking for him, squeezing around nothing in anticipation. He blows on it, and you shudder below him.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Even damn prettier than I thought, sweetheart. All wet and ready for me.”
“For you,” you breathe out, head spinning with desire. “Just you, Dean, please-“
You moan loudly, as he snakes his hand around to rub your clit. His eyes are fixed on your slack expression, as he rubs tight circles. His jaw tight, as you flush and turn to boneless, pathetic putty.
Dean smirks, drawing back for a split second, then slaps your pussy. Not harsh. Just enough to see if you like it.
You go completely limp below him, a slurring sound of need leaving your lips.
“More,” you manage to whimper, and Dean nods. Slaps your pussy again, then again, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Dean- Fuck- Dean, please-“
“This what you were thinking about me doing?” He grunts, pressing his hand firm against your sore, throbbing core. “When you were touchin’ yourself, callin’ my name?”
You nod pathetically, and he moans.
“You do that a lot, baby?” He lands another hit, and the pleasure darts through your every nerve.
“Yes, yes- All the time-“
“Knew it.” He mutters to himself, slapping you again, watching the way your whole body reacts to the single touch. “I fuckin’- Thought I was going crazy, seeing what I wanted, but- Shit, look at you-“
He lands one last, rough slap, and you moan. “Dean-“
He presses forward, somehow folding you into a little ball you didn’t know your body was capable of becoming. It seems to reshape itself, though, to whatever Dean needs it to be. He kisses you, deep and softer than before, almost loving. Like you’re not a wanton, messy wreck in his arms.
“Can I show you what I think about?” He murmurs against your lips, far softer than before. “Please?”
You nod, too busy trying to get drunk on his kisses to use your words and respond. Dean smiles, kisses your nose, then draws up. He grabs your wrists again, but pulls them down onto your stomach. Lets your sink your nails into his knuckles and palms, squeezing gently back as he kisses your inner thigh.
Sucks a little mark on it, before kissing it again. Kisses over your clit, open-mouthed and wet. His tongue swirling. Driving you out of your mind, before switching to the other thigh. Sucking another little mark, then licking that one too.
Licking a thick, long stripe up your pussy. Then another. Pressing his tongue into your weeping pussy, before traveling back up to flick your clit.
His eyes never leaving yours. He gets faster and faster with every motion. His tongue presses on the sensitive skin between your pussy and ass, then swipes right up. Taunts your clit with the lightest touch, before dragging back down. Over and over until your breathing is shallow and desperate.
“De- Dean- Fuck- Dean-“
He moans against your pussy, and you try to buck off the bed, but his body presses forward, pinning you easily back down. He chuckles at the desperate look on your face, his mouth never leaving your clit, and you might be about to explode.
Then his plush lips wrap around your clit, and his tongue starts to work fast. Tiny, controlled little flicks that build you into a frenzy, his eyes still locked on to your, a soft pressure lighting you up as he sucks-
You cum without warning, every nerve in your body lighting up as your pussy remains trapped against Dean’s face. You try to wiggle away, the feeling overwhelming, but he drags you back with a moan. He’s hard, against your back. Hard and big, rutting slightly like this is getting his off, and that just sends you over the edge all over again.
You’re trembling, by the time Dean finally lets up. He gathers you up in his arms, humming gently, and hauls you up into his lap. Kisses your neck, then you cheek, then your lips. His shirt is gone. You’re not sure when that happened. But his pants are still on.
You paw at him. Whimper and grind, giving him a pouting, hopeful expression. He’s so hard, and you want him everywhere. Pounding into your cunt, no matter how sensitive it already is. In your mouth, in your hand, between your breasts, release hot over your skin, whatever he wants.
Dean just sighs, gently guiding your wrists away. “You were crying, baby-“
“Don’t care.” You whisper. “Dean, please, please, please-“ You rise up, pressing your brow against his. “I need it, please.”
Dean swallows. His tongue darts over his lips, and he rubs with mouth with a worried brow. You think he’s going to tell you no, for a terrible and long moment.
“Alright.” He murmurs, hand moving to his belt. “But- Can you promise me we’re gonna talk in the morning. Please?”
“Mhm.” You nod, your eyes fixed on his crotch.
He’s big. Thick and big, and your mouth is watering.
Dean chuckles. “You’re drooling, baby- Jesus-“
You’re climbing fully over him, something feral taking over your brain. You need him. Need him bad. You must be moaning it, because Dean holds you close, and doesn’t waste time.
Strong hands find your hips. Pick you up, then guide you back down onto his cock. You moan happily, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.
“Fuck... You feel good, baby, so fuckin’ good-“
You smile to yourself, rolling your hips, and Dean moans.
“Shit- Hell yeah-“ He leans back against the headboard, hands lazily wandering your body as you grind back and forth on his cock. “There you go, pretty girl, take what you want- Jesus-“
You squeeze around him, and Dean head falls back with another sinful moan.
“Don’t- Fuck-“
You squeeze again, and his hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise.
“Playing fuckin’ game, baby- Fuck- Keep doin’ that and I won’t-“
You giggle, and squeeze again. Dean’s eyes flash, his hands freezing.
“You think this is fuckin’ funny?”
“Maybe.” You whisper, lowering your lips to inches from his. “Hi.”
His eyes drop to your lips. You squeeze again, and he moans. “Shit, I’m warnin’ you, baby- Fuck-“
There’s something dangerous in his voice that you need to hear more of. You test the waters.
Dean snaps. He rolls you over, flipping your positions, and starts to piston his hips. The bed squeaks from the force of it, your mouth falling open as he drags you so perfectly apart, and he smirks.
“Yeah, there you go. Not so fuckin’- Christ-“
Dean drops down, his brow pressed against yours, eyes fixed on where his cock is slipping in and out of your pussy. It’s a lewd, enchanting sight. The way he’s transfixed by it almost makes you cum again.
“Look at us.” There’s a soft awe in his voice, for how he’s destroying you. “Take me so well, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for this cock-“
“Dean…” You whine, and he looks back to you with a smirk.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s my girl.” He kisses you deeply, thrusts pushing every thought but his name from your head. “That’s my good girl, take it, fuckin’ take it-“
You moan, and he doubles his efforts. Groans, his dirty talk slipping into moans and grunts of your name, his mouth barely leaving yours for more than a second.
When you cum, it’s all consuming. Your vision goes white, toes curling and body arching off the bed. Dean shouts your name, yanking out and beating himself into his hand, cum spaying over your thighs and pussy. You’re gushing with your own release, mixing with his, and when he drags his fingers over your pussy, a tiny orgasm shakes you like an earthquake.
Dean helps you clean up. Guides you through the motions, even if your brain is still hazy from the overstimulation. Takes care of you like you’re his.
He said you were. And none of that was a dream.
Dean doesn’t sleep on the floor tonight. He curls up with you after changing the sheets, tangling your legs together, breath hot on your neck.
“In the morning.” He whispers as sleep pulls you both under. “We gotta talk in the morning.”
You hum, too drunken on his everything to really hear. And you fall asleep peacefully, and dream of things that are, for once, within reach.
My girl. Dean called you my girl, last night. He wanted to talk in the morning. But he’s gone when you get up.
You touch the mattress, and it’s still warm. You get dressed with your thighs still aching, and poke your head into the hallway. He’s not there either.
Your hand slips. You take a stumbling step forward, accidentally pulling the door closed, and it closes behind you. Leaving you locked out.
Something in you wants to cry, but something else doesn’t feel like you deserve it. You fell into the fantasy. You let yourself get swept away.
Maybe he’s just getting something. You cling to hope, instead of fear. For once in your life, you try to look at what’s in front of you, instead of your head.
You walk downstairs, because if he’s not there, at least you can get another keycard. The lobby is busy. The line at the desk is long, so you sigh, and step fully outside. Into fresh air.
And suddenly, you’re back at the beginning again.
Dean calls your name from behind you, and he’s shoving his through the crowd. So fast, he doesn’t seem to notice the glass door closing behind you. Your mouth falls open as he slams into it, and he stumble back with a groan.
You swallow a laugh, rushing forward to help him. He grabs you in an instance, his hand over his brow, groaning at the impact.
“Fucking, Dean-“ You guide his hand away from his face with a sigh, running your fingers over his brow. “What was that?”
“Thought you were getting away.” He mumbles, eyes locked on your face. “You ran last night, just- Worried you were doin’ it again. Wanted to catch you.”
“I was looking for you.” You mutter, and he winces as you find the bump. “Shit, sorry-“
“’S okay.” He catches your hand, pulling it slowly down. Rasps your name, squeezing lightly.
You swallow, and look into his eyes. He’s wearing that strange expression. The one you finally learned how to read.
Love.
“I was getting you breakfast.” He mutters. :And I kinda talked to my Mom last night. She saw you with Lana. Said you looked upset. I was- Comin’ to talk to you about that. Last night.”
You flush, glancing around the milling crowd. “Can we- Do this later-“
“No.”
His voice is firm, and you look back to find his face set. Determined.
You might’ve protested, if he wasn’t right.
The way the light bends around him, there’s really no one else in the world.
“I don’t know what she said to you.” Dean mutters, thumb tracing over your knuckles. “But- I broke up with Lana ‘cause I didn’t like her. I wanted to be with someone I liked.”
“Dean-“
“You told my Mom you love me.” He says quickly, and your eyes widen. “And you asked if she’s ever gotten sick of my Dad. And- She says that you told her you never get sick of me.” He swallows. “I don’t know how to do laundry, sweetheart. You gotta sometimes be sick of me.”
You shake your head, voice soft. “But- I’m not.”
Dean takes a ragged breath, and you force the question out.
“Are you? Sick of me?”
He shakes his head, mouth twitching. “Never. I- Hold on-“
He lets go fumbling in his pocket for a second before pulling out his phone. He swipes back and forth with a tight frown, then lets out a heavy breath. Turns the screen for you to see.
He’s showing you a photo of a ring. It’s elegant. Classy and expensive looking.
You frown. “What-“
“It’s my grandmothers.” He rasps. “Mom gave it to me when I moved out. Kept it in storage, ‘till I- I met you. ’S why Sammy had to know we weren’t fakin’. He asked for it for Jess, day after he met her. I had to remind him that I told him I grabbed it for you. After you-“
“Liked your waffles.” You breath, eyes pricking with tears. “Dean…”
“I was in love with you then.” He says, voice low. “Sammy thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.” He takes a deep breath, searching over your face. “Am I, sweetheart? Crazy.”
You smile. Look at him, and smile.
“No. You’re not.”
He chuckles, shoulders relaxing. “Awesome.”
“Yeah. I love you too.”
“Even better.”
“It is?” You tease, because you can’t help it.
Dean smiles. “Yeah. It is."
✦End note: god i wish i could just write all the time i'd never stop it's like playing with dolls and smushing them together (weird stuffed animal kid to writer pipeline is real)✦ - If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3 - Buy me a coffee!☕️ - Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
pairing: stanford!hockey player!sam winchester x figure skater!female!reader
content: language, slightly ooc sam, so freaking sweet it makes me want to cry, smut (semi-public making out, sammy gets hard in a bookstore, grinding, dirty talk, fingering, finger sucking, protected piv sex)
word count: 7.8k
note: okay, i went a little crazy with this, but there was no way to break it all up. hope you love it <33
Sam couldn’t believe this. He had his dream girl standing in his favorite store holding a battered-but-beautiful edition of his favorite book. All of this after he had just discovered his new favorite cafe, a title given simply because it was her favorite.
Thank God Dean wasn’t here to bear witness to how down bad he was. Sam would never hear the end of it.
“Have you read this?” Your voice broke him from his thoughts, which was for the best because why the fuck was he thinking about Dean when he had you looking up at him like that?
“Hmm?” He hummed, looking down at the book in your hands. He already knew what it was – a third-edition hardcover copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit –, but he had to play it cool, act like he hadn’t noticed every book you’d even just brushed a finger over.
You held the book up for him, flipping it around in your hands so the cover was facing him. He smiled at the way your fingers curled around the edges, holding it delicately as if it was a glass vase.
“Oh, yeah, I’ve read it, once or twice.” Sam answered, casually. He thought for a moment, then decided he had to give you more. Why was he so nervous about your opinion of him? “Actually, that’s my favorite book. I can’t remember how many times I’ve read it.”
You raised an eyebrow, turning the cover back around so you could look at it again. You traced a finger over the illustrated mountains.
“I liked the movies.” You mumbled, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes. “But my brain doesn’t like high fantasy. Too hard to read.”
“You once read Crime and Punishment.” Sam replied deadpan. He knew you were a smart girl, probably the smartest he knew – though he was a bit biased in his thinking.
“I can read just fine, Sam,” he didn’t think there was a lovelier sound than you saying his name, “it’s all the… elves and weird terminology. It pulls me out of it. I just want to close my eyes and imagine the world the entire time.” You shook your head dismissively, placing the book back into its display stand.
Sam breathed out a laugh. He was standing behind you, giving him the perfect opportunity to bend down to your level. His chin hovered over your shoulder.
“Maybe you just need someone to read it to you. Let you close your eyes and imagine the world.” He spoke straight into your ear. Something bloomed in him – lust? love? – when he caught the shiver that ran through you. His heart swelled when you turned your head to lock eyes with him.
“Are you offering?” You had that sexy smirk on your face again, the one that made Sam want to lean in and kiss you until your lips were indented into his forever.
“Maybe.” Playful innocence dripped from his tone. He watched your eyes flick down to his lips. Good, he thought. Let you make the first move, make sure this was something you actually wanted.
“Is this before or after the extraordinary sex I was promised?”
Fuck, Sam was in trouble. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide his physical attraction toward you.
“I never said ‘extraordinary.’” Sam mumbled, leaning closer. Your noses bumped, lips brushing when either of you spoke.
“I may have embellished it a bit.” You whispered, eyes still locked on his. “You’ll just have to help me figure out if I was correct or not.”
Sam’s eyes slowly closed, squeezing shut as he tried to keep himself from taking you right up against the bookcases. When he opened them again, he caught the amusement on your face, corners of your eyes crinkling while you held back silent laughter.
“I’ll do more than help you.” Sam leaned in, connecting your lips. He melted into you when he felt you kiss back. He brought his hands up to your cheeks, cradling your face while he smoothly brought himself to stand in front of you.
You licked across his lip, silently asking for entrance into his mouth. He allowed it because he’d be crazy not to. Your tongue pressed against his, wet and sliding into his mouth. He loved it, maybe loved you, but it was too early to say.
He shuffled closer to you, letting your bodies press into each other. You clutched at his hoodie, holding him close like you were afraid he would run away. Sam groaned at the mental image of you doing that in the mornings, waking next to him with his shirt bunched in your hands.
Hesitantly, he pulled away, then, because he really couldn’t help himself, placed a few pecks on your lips before fully standing up straight.
“We-,” he took in a breath, trying to level out his heart rate. “We should-,” he groaned at the sight of your swollen lips and smiling eyes, “God, we need to go, now.” He finally growled out, grabbing at your hips.
“You don’t want to look at more books?” You asked with faux innocence, and he really would have found a way to hide his semi if he thought you were serious. He could see the hunger burning in your eyes, ready to pounce on him at any given point.
“I have books at my place you can look at all night long, if that’s what turns you on.” He panted out, squeezing your sides. You grinned at him. “But I really, really don’t want that old lady at the desk to overhear any noises you might make if we stay.”
“Noises I make? What about the ones you’ll be making?” You were really pushing his buttons now. He was sure he would absolutely lose it if you weren’t out of that store and into his bed in the next ten minutes. He threw his head back with a groan, gently walking backwards while tugging you toward the door.
“Come on, pretty girl, are you torturing me on purpose?” He kept his voice hushed, eyeing the rows of shelves for any occupants who may be offended by his desperation.
“Yeah, I am, actually.” You had no reason to talk low, confidence seeping out of your words. He mentally thanked you for your steps that matched his, making it much easier for him to drag you out.
“You enjoy this, huh? Making out with me in front of Carroll and Shelley then acting like it’s just another day?” Sam was going to burst with attraction at the wide grin that spread over your face. He watched you glance down, taking note of the way his jeans were just the slightest bit tighter around his crotch.
“You seem to enjoy it.” You teased, pulling your bottom lip in between your teeth. He hoped that within the next few moments, that lips would be in between his teeth instead. He rolled his eyes playfully, quickly spinning you two around so you were in front. He placed his hands on your shoulders, practically gluing himself to your backside.
“That’s why we have to go.” He urged quietly into your ear. He could feel your ass rubbing against him through his jeans, making him almost regret walking so close with you. He couldn’t make eye contact with the register attendant, not when she bore a resemblance far too close to his own grandmother.
“Have a good day!” You beamed at the woman. Sam didn’t know how you did it, not when he was growing harder against you by the second. He mumbled something that resembled your words, his fingers gently gripping onto you.
Sam guided you to the left, eyes trained on his apartment building. He saw the path in his mind – door, stairs, door, door, bed –, but before he could point out the direction he wanted you to head in, he was slammed against the side of a building.
His face contorted into confusion. One look at your face – at your blown pupils and flushed cheeks – had that confusion morphing into smug understanding. He took in a breath, meaning to speak, boast about you being the horny one. His words were snuffed out before they had a chance to get out, your lips locking onto his.
His curious thoughts as to how you were able to push his six-foot-four frame into this alleyway in the first place were replaced with a hurricane of you. He put those panic attack prevention techniques Dean had taught him to good use now, finding anxiety and love – or was it only lust? – to have similar effects on his heart.
Five things he could feel: your lips notching into his, your hands tugging his neck down, your hair tangling in his fingers, your thighs squeezing around his knee (he’d skillfully nudged it in between your legs just moments before), and your tongue pressing into his.
Were they all supposed to be about the same person?
Fine.
Five things he could hear: your his heartbeat thundering in his chest, your breaths heaving into his mouth, your little whimpers as he–
Fuck, he was in trouble. He could feel it, just as he had felt it freshman year in that damn psychology class when he first made eye contact with you.
You were going to create a whole lot of chaos in his life. One way or the other, his heart was yours, his entire being was yours.
What the hell? He didn’t do this. He didn’t act like such a fucking sap, no matter what Dean tried to give him shit for. It wasn’t as if he was against relationships. If he had it his way, he’d have been taken off the market in that first moment he’d seen you.
Instead, he gave hook ups a try. He’d left that to Dean in high school, letting his education take center stage even when he barely had to study for anything.
He didn’t fuck mindlessly. He gave those girls a good time, helping them come as many times as they pleased, and he always gave aftercare. No question about it, Sam was a giver more than he was a taker.
It was just… he didn’t really care about them.
Okay, shit, that sounded bad. He cared, but he didn’t… love them. Love. There it was again. He felt like a child for thinking that way, saying he loved you when he’d only just formally met you.
It was true, of course, because why would anything in his life be ‘normal.’ He loved you. He just wasn’t going to tell you that, not right now while making out next to a dusty-ass Honda.
“Stop.” Sam mumbled, immediately cursing himself for even uttering a mention of that word. He didn’t want to stop. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted to do.
You pulled away, lips peeling from his like they had a mind of their own and didn’t want to let go either. You settled down from your tiptoes, feet flat on the ground and pout set on your face.
“You want to stop?” Your voice purred out to him, tempting him like a siren song to a lonely sailor. He cursed under his breath, squeezing his eyes shut like it was all a dream.
He opened his eyes again and, guess what? Not a dream. There you were, standing beautiful as ever with those swollen lips and messy hair.
“No, God, of course I don’t want to stop.” Sam’s voice was hushed. He didn’t know why he felt the need to be so gentle with you. It wasn’t because you couldn’t handle tough. There was no doubt in his mind that you could fight a battle on your own and come out victorious. Maybe he just didn’t want to be the thing to hurt you.
He brought his thumb up to swipe across your bottom lip, smearing the shine of spit that lingered there. He tugged it down, letting your teeth peek through while you looked up at him, waiting for more.
“I saw this going a bit differently…,” he mumbled, gaze still trained on your lip as he pulled his hand away from your face.
“Less kissing?” You asked with a grin that told him you knew it wasn’t that.
“No,” he let out a soft chuckle, “more kissing, actually. Just… laying down, in my bed.” He thought for a moment. “Less clothes,” he added with a teasing smile.
He watched the words register in your mind, watched your hands curl into fists as if you were trying to control yourself just as much as he was. Your throat moved slightly when you swallowed, drawing his attention to your neck.
Your neck, which was already pretty enough on its own but – in Sam’s personal opinion – would look so much better with a few nibbles bruised into it.
“We can remedy that. The ‘less clothes’ thing.” Your eyes narrowed and he knew you were simply digging a deeper grave for his ability to have casual sex. “And all the rest of that. Maybe add some of how I thought tonight would go.”
“How you thought it would go?” He questioned with a raised brow.
He shouldn’t have asked that because the smirk it elicited had him holding back a groan of desperation.
“You know,” you shrugged, running your tongue across your teeth, “your head in between my thighs, getting that pretty face a little wet.”
Oh. My. God.
Sam was about to fucking bust and you’d barely touched him.
“You think I’m pretty?” He asked, avoiding replying to the other stuff because it would only end up with a public indecency charge. You scoffed, reaching out to clutch his hoodie.
“That’s what you got out of that?” Sam heard the annoyance, but he knew how to read through it. You were throwing it in there on purpose, using that attitude that would be the absolute death of him. He bent down, face level with yours now.
“I got a lot more out of it, trust me. Sounds like we need to pick things up and take them across the street.” He leaned his head forward to speak in your ear. “I’m hoping to get my face more than ‘a little’ wet.”
He smirked at the visible shiver that ran through you. He pulled back, kissed you one last time – because how could he not? –, and stood up straight, pulling you into his chest with one arm.
He swore you were about to sprint to the apartment building, but maybe that was just his ego talking.
—
You were actually about to sprint into this guy’s place. You held yourself back, somehow, forcing your legs to move at a quick but normal pace. Sam’s arm around your shoulders wasn’t helping your self-control and you had a feeling he knew that.
You didn’t know what was going on. This wasn’t you. Sure, you had said ‘no hook ups during competition season’, but it was more of ‘no hook ups ever.’ You’d had your casual flings and occasional one-night stands, of course.
They hadn’t felt like this. They weren’t horrible, you’d gotten off and left whoever’s bed satisfied. It was different with Sam.
Wild. Hungry. Desperate. Gasoline to fire.
You felt like he wanted you for you, not just another warm body in his bed. You tried to tell yourself it was stupid to be feeling this way. It didn’t work. Not when he was groaning your name and smashing his lips to yours the moment the door closed behind him.
You melted against him, letting your entire body fall into his. He caught you, because of course he did. It only added to your heart’s reach for him.
You felt his arms flex around you, holding you tight to his body. A whimper – oh, you were gone – vibrated from your throat, encouraging Sam to lift you. His hands slid down to the backs of your thighs, pulling them up to help you wrap your legs around his waist.
You arched into him, practically climbing his body now. He still had to bend his neck to kiss you, but now his face was angled up with you tugging on his hair to keep him like that. He grunted and you felt his fingers digging into your thighs.
You heard a few thuds, presumably things falling to the ground as Sam walked to his bedroom. Honestly, you couldn’t care less about whatever destruction was left in your wake. You wanted Sam, and you wanted him now.
Bump.
That was the back of your head against a bedroom – Sam’s bedroom – door. You cringed, ducking your head forward.
“Jesus Christ…” Sam mumbled, immediately cradling your head with one of his hands. His fingers weaved into your hair. You were about to pull back to ask him if he was always this clumsy when you felt him kiss your head. Repeatedly.
“What are you doing?” You giggled out, trying to twist away from the constant peppering of kisses into your hair. It only encouraged him to continue.
Eventually, you cupped his face in your hands, smushing his cheeks together and pushing his head back gently. You raised a brow at him, panting, half from the previous making out, half from your overabundance of laughter at Sam’s actions.
“I was ‘kissing it better,’” he explained, a goofy grin on his face. His words were muffled a bit due to your hold still on his face.
“You know that doesn’t actually work, right?”
“Does your head hurt?” He asked, adjusting his grip on your thighs. When you shook your head, his smile widened. “See?”
“It wasn’t from the kisses.” You argued. You couldn’t even pretend to be annoyed. It was too… sweet, too innocent of a gesture from him. It made your heart swell when he raised a brow and nodded confidently.
“It was totally from the kisses.” He told you. He didn’t give you a chance to argue back. His lips were back on yours, the door behind you finally opening to allow you passage inside.
Sam stepped into the room and slammed the door shut behind him. Apparently he hadn’t meant to do that because a second later he mumbled an ‘oops’ against your lips. You smiled into the kiss, dipping your hands under the neckline of his shirt to touch his bare skin.
Suddenly, your world was tilting, and not just in the metaphorical sense. He lowered you to the bed, slow, your hair falling back to hang behind you like you were falling. His lips were fervent on you, sucking on your bottom lip in a way that made you whimper for more.
Sam hovered over you, hand sliding from under your thigh to your ass. He squeezed softly, pulling a moan from the back of your throat, something you didn’t know was a thing. When was the last time you moaned from a simple squeeze?
You hadn’t noticed the shift of his lips, his kissing moving from the center of your lips to the corner, then your cheek, then your jaw, ultimately landing on that little spot on your neck that was the most sensitive. You whined low and long at the nip he gave it, somehow knowing that was the perfect place to do it.
“So sensitive,” he teased, words mumbled against your skin.
“I am not-,” you started to argue back when he nibbled at the spot again, proving his point to be accurate. You lifted your hips up, needing to meet his in an attempt to get some friction where you really needed it. His hand flew to your side, holding you down.
“Is this what you want?” Sam asked, eyes serious. You narrowed your eyes at him, lips curling in confusion. “Is this, the hooking up, the sex, actually what you want?” He clarified, thinking you were unclear about what he meant.
“What gave you the impression it wasn’t what I wanted?” You thought back on your reactions thus far. Moans, whimpers, and grinding? Were those not clear indicators that you wanted to fuck this man?
“You just-,” you watched him shake his head, “you said, before…,” he noticed the amused expression on your face as you took in his blustering. “Pretty girl,” he said, no stutter heard this time, “do you want to have sex with me, tonight, in this bed?”
You cracked a wide grin.
“Mmm, so the university did give you guys that consent talk last week.” You teased, remembering how irritated the hockey coach had looked coming out of a conference room, a crowd of boisterous hockey players behind him with handfuls of condoms. Sam groaned, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder.
You decided to put him out of his misery since, well, you were kind of getting desperate to take your clothes off, too.
“Yes, Sam Winchester, I want to have sex with you, tonight, in this bed.” You declared. Upon hearing this, he lifted his head, looking at you like a golden retriever that had just been offered a treat.
“Thank God,” he murmured with a grin, jumping straight into peppering kisses all over your face, much like that same golden retriever would have. You laughed, loud and unrestrained, shaking your head back and forth in an attempt to get him to let up on you, if only to let you breathe.
“Sam!” You squealed, hands clutching at his chest. He laughed with you, kissing lower until he was at your collarbone. His attack on you turned slower and sloppier, his tongue flattening against your skin with every kiss.
It was safe to say you weren’t laughing anymore.
Panting breaths left your lips, growing sharper as he touched you. Your eyes fluttered shut, making you focus solely on how good his mouth felt on you.
“Sam…,” you said again, this time slow and needy. You moaned as he moved lower, lips and tongue and teeth running over the tops of your breasts. You’d worn that v-neck shirt for a reason and it was paying off immensely now.
Sam’s hands held loose on your hips, not to hold you back from moving, more like he needed to just have you in his grasp. You found yourself needing the same thing, needing more than just touching him. You wanted to stay here forever, with his attention on you and only you, worshipping your body like a proper disciple.
You spread your legs wider to allow his shoulders through them, his head now hovering above your stomach. You looked down at him, eyes locking with his. He curled his fingers around the hem of your shirt and you prepared to help him rid you of the garment. Instead of pulling it up your body, he grinned mischievously and tucked his head under the fabric.
Your jaw dropped as he moved, part of you shocked that he was now trying to force his wide torso into your shirt, the other part forgetting what the hell was going on because he was licking up your abdomen. He wiggled up your body, peeking at you from under the neckline.
“You’re stretching it out!” You protested when you heard a pop. Sam smiled at you goofily, locking eyes as he kissed your sternum. You narrowed your eyes. “I’m never going to be able to wear this shirt again.” You grumbled.
“Take one of mine.” He mumbled, eyes closing as he kissed sloppily at the skin just above the cup of your bra.
“What?” You scoffed, using every bit of willpower you had to not whimper at the graze of his teeth. Take one of mine, he had said. If you were up for thinking of more than what position you wanted to put Sam in, you would have come up with a witty comeback instead of feigning confusion.
“One of my shirts. Take it, as a replacement.” His hazel eyes popped open again, a smirk growing on his face. “Or all of them, if you want. You’ll have your pick of them.”
“What about this one?” You questioned, tugging at the sleeve of his hoodie. He raised an eyebrow, the look in his eye telling you he knew exactly what you were playing at. He slithered out from under your shirt, sitting on his knees between your legs. He looked down at you as you instinctively checked yourself.
Sure enough, the fucking shirt was stretched out in the most unflattering way.
“Told you…,” you mumbled, glaring at him with only the slightest bit of irritation, which quickly dissipated to nothing when he started to pull his hoodie off, taking with it the t-shirt that had been underneath.
What you were left with was his bare upper body practically taunting you. Pecs, abs, and the most bite-worthy biceps you’d ever laid your eyes on. You met Sam’s eyes again, an open-mouthed smile taking over your face.
He dropped the hoodie-shirt bundle off the side of the bed just in time for you to pull him down onto you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, hands pawing at his shoulders, your lips smashing onto his in a sloppy mix of tongue and teeth.
“Mmm…,” you hummed appreciatively when he squeezed softly at your breast. Even with the cushion of your shirt and bra, you could feel his hand almost on your skin, making you want – no, need – more.
“Take it off,” you panted into his mouth. “Take it off, my shirt, take it off, now.” You were demanding and desperate, not able to find it in yourself to mask how you felt in that moment. To his credit, Sam listened well.
He dragged that useless garment over your head. His hands immediately went to your sides, fingers grazing over your ribs hungrily. You grinned up at him, pulling him back down, because what the fuck was he doing not kissing you?
Your tongues met before your lips did, twisting around each other in such a way that made you both groan. You arched your body up into him and he took the opportunity to slip his hands under you. You felt his calloused touch roaming against your spine, scraping on your skin in a heavenly fashion.
“You… feel so… good.” Sam groaned out that last word, tugging you closer to him. You let out a shuddering breath, not able to stop the whimper that followed it.
Fuck it, you thought. Let him see how badly he made you ache for more. It wasn’t as if it was one sided, that much was clear.
Sam knocked your legs apart, pressing his body into yours. He cupped a hand under your knee, bringing your leg up to hook around his body. You felt him through his jeans, straining in the denim and rubbing against your core just right. He was kissing you so intensely, with so much raw starvation, that his entire body rolled with the movements of his head, creating a steady nudge, nudge, nudge onto your clit.
Damn, he was right, you really were sensitive. That friction was creating a stew of whimpers in your throat, non-stop noise humming from you while you sucked on his tongue. Whimpers that quickly turned to gasping moans when his hand slithered into your pants, under those lacy panties you’d picked out specially for him and right onto your dripping heat, cupping over it to make you feel.
And, oh God, did you feel. You felt it all, every ridge of his fingers against your folds, the flex of his knuckles when he put on the slightest bit of pressure. You rocked into his hand, chasing more, more, more-
“More.” You moaned. Sam’s open-mouthed kisses on your cheek shifted up into another one of those grins that would have you smiling back if his thumb hadn’t started circling your clit. You sucked in a sharp breath.
“Oh, that’s good,” you nodded, still trying to play it casual, even with his fingers dipping in and out of your slick folds. “That’s,” you swallowed, “that’s so good!” On that last word, Sam had pressed his thumb flat on your clit, making you squeal in pleasure.
You felt his mouth go to your ear, breath hot against the side of your head.
“Let it go.” He whispered, not elaborating on what he meant. He didn’t have to. You knew what he meant, knew that he was aware of the fact that you were trying your hardest to fully control the situation.
Unfortunately for him, you were stubborn. You swallowed down another moan, tensing your jaw. You felt him toying with your entrance, dipping the tip of his index finger in and out. You bit your lip, hard, as you fought back a whine.
Sam noticed your struggle, feeling your muscles tense up under him from the struggle to not give in, not yet. You didn’t know why you felt the need to drag it out so far, to lie to both him and yourself about the effect he had on you. His response to your persistence was to slobber a kiss onto your quivering chin.
“Give it up already, pretty girl.” He mumbled, locking eyes with you. You narrowed yours at him, looking down at him through your lashes. You had a new dose of motivation to never give it up, making it your personal mission to keep full, total control of how you reacted to each and every one of his touches.
A personal mission that immediately failed the moment he plunged a finger into you.
You choked on your breath, your eyes falling shut. An embarrassingly animalistic sound vibrated in your chest.
“Mhm, there you go.” Sam chuckled when your thighs squeezed around his hand. He worked his finger slowly out, then right back in again.
“Feels so good…,” you whimpered, gasping like you couldn’t quite get enough air. You opened your eyes to find him smirking at you, a cocky sense of pride in his expression. Your gaze flitted down to his arm, where you watched his tendons flex under his skin while he moved his finger – oh, fingers, plural, he’d added another – inside of you.
“I know.” He nodded, lowering his mouth back onto yours. You groaned into him, rolling your hips down and down and-
Right there. Fuck, that was it, a mix of your clit getting swirled by his thumb and his fingers curling up inside you to hit the perfect spot, making for quite the perfect amount of pleasure to build up. You cried out a moan, sucking in breaths in between his sloppy kisses.
“You’re so fucking tight,” Sam murmured into your mouth, “I don’t know if I’ll fit.”
Even in your haze of pleasure, you couldn’t keep from replying to his cocky pride.
“Shut up and make me come.” You growled, grinding against his hand. He smirked, pressing down harder on your clit. You arched your back up with a sharp whine, clutching at his arm to hold onto something, anything to ground yourself to the moment. You were floating, not physically, but in every other way you possibly could.
“Come on, pretty girl, let me see that gorgeous face when you come.” He encouraged, voice deep and husky. “I want to see it again.” He shifted, pulling you in closer, eyes peering at you through lashes.
You couldn’t help but just… give in.
Your orgasm came to you with a flash of Heaven. Seriously, you swore you could hear angels singing to you. A soft, groaning noise fell from your lips, cut off by Sam kissing you with so much hunger you thought he would devour you.
He worked you through it, pumping his fingers with a sloppy rhythm that had you whimpering long after your release passed through. Once you had settled, body completely at ease, he pulled his digits from you, slipping them back out into the open air.
You saw the shine of yourself on them, the milky, slightly sticky liquid coating them. You dragged your eyes back to his face, catching the way his gaze was fixed on his own fingers. Your mouth parted as he guided them to his lips, taking them into his mouth with a guttural moan that had your need for more returning to your gut.
Wrapping your hand around his wrist, you tore his fingers from his mouth, replacing them with your lips. Your tongue pressed into his mouth, swiping through the spit that had accumulated within. There. You tasted yourself – your cum – mixing with what you knew was him.
A high moan reverberated through you. You clutched at his torso, pawing at whatever you could grab onto. You just needed him. There was something inside you, something deep and raw, that only he could satisfy.
You ripped away from him, panting. Your body trembled with the overwhelming urge to completely rip the rest of his clothes away.
“I knew you’d taste good.” Sam mumbled, fingers digging into your sides. You playfully rolled your eyes, absentmindedly running a finger down his abdomen.
“You know how to use your fingers well.” You pointed out with a shrug, eyes falling to his bare chest. With Sam’s rough chuckle, you looked back up to see a grin on his face.
“Are we just going to compliment each other all night?” He questioned. In response, you huffed out a sarcastic laugh.
“If you were to keep running your mouth, I wouldn’t be surprised.” You rolled your hips down, hard but measured. “Me? I think I’d rather talk less, touch more.” You watched Sam’s jaw flex, presumably with the effort to not completely moan like you knew he wanted to.
“I like your plan better,” was the last thing said before a flurry of grabbing and clothes flying ensued.
You swore all you’d done was blink and suddenly you both were naked, sitting on your knees across from each other on his bed. His eyes scraped over your bare skin, spending the most time focused on your now-bare breasts and what little he could see of your throbbing core.
Your attention? It was trained solely on his length. The tip was leaking with the ache to get inside of you, flared red and staring you straight in the eye. That wasn’t even the most mouthwatering part. It may not have been the thickest you’d ever seen, but for what he lacked in width he made up for in length. You weren’t the best with measuring things by eye alone, though you figured a ruler wouldn’t be too much longer than it.
Fuck, maybe he really wouldn’t fit in you.
It seemed Sam was reading your thoughts, because only moments after the words popped into your head, his smug reply made you glare up at him.
“Told ya, pretty girl.”
“You’re not that big.” Lie. You both knew it.
“Big enough for you to drool over.” He smirked at you, the tip of his tongue peeking through his teeth.
“I am not drooling.” You protested. It wasn’t a total lie this time. You really weren’t drooling, and the sudden overproduction of spit in your mouth had nothing to do with this god of a man in front of you. That’s what you told yourself, anyway.
“Mmm, totally drooling.” Sam mumbled. Your response was cut off by his large hands on your face, smashing his lips to yours. Tongues and teeth gnashed together, moans and whimpers mixing to echo off of the drywall of the room. You hoped these walls were thick. That thought, and every other, dripped away from your mind the moment Sam hoisted you onto his lap, his thick erection pressing against your dripping folds.
“Want… oh my God-,” you had to catch your breath when a slight shift in his position had your clit getting rubbed ever so nicely. “Do you want me to ride you, cowboy?” You’d added that last part in a purr after remembering the drawl of “darlin’” during your first meeting.
Sam’s grin tilted a bit, mouth parting as he looked at you as if you’d said something outrageous.
“What?” You were on the defensive, narrowing your eyes. You let out a shaky breath when he rocked his hips up, a deliberate motion, you realized a second later when his grin grew cockier.
“Cowboy?” He almost scoffed out, chuckling when you frowned at him. This time you rocked, making his eyes flutter softly. The break in his smug demeanor only egged you on.
“You-,” you swallowed down a whimper when Sam surreptitiously pressed your body down into his, earning him a glare that really would have been more annoyed if your skin wasn’t buzzing from the pleasure. “You have a slight accent.” You rushed the words out before they could be broken by a moan.
“I’m from Kansas.” He explained, giving you a boyish grin you were sure had wooed all the moms at school pickup. You let out a soft laugh at the image of a young-Sam – Sammy – getting out of trouble with a simple smile.
“Kansas?” You asked, tilting your head slightly. “Like Dorothy?” You hoped he’d get the reference, hoped the little joke wouldn’t fall flat.
“You’re so weird.” Sam chuckled out, swooping down to kiss you again. You, in response to his playful insult, ducked away, causing his kiss to land on the corner of your lips.
“You’re the one who barked at me!” You argued, looking at him like he was crazy. That moment, the playful banter that had happened only moments after he’d made you come for the first time, had been running through your mind on a loop, bringing a warm smile to your face even during practices. Practices, you know, the time you were usually the most disciplined and focused. God help you from this charming distraction.
“You called me a dog. How else was I supposed to respond, pretty girl?” Sam’s tone held a note of condescension that you couldn’t help but grin at. You shifted, moving your hips as a result, reminding you – in a particularly sinful way – what had been happening before this little spat.
“Are we going to argue about who’s weirder all night, or are you going to fuck me?” You raised a brow, challenge clear in your eyes. You watched a spark of playful determination cross Sam’s gaze. You felt two things: one, his fingers digging into the plush of your thighs, and two, his dick pressing against your folds, aching for more friction.
“I’m going with the latter.” Sam growled, smashing his lips to yours to cut off your giggle, quickly morphing your response into a moan. You panted into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut when he skillfully rocked your body down.
“Condom.” You breathed out, pushing on his shoulders to break the kiss. He grinned, leaning back and twisting to reach for his nightstand, causing those damn hips to lift up into yours. You bit back a whimper, refusing to entirely show Sam how desperate you were for another release.
He sat back up, a gold-foiled package in between two fingers – the same two fingers that had been inside of you earlier. You snatched it up, eager to get this thing going so you could finally feel that mind-numbing pleasure again.
“Just can’t wait to get me inside you, huh?” You weren’t looking at Sam, but you knew he was grinning from his tone alone.
“Shut up.” You grumbled, tearing open the packaging. The small groan that came from Sam when you slowly rolled the condom onto him made a smirk cross your face, giving you a sense of pride that you weren’t the only one who was going to be vocal tonight.
You looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide, crazy with a hunger only you could satisfy. You figured you looked similarly, if not more, needy, if the growing buzz in your body to just get his damn cock inside you was enough of an indicator.
Positioning him at your entrance was much more difficult than you had expected it to be. You would have gotten it, first try, if it wasn’t for the slip of his tip against your already sensitive clit, pulling a body-buckling moan from you. You let your pride step aside for a moment and allowed Sam to help guide himself to the correct spot, his large hand overtaking yours in the process. You tried – and failed – to not shiver at the size difference.
“I know you’re eager to feel me in there, but take it slow, okay?” Sam told you, raising a brow while he waited for your answer. You had half a mind to push away from him for talking to you with so much condescension. Unfortunately – or, rather, fortunately for your sex drive – the almost mocking tone of his voice sent a bloom of heat straight for your core.
You would hyper analyze that later. Right now, you were more focused on the first inch of his length sliding into you. Thanks to your previous orgasm mixed with the spasms of pleasure Sam’s words and body brought on, it was a reasonably smooth entrance.
“O-hhh…,” you let out with a shaky breath, eyes fluttering, but not closing, at the stretch. Sam’s fingers dug into your hips, helping you sink down.
“That’s it,” he mumbled, eyes glued to his quickly disappearing dick,“taking it so well.”
Once you were completely down, seated directly onto his hips, you just looked into his eyes, admiring the hazel hue of them. You kissed him soft and slow. It wasn’t hungry like the other kisses, though this would have been the time to do it. Those had sparked a flame of desire in you, making your body tingle. This one sparked something else. Maybe desire, but not in the same way.
Another thing to hyper analyze later.
You sucked in a breath after pulling away, hands still resting on his shoulders as you began to slide up and down. An occasional roll of your hips pulled groans from Sam, groans that, in turn, made you whimper in enjoyment.
“Fuck,” you both seemed to moan at the same time. You watched his face while you moved, eyes drifting over every expression and feature.
His brows furrowed in concentration. His lips parting to allow those enchanting noises to escape. His cheeks were flushed with a light pink brought on by the heat and passion emanating from you both.
All of it made you speed your pace, chasing more, more–
“More.” Sam whined so quiet you almost missed it. Whining? From the 6’4” hockey defenseman? You must have been hearing things.
“More.” Okay, this time it was less whine, more growl. It still stunned you, making your hips stutter to take in this new information.
Sam Winchester was a needy lover.
“Did you just-,” you started to ask, a grin spreading over your face.
“Shut up.” He growled, large hands splayed across your skin.
In a flash, you were on your back, Sam hovering over you. Oh, you liked this. Now he was doing all the work, thrusting into you at a quick but controlled pace.
“Oh my God,” you moaned, throwing your head back. He took this opportunity to latch onto your neck, teeth, tongue, and lips scraping over every inch of skin they could. Your body arched up into his. Your mind blurred with intense pleasure.
“Shit,” Sam groaned, “so good, pretty girl, so, so, fucking good.” He was panting into you.
Before tonight, you never understood the meaning of mind-blowing sex. Yeah, you almost always enjoyed yourself, but it was never so good you couldn’t think.
This? This was mind-blowing, breath-stealing, skin-tingling, out-of-this-world sex.
“You close again, pretty girl? You ready to come?” Sam asked in short, panted breaths.
Yes. Oh, God, you were so ready to come. It actually hurt a little to hold it back, but you weren’t eager to untangle from him this quickly. You couldn’t answer him. You had to stay laser-focused on not coming.
“Mmm, yeah, baby, I know you are. Stop fighting it.” He purred into your ear, lightly nibbling on your earlobe.
A whiny moan left your throat. It was getting very difficult to hold it back now, especially with the light curve of a smirk you felt brushing over your skin. You could do it. You just had to-
“Ah!” You gasped out.
All control in Sam’s pace was gone. He’d gone from steady, calculated thrusts to this animalistic speed. You heard the bedframe smacking against the wall in time with the push-and-pull pressure on your pelvis. Your nails scraped over his shoulder blades as you grappled for something, anything to hold onto.
There was no holding it back anymore. Your orgasm crashed over you, bathing your body in a numb ecstasy. Your panting breaths came out with a light whine attached. Then, as if he had been waiting for the feeling of you squeezing around him, Sam groaned with his release, shoving his hips as far as they could go into you.
Your trembling subsided, leaving you laying there, spent, with Sam’s entire body on yours. You suspected he was still using whatever strength he had left to hold himself up a bit, because there was no way he was this light.
He shifted, pulling out of you slowly, carefully. You winced at the sudden emptiness you felt, your eyes fluttering shut. You felt the mattress move slightly, some rustling, a soft sigh. It all felt hyper-real in your post-sex state. The dip of his body weight on the bed next to you told you he was back.
“Come on, pretty girl, sit up for me.” Sam mumbled, causing you to open your eyes. There he was, dressed in his boxers, holding that damn Stanford hoodie and a towel. Your heart melted when he gently wiped at your thighs and sensitive center, cleaning you as best he could. Your heart ached when he helped slide the hoodie on you, the fabric all but swallowing you up in a soft cloud of him.
Then, your heart exploded when he fell into position next to you, curling an arm around you with a book in his hand. You didn’t need to look, not really, to know what it was. Still, you did.
There it was. A love-worn copy of The Hobbit.
You looked up at him with tired eyes. You were sure they were sparkling with something that was different from the lust that had flooded them earlier. He just grinned down at you, pulling his blankets up to wrap around you two.
“Figured we’d better get started on it.” Sam mumbled, gently opening the book to the first page. “Eyes closed and imagination on, honey.”
You were speechless as he began to read, his voice husky but soft.
Words can not describe how much I LOVE this app. On my last post where I said that no one writes Sam winchester series anymore you guys are all literally so sweet and amazing for giving me recommendations and telling me personally about your writing 🫰 ugh sometimes I just love this fandom so much mwah🥹🫶
Hey sooo why does no one write Sam Winchester x reader series anymore on this app💔 the way u have to dig and search just to find one and when you do it’s not ur preference is so irritating to all the writers (not the ones who already do, I love yall 🫶), let’s bring Sam Winchester x reader series back pretty please 🙏
a/n - aaah hi !! it’s been so long since i’ve written a full fic im sorry for disappearing off the face of the earth. life has sucked but i’m back!! it’s been far too long since i’ve posted a sam smut so hehe i hope you guys like this. took me way too long to write a sex curse fic lmao. but i hope you enjoy !! leaving feedback on fics is the world to fic writers :)
cws - fem!reader, 8k words, friends to lovers, smut, sex curse, witchcraft, wet dream, brief jacking off, p in v, riding, missionary, size kink ish, a lot of cum, needy and kinda whiny sam, flirty rowena, big brother dean, feverish sam, brief cage/lucifer mentions
other fics can be found on my masterlist
“Shit- ah fuck,” Sam grunted with the next roll of his hips, the warmth around his cock so euphoric it was a wonder he didn’t cum right then. There was a haziness in the room, a strange atmosphere that in the moment he hadn’t thought to question. A bed he didn’t recognise, sheets too plain and walls even plainer, but his focus was solely on her beneath him.
Which led to the other strange thing he hadn’t thought to question — they hadn’t done this before. But his best friend was underneath him and the tight warmth of her cunt sucking him back in with every thrust just felt so right.
“So good, that’s so good, honey.”
Her fingers were in his hair and she just kept whimpering his name in a tone that made his cock throb harder, arousal curling deeper. His hands were tight around her hips as his own rolled again and again, pressing harder inside of her in a way that made both of their breaths shudder.
“Sam- m’so close,” she whined, her breath hot against his cheek, her grip tighter in his hair. The smell of her skin was addictive, his head tipped forwards to nose his way up her throat, her pulse throbbing in the side of her neck. “Gonna cum- Sam-”
A low groan left his throat as his hips rolled forwards into the lumpy mattress beneath him, spilling into his boxers.
It took him a moment to grow coherent enough to realise exactly what predicament he was in. Breathing heavily into the pillow Sam blinked a few times, eyes adjusting to the sight of his motel room, the empty bed he was in. There was a burning tingling shame that spread right down to his stomach when he realised he’d had a wet dream about his best friend.
“What the fuck?” He breathed out hard as he sat up, and was relieved as he glanced across the room to see that Dean’s bed was empty and that he hadn’t been caught doing… whatever that was.
Sam wasn’t stupid, he was painfully aware of the feelings he had for her, the feelings that had been simmering for years. But what was he supposed to do? Even in the extremely unlikely case that she did feel the same, it wasn’t like acting on those feelings was a good idea. Nothing ever went well for him, it’d just be another thing he ended up losing one way or another. So he’d tried to shove it as far down as he could.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to deal with it before. There had been a few times that he’d had his fist around his cock after a long day of trying to ignore how close they’d been throughout the day when he’d thought of her, jacked off and thought of what she’d feel like or sound like beneath him, but each time he’d grown so shameful of what he’d been doing that he’d turned himself off completely and went to bed hard and uncomfortable.
But this? This was so much worse than that.
Sam grimaced as he pushed the covers off and felt the now cooling cum in his boxers, the fabric sticking to his skin, and so fucking embarrassed he quickly got up and went into the bathroom, once again glad that his brother wasn’t in the room.
He pulled off his shirt and stepped out of his boxers, a mental note to go to the laundromat later that day appearing in his head as he caught sight of the mess in his pants, then started the shower and stepped in beneath the spray of water.
What the fuck was wrong with him? Sure, he was a guy, he’d had wet dreams before, but not since he was a teenager and certainly never about her.
It had seemed so real. Her panted breaths against his neck with each thrust of his hips, the way her pussy had clenched so deliciously tight around his cock anytime his tip kissed her cervix, the way she’d moaned his name.
Sam huffed out a sharp breath through his nose when he realised he was already hard again.
“What the fuck?” He hissed, voice hidden beneath the sound of water hitting the tile. “Jesus Christ. Cut it out.”
His hand found his cock anyways, so hard he was fucking aching, and he took a few minutes to jack himself off to the memory — the not even real memory — of her beneath him until he was groaning deep in his throat and cumming onto the shower floor.
His hand reached up to turn the temperature dial all the way around to cold and he finished up in there as quick as he could, heart still thumping.
Pull it together.
It didn’t take long to pack up his stuff after his shower, but by the time Dean returned with coffee for the three of them Sam was hot. Not hot like he’d worked up his temperature by moving around the room, but like the warmth was sitting beneath his skin like a fever. The back of his neck was sweaty and his hair was sticking to his forehead, and as he took one of the to-go cups from his brother Dean frowned at him.
“You okay, Sammy?” He asked. “Looking a little pale.”
“Fine,” Sam waved him off as he grabbed his bags and moved towards the door. He was hard again, which was all he could focus on, frustration simmering with the heat. “Just wanna get on the road—”
He pulled the door open and stood face to face with her, and his jaw clenched as his cock throbbed.
“Hey,” she smiled sweetly, dodging past him to take one of the cups from Dean too. “My stuff’s in the car. Are we going?”
Sam hadn’t moved, shoulders stiff and throat dry as he stared at her. She looked like she usually did, if not a little worn down from yesterday's hunt, and maybe that was the worst part — nothing was different so what the hell was wrong with him? He’d become an expert at shoving away his feelings. There had been multiple occasions where she literally had her shirt off in front of him so he could patch up an injury and his eyes had never wandered further than necessary, respectful in the way he touched her and looked at her and thought of her. So now? He felt like a fucking pervert. She was his best friend.
“Hello? Earth to Sam?” Dean waved a hand so close to his face that he flinched and glared at his brother. “You get out the wrong side of the bed or something?”
At the mention of the bed and the thought of what he’d done that morning Sam glared harder, her eyes on him like a red hot laser and he didn’t dare look at her then. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of his neck and he felt so uncomfortable and so fucking hard that he just wanted the ground to open up beneath him and swallow him whole.
“I’m fine,” he grit out. “Can we just go?”
Being in the car made everything so much worse.
The only saving grace was that he didn’t have to look at her, but her voice floating up from the backseat and the smell of her perfume was enough. Each bump in the road made him shift in his seat, achingly hard and pressed against the zipper of his jeans. He’d had to discreetly palm himself through the denim just to try and get some sort of relief a few times when Dean wasn’t looking.
When the heat didn’t die down he’d come to the conclusion that he must’ve been harbouring a fever. Since getting in the car he’d shed his flannel to just be left in his t-shirt and rolled the window all the way down, and though the wind blowing his hair back was nice he was still fucking hot.
“Dude,” Dean knocked his knee against his and he flinched, glancing up at his face. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look…”
“Like shit?” Sam scoffed when his brother nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.” His eyes flickered up to the mirror and his jaw clenched at the sight of her in the back.
“Are you sure? You don’t look fine,” his brother pushed. “I told you we should’ve double checked what that witch did yesterday.”
For the past few days they’d been tracking a coven of witches across three separate towns. Ten different murders, all husbands, all mysteriously died in front of their partners. It hadn’t taken all that long to figure out that it was witchcraft when they’d found hexbags in most of the houses. Bitter with the loss of their own lovers they’d gone on a killing spree and caught too much attention.
The last of the witches they’d put down in the basement of the house they’d been camped out in had at one point shoved Sam up against the wall, gripped his throat so tightly he couldn’t breathe, and had murmured an incantation he hadn’t been able to make out through the ringing in his ears. There had been a hot pressure in his chest that started spreading outwards, but a moment later Dean had shot her in the back and she’d died right in front of him. The magic couldn’t have lingered if she was dead, could it?
“She died, Dean, you killed her,” Sam murmured, clenched his teeth tight when Baby hit a pothole and his cock was momentarily pressed harder against his zipper as he was jerked slightly in his seat. “Just feel a little hot. I’m fine.”
His head tipped to the side to watch out of the window as he did his best to ignore it, ignore how it felt — the simmering beneath his skin was a heat he’d only felt once, and he wasn’t eager to think about his time in the cage.
The heat only continued to get worse somehow. The only rational explanation he could think of was that he’d run himself down after back-to-back cases and was a little under the weather. He did not, however, have an explanation for the way the heat seemed to simmer worse whenever he looked at her, heart thumping and arousal curling deeper into his gut whenever she spoke.
They got to their next motel just before sunset, with the intent of getting a good night’s sleep before either finding another case in the morning or just heading back to the bunker. If he was being honest Sam just wanted his bed at home, but he didn’t really have the energy to argue with his brother, not when every single thought in his head was swirling over how he felt, over her.
The other two were talking as Sam forced himself to get out of the car, too focused on the drumming pulse in his ears to listen to what they were saying, so when he rounded the car towards the trunk and a hand landed on his arm he jumped at the burn. White hot like electricity. He flinched and his eyes shot up to meet her eyes, which were quickly growing concerned.
“Sam?” She frowned, and his eyes locked onto the plush of her lips. He knew they’d feel good against his, soft and warm, the little ‘o’ shape they’d make as she moaned underneath him— “Sam? Are you okay?”
Guilt flooded him immediately and he forced his gaze away. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t just think about her like that, it was disgusting.
He didn’t even utter an excuse, just quickly rushed into the room before he could make things worse.
“Sam?” Dean had followed him in and Sam grit his teeth. He’d been planning on sorting himself out in the shower again, at this point it was legitimately a necessity. “What the hell is up with you? You ignored her the whole drive-“ he cut himself off when Sam turned to face him. “What’s wrong?”
There wasn’t even any point in insisting he was fine anymore. The heat just kept getting hotter, he felt sweaty and weird and still thinking about that dream. “I just… have a fever.”
Dean scowled as he stepped forwards and reached up to touch Sam’s forehead, even as he tried to bat his hand away. “Why didn’t you say anything in the car? You’re burning up, man,” there was a pause before he sighed. “Call Rowena.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because what happened yesterday isn’t sitting right with me and if anyone can make sure that witch didn’t do something to you it’s her.”
Even through the simmering beneath his skin Sam’s lips twitched. “You’re willingly asking me to call Rowena?”
“She’s still a bitch but she can be useful sometimes,” Dean rolled his eyes. “Just call her.”
Much to Sam’s dismay and an I told you so from Dean, Rowena also suspected that something was wrong after Sam called and explained his symptoms — well, not all of them, he didn’t dare mention the dream or his problem — and cut the call off with a chirpy confirmation that she’d get to him as quickly as she could.
It was dark out by the time Rowena got there. All of the windows in the room had been opened as wide as they could in hopes that the cold night air would do something to help the fire in his veins, but nothing was helping. His chest had tightened with the rising heat, there was absolutely no doubt that something was wrong.
“Well aren’t you a… sight.” Rowena hummed as soon as she stepped through the door, taking her time like she was just there for tea. The silk of her dress caught in the draft from the open door, blowing forwards with a harshness that should have been brought with cold. Sam didn’t feel it, the wind that hit his skin did nothing to soothe the burn. If not for the fact that she was visiting he would’ve stripped down to his boxers already.
He stood from where he’d been perched on the edge of his bed, fists clenched tight. “Rowena-”
“Calm down,” she raised a hand as she closed the door behind her. “I’m here to help, aren’t I?” Another gust of wind blew through the open windows and she pulled a face. “My it’s cold in here, isn’t it?”
“No,” Sam grit out, chest heaving with heavy breaths as he watched her step forwards. It had become harder to ignore the worse it got, the memory of the cage, what Lucifer had done to him. Burned his skin until it was all gone and then healed him to start all over again. The smell of his own flesh was something he was never going to forget, part of him kept expecting to look down and see his arms on fire. But they weren’t, like some cruel trick on his mind. If not for Dean noticing that something was wrong he would’ve been convinced that he was going crazy again. “It’s hot, I’m hot, I can’t fucking cool down it feels like I’m on fire.”
Rowena’s tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth as she came to a stop directly in front of him. “Hm. Take your shirt off.”
“Huh?”
Her eyes rolled. “I need to see if you have any magic attached to you, and it’s easier without your clothes in the way,” perfectly manicured nails dragged against the fabric of his t-shirt before she smirked. “Trust me, I don’t mind.”
Maybe he wouldn’t have been so quick to agree on a regular day, especially with her looking at him like that, but he was both desperate for this to be over and also used to Rowena being Rowena, so there wasn’t much hesitation as he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it up and over his head, dropping it down onto the floor.
Rowena made a show of looking him over, lips curled upwards at the corners.
“Rowena-”
“Alright, Samuel,” she sighed. “Forgive me for finding some enjoyment in the situation. Sit.” Her hand pressed to his chest and he flinched, expecting to feel the same burn that he’d felt from her earlier that day when she’d touched his arm, but Rowena’s palm felt cool against his flushed skin. It was actually nice, and he breathed out shakily as he allowed himself to be pushed backwards until he was seated on the edge of the mattress.
Rowena stepped forwards until she was stood between his legs, and then her hand was on his chest again. A pressure pushed through his ribs and he stiffened in the effort to keep still and let her search for any lingering magic attached to him. His eyes lifted to her face and he watched as her expression went from focused, to shocked, to… amused?
“Your symptoms,” she met his eyes as she pulled her hand back. “Tell me.”
“I’ve already told you-”
“Tell me again.”
Sam huffed out a frustrated breath and pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m hot, it feels like I’m burning from the inside out.”
She just continued to watch him.
“What?” He didn’t mean to snap but he was seriously losing his patience.
“Your other symptoms?” He opened his mouth to protest but she held up a hand. “Just be honest, Samuel. I think I know what the curse is.”
His jaw clenched. He’d never actually vocalised his crush to anybody before. Sure, maybe Dean wasn’t completely oblivious to have not noticed, but he’d never outright admitted it.
“I had this… dream, uh,” he ran a hand over his face, the heat in his cheeks now from embarrassment. “And it kinda stuck with me.”
Rowena was smirking. “And what was the nature of this wee dream, hm?”
He glowered at her. “I’m sure you know.”
“Oh I do, but it’s way more fun if you tell me,” he just continued glaring and she sighed. “You boys just have to suck the fun out of everything, don’t you?” She moved to sit on the bed beside him, and after adjusting her dress over her legs she turned to face him. “It’s called mali desiderii.”
“What does that mean?”
Her lips twitched again, like she was really trying to be serious. “It’s a curse that attaches itself to your deepest desire and makes you, well, want it.”
Sam swallowed around the dryness in his throat. “How dangerous is it?”
Rowena lifted a hand to gently circle her fingers around his wrist, her cool fingertips pressed against his pulse point felt nice. “You’re already burning up, and it’s only going to get worse. Unless you sate the desire, you’ll completely burn up from the inside out.”
He felt his stomach drop. “It’ll kill me?”
“Mhm, in a day or so, unless you deal with your little… problem,” She gestured to his jeans with a wicked smirk that made him want the ground to open up beneath him, before she sighed, a more genuine expression settling on her features. “Sam… she’s next door.” Her hand laid on his arm though that time he stiffened.
“I can’t just—”
“It doesn’t matter if you can’t. You’re going to have to,” she told him firmly, before her lips curved upwards again. “You never know, it might be something the both of you need. She’s smart, Samuel. If a big strong man came knocking on my door asking me to help him out, I’d… well, like I said, she’s smart.”
He grit his teeth and breathed out sharply. This was so stupid. She was his best friend, he couldn’t just turn up at her door and demand to have sex with her. “Isn’t there a cure or something?”
“This is the only way,” Rowena didn’t give him much time to think on it before her hand was on her knee, squeezing, then she stood up. “You’ll be fine. Trust me, out of all the things you could’ve been cursed with, this is definitely the most… pleasurable.”
At her smirk his stomach twisted uncomfortably, but still he stood up to let her out of the room. He didn’t bother to put his shirt back on, stood in the doorway as he watched Rowena climb into her car — a Porsche that he was certain didn’t belong to her the last time they spoke — the breeze of the night doing absolutely nothing to cool him down. As she pulled out of the parking lot he’d had a mind to go and tell Dean what was wrong, but he paused when his eyes landed on her door next to his.
Sate the desire, Rowena had said. Maybe on a typical day he wouldn’t have wanted to even approach the topic with her, save himself a lifetime of embarrassment when she inevitably turned him down, but this was his only shot. And the thought of finally having her was enough for his body to roll with another wave of aroused heat.
“Fucking crazy,” he breathed, hand lifting to knock on the door once he was stood in front of it. “This is fucking crazy.”
The door opened relatively quick and then there she was. She’d changed into her pyjamas since getting to the motel, a t-shirt and shorts that left him unable to help his gaze dragging up the length of her legs, imagining dipping between them. She really wasn’t making this fucking easy for him, was she?
“Sam?” She blinked, worried eyes widening as her gaze dragged downwards, and embarrassed he remembered he hadn’t put his shirt back on. Christ, this probably looked like the opening to a shitty porno. By the sounds of it, that’s how it was going to end up. Either that or he was going to die.
“Sorry,” he quickly blurted out, chest heaving with heavy breaths as his eyes fell down away from her face, before he caught himself staring at her legs and he had to look back up digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Get a grip. “Sorry, uh… can I talk to you?”
Instantly she stepped aside. “Are you okay? Why was Rowena here?”
His teeth ground together with the realisation that Dean hadn’t told her that anything was wrong, either not to worry her or because he was just leaving it to Sam he wasn’t sure. He stepped into her room and exhaled sharply. The heat was getting bad, hands trembling as he pushed sweaty hair out of his face and turned back to face her.
“Sam you don’t look so good,” her eyebrows were pinched together in such worry. “Can I get you anything? Do you want some water? You look a little sick, you sit down and I’ll just-”
“It’s a curse,” he just got out. “One of the witches yesterday cursed me. That's why Rowena was here.”
She looked… god, the look on her face, she looked so devastated for him. “I- cursed? How bad is it? Are you okay?” She rushed forwards and touched his arm sympathetically, and usually it would’ve been nice — she was sweet, she was always physically affectionate but always more so with him than Dean. There had been many times they’d held hands on a hunt when either one of them was unnerved, or on nights where they could only get a motel with two beds or had to sleep in the car she always chose to sleep with him. Curled up with no choice but to hold each other in a small twin bed or the backseat of the Impala he’d always felt comfortable with her.
But her touch then on his arm, it felt like being singed. He jerked backwards and hated the way she looked at him when he did it. “Sorry,” he breathed her name like a plea, the last thing he wanted was to make her feel bad with what he was about to ask of her. “I’m… hot. The curse is burning me up and if I don’t do something about it then I’ve… got a day.”
“A day?” Her voice broke and it shattered something deep in his soul. “Sam, I… Rowena has a cure right?”
His eyes squeezed shut tightly and he took in a sharp breath. This was it. “It’s a, uh… well, there’s one thing I can do but it’s- I’d be asking a lot of you.”
Her response was immediate. “Anything.”
Steeling himself he finally just pushed out, “it’s a sex curse.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“It’s a- god, this is so stupid. It’s a sex curse. If I don’t have sex in the next day then I’ll die.” Saying it out loud he realised just how ridiculous it was, how this really was just some fucking stupid porno, something he’d catch Dean quickly shutting off in the motel whenever he got back. “It really is stupid huh? Fuck, I don’t even-”
“Okay.”
It was his turn to blink at her. “What?”
“I said okay,” she hesitated before stepping forwards, like she was expecting him to jerk away from her again. “I’m not gonna let you… the curse isn’t gonna take over, okay? Of all the ways we’ve dealt with curses before this is actually a pretty easy fix.”
He was just staring at her. “But I can’t ask you to-”
“You aren’t asking, I’m offering,” the control in her voice made his cock throb in his jeans and he bit back a groan. It’d be nice to finally get some fucking relief. “This is gonna be easier than you going out to a bar and finding someone, Sam, and I trust you,” a pause then, her voice went softer. “And you trust me. Or at least I hope so.”
“‘Course I do,” he breathed. “But-”
“Sam,” she stepped forwards until she was right in front of him then, until he could smell her perfume and feel her breath hit his chest. “Let me. Please.”
Any restraint he’d been clinging onto snapped in that moment.
Giving in to the curse, at first, felt like being possessed, like watching from inside his body as he acted upon it. His hands cupped her jaw as he stepped closer, tipping down until he caught her mouth with his, hard, all desperation and lust as he licked and sucked at her bottom lip only just hesitating enough to not slip his tongue into her mouth immediately. She was making soft breathy sounds through her nose and it was making everything worse, his veins burned hotter and his cock was so achingly hard that he couldn’t help his hands sliding down to her hips and gripping hard as he started walking them back to her bed.
But he was shaking, his breathing all heavy and hot in his throat, the fever was still clinging to his bones and the curse made it hard to think about anything. His hands had just slipped beneath her shirt when she leaned back with a huff of breath, her palm pressed flat against his chest.
“Sam.” She breathed, heavy but concerned, eyes all soft and crinkled at the corners as she looked up at him.
“Yeah?”
Her fingers travelled down to gently start threading the leather of his belt through his buckle. The sight of her hands so close to where he needed them was almost enough to just cum in his boxers thinking about her. Again.
“Let me… let me take care of you, okay?” She breathed, pulling the belt free and then working open his zipper. “You’re shaking, let me do this,” she leaned forwards and kissed his chest and he shuddered. “Let me help you.”
All he could do was nod dumbly, hands squeezing at her hips as she unzipped his jeans and pushed them down his legs until he could step out of them. She hesitated as he fingers touched the waistband of his boxers, but he nodded, and she pulled those down too.
For a moment he was too distracted by the curse to really take much in, just panting softly as he waited for the inevitable relief. But when he did catch sight of her face, the way her eyes drifted down to his cock, hard and leaking like it had been all day, the way she swallowed, fuck.
“Come here.” He breathed, lustful and needy and possessive all in one, and then his mouth was on hers again as he took the final two steps back to her bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress. Sam moved to pull her in immediately but she paused to quickly slip her shorts and underwear down her legs, and only then did she let him pull her onto his lap, straddling his thighs.
If he was a little more with it, he’d have felt bad. In all the times he’d thought of being able to finally have her, it had gone differently. He’d been sweet and kissed her softly, taken her to dinner or for some drinks, they’d dressed nice and he’d complimented how pretty she was. He’d been gentle with her, taken his time, hadn’t wanted to rush it. She deserved better than the rushed desperation coursing through his veins, but he couldn’t help himself.
Sam was kissing her again once she was close enough. A hand slid up her back, soft skin beneath his palm, before he gripped her shirt and panted out, “can I take this off?”
Only when she nodded did he grip the hem and lift it up and over her head, dropping it on the floor with the rest of their clothes.
He allowed himself one moment to stare and take her in; chest rising and falling heavily, hardened nipples, soft thighs slotted over his like they belonged, her lips kiss-bitten and wet with their spit. Sam wasn’t entirely sure which part was the most devastating.
“God-” he choked, fingers curling around her hipbones again. “Look at you.”
Her chin tucked towards her chest all bashfully, and for a moment the flicker of guilt touched him. She deserved better than this.
But then her fingers wrapped around his cock and through the white-hot pleasure any other thoughts were wiped from his mind.
A grunt escaped his throat and his eyes squeezed shut, his grip on her hips tightening. “Shit-”
She shifted on top of him, lifting up on her knees to line his cock up with her entrance, and even if the feeling of his tip kissing her folds was enough for his head to spin a little he still stopped her with a squeeze of her hips.
“Are you ready? I mean…” Sam wasn’t stupid. He knew he was big, bigger than most. When he’d been with Jess he’d learned exactly how many fingers he needed to stretch her out before she could comfortably take him. He needed to feel her more than anything but he didn’t want to hurt her.
“It’s okay,” she breathed, and leaned down to kiss him again. “I can take it.”
Her tongue pushed past his lips and he moaned into her mouth as she slowly sank down onto him.
Nothing he had ever felt compared to that moment.
Charged, sparking pleasure exploded in his gut, shooting through his veins making every nerve ending tingle. Fuck. This was the relief he’d been craving, the lust he hadn’t been able to sort out himself with his hand or how much he could imagine in his head.
Her pussy squeezed tightly around him as she sank down slowly and for a moment all he could do was pant into the skin of her neck as he held onto her, grunting into her throat the deeper she took him and the tighter she clenched around him. Once he was sheathed all the way inside of her his breath punched out of him heavily. Somehow he hadn’t blown his load right then.
“You feel-” he whined as she shifted, rubbing against her gummy walks and spending more sparks of pleasure through him, “so fucking good, that’s- yeah, that’s it.”
She shifted again and that time it was her who whined, her palms hot on his shoulders as they grabbed at the muscle there. “Sam,” she breathed his name against his ear. “You’re so deep.”
He had a feeling he’d be getting hard over that sentence for the rest of his life.
“Can I-” her voice was trembling, and when he glanced up at her she looked a fucking picture — eyes all blown out, lips parted and panting, expression pinched in pleasure. “Can I keep moving?”
He couldn’t find his voice so he just nodded, and at the first shift of her hips his eyes rolled back and he moaned.
Time seemed to blur. He found himself able to release the death grip on her hips and instead smoothed his palms over her back, as his head tipped forwards to lick and suck at her neck. He’d never felt anything like this, it was like being high. Each squeeze of her cunt around his cock stole the breath from his lungs, made the magic from the curse flare inside of him in a way that had his hairs standing on end and his cock throbbing where it was held deep inside of her.
Noises were pulled from him without any of his say so. Keening whined and gasps of her name whenever she shifted. Her fingers tangled in his hair at one point and pulled and he almost completely lost it then.
She didn’t seem to be in a different state to him, if he knew any better he’d have said she was cursed from the way she was clinging onto him, panting his name and squeezing his cock inside of her.
This completely blew his dream out of the water.
“Hah- I’m-” It took an embarrassingly short time to get there, but given the heat bubbling inside of him he really did need the release sooner rather than later. “Fuck honey m’gonna cum-”
Her breath was hot on his cheek as her temple pressed to his, hips rolling and cunt squeezing along with her whimpered, “please Sammy.”
Sam watched as her hand dipped between them to rub at her clit with each roll of her hips and with the next time his tip brushed against her cervix he was gone.
He was certain that the sound that left him then he had never made before. Almost animalistic, in any other situation he would’ve found himself embarrassed, but the way pleasure shot up his spine, through his veins, made him shudder and gasp into her throat as his orgasm literally whitened his vision, he wasn’t in control of anything he was doing. It literally took his breath away, made his ears ring, one moment he was holding the back of her neck and kissing at her throat and the next he had his forehead pressed to her shoulder as he heaved breaths against her chest.
She must’ve cum too, not that he’d been able to even realise in the moment, but she’d also slumped into him, arms draped over his shoulders as she melted into him.
For one long moment, it was the best he’d ever felt.
“Hey,” she eventually whispered, leaned back to meet his eyes with hers, all soft and caring. “How do you feel? Did it work?”
“I think so.” He murmured, still trying to catch his breath.
His hands were more gentle on her hips as he helped her move off of him, hissing through his teeth as his cock slipped out of her, though he rubbed her back once she was sat on the bed beside him.
There was a flare inside of his chest, and then it hit him. That time it was almost unbearable, left him breathless with the fire that rolled through him. His eyes squeezed shut and his fists curled up as he winced in pain.
It hadn’t worked.
“Sam?” Her hand burned against his back. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He couldn’t help it, tears stung in his eyes then. “It didn’t fucking work.”
His breathing was sharp as he looked back up at her then, and the way her expression dropped made everything else sink in. What the fuck was the point of that? Sure, he’d wanted her for a long time, but not like that. She deserved to be taken care of, treated like an angel and kissed sweetly and loved on. Instead she’d had him like that — sweaty and gross and needy — and she’d had to do all the work. Let alone the fact it was all pointless anyways, he was still going to die.
“I thought you said Rowena said it’d work,” she breathed, voice so soft and scared. “What did she say to you? Maybe we did it wrong or something.”
Sam pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes hard, hands shaking. “She said I need to sate my desire.”
She frowned at him then. “That doesn’t mean sex, Sam.”
“Hm?”
“Your… desire, that doesn’t have to mean sex,” she turned to face him a little more. Their lack of clothes and post-orgasm exhaustion was momentarily ignored as her hand found his and squeezed. The heat made his fingers tingle. “It just means what you want the most. And I mean it obviously wasn’t sex with me,” her fingers squeezed his. “So what is it?”
His breath left him in a rush. “You.”
She blinked at him. “But it didn’t-”
“Not the sex,” his hand squeezed hers tightly. “You. You’re my best friend and I… I’m in love with you. I don’t even know when it happened but you’re all I can think about all the time.”
She was just staring at him with those wide eyes of hers, mouth opening and closing a few times before she could actually form a response. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” She eventually pressed, soft.
A bitter laugh left him then. “What would be the point? I care more about you than what I want. I was happy to just stay friends- I am happy to do that,” he pushed out a sharp breath and dragged his fingers through his hair. “But it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. Because it’s not going to happen and I’m going to die.”
“Sam,” her hand gripped his tightly and when he looked up at her face she was scowling. “You’re an idiot.”
Before he could even think of a response she’d leaned in and then her mouth was on his. The kiss was soft, more gentle than their lust fuelled kisses from before, the plus warmth of her lips against his making his gut curl tighter than when she’d been grinding on his cock.
Her forehead pressed to his as she pulled away and her whispered words hit his ears, “I love you too.”
Sam leaned back enough to look at her. “What?” He breathed. “I- don’t just say that because I want to hear it.”
“Sam,” her fingers were gentle as they cupped his face. “I love you.”
The fire disappeared with a tingling hiss like he’d been dunked in ice water. Each heated nerve ending and muscle was instantly soothed with a coolness that made him groan as she kissed him again. Soothing cold ran up the length of his spine, down his arms, into his fingertips as he cupped her face and kissed her, lovingly, his tongue sweeping over her lips and pressing into her mouth saying everything that in that moment he couldn’t.
“God,” he breathed, all shaky, fingers stroking through her hair. “You- how long?”
She giggled as she looked up at him, eyes all crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “A while,” her hand lifted and laid flat on his chest. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” he sighed, fingertips gentle on her skin. “I think it broke it. I think you… you’re incredible.”
Her smile was like the sun. “Ditto.”
Sam laughed, the lightest he’d felt all day, both of them smiling too much when he went to kiss her again and he ended up kissing her teeth. “Ditto? All of that just to get a ditto?”
She was giggling against his mouth as his hands smoothed over soft skin, fingers tracing down her spine as he leaned over her, cupping the backs of her thighs so he could manoeuvre her onto her back. Laid beneath him like that, her pretty eyes and her pretty mouth and all of her that loved him, the feeling pressing against his ribs was no longer a heat, a curse, it was something much more magical.
His head dipped to kiss along her throat as her thighs pressed against his hips, drawing him closer. “I love you,” he whispered into her skin, a promise. “I love you.”
She was still wet from before, her chest brushing against his with each needy pant she made, so it was like second nature for his hand to reach between them until he could press his cock up against her, dragging the tip through her wetness until he caught her entrance and sank in slowly, the grip of her cunt around him making him moan into her throat as his hand found hers, fingers lacing through hers and pressing it down onto the mattress.
“Sam,” she moaned as his hips rolled, his cock nudging that soft spongy spot on the inside of her walls that made her whine when he hit it right. “Oh- fuck that’s-”
His tongue soothed over bruises he was sucking into the skin of her neck as he fucked her into the mattress gently, hands carressing and worshiping her. She deserved better than him, he knew that, deep down he knew she deserved everything he couldn’t give her and more.
But she wanted him. She wanted him. How could he deny her?
He moaned against her ear as he started fucking her a little deeper. His hand slid down her side to cup the back of one of her thighs, bringing it up and over his hip to press further into her slick cunt with each thrust.
There was a haziness in the room, not caused by a veil of a dream or curse, but the kind of desire that made somebody’s head spin with it. The bed beneath them a bare, plain motel standard, wales just as plain, but his focus was solely on her beneath him.
This wasn’t a dream. It was real. He had her.
“Sam I’m-” her voice trembled with each gasp she let out. Her nails dug into his shoulders that sent delicious sparks of pain down his spine where they dug in. Her cunt was clenched tightly around him, he could tell she was close, the way her gummy walls fluttered around his cock each time he sank himself back inside of her. “Please.”
He would do anything for her if she begged him like that.
“You’re okay, honey,” he breathed into her throat with another kiss. The image of their last round briefly flashed in his mind, her fingertips pressed to her clit when she got close, and he removed his hand from her thigh to dip between them. They were both soaked with leftover cum from before and new aroused slick that collected at the base of his cock. His fingers dragged through the wetness briefly before the pads of his fingers pressed against her clit where he started rubbing small circles that made her clench tighter around him, a whine punching up and out of her throat that made his gut clench. Fuck. “That's it, good girl, just feel it.”
Her hands gripped tight to his shoulders and she whined right in his ear. He almost came right then. “I’m- Sam-”
She shuddered against him as she came and Christ. The feeling of her pussy pulsing around his cock in waves as her orgasm dragged a breathless moan out of her throat was too much for him to handle. He only managed two more thrusts before he followed her, groaning into her skin as he rutted twice more into her before finally stilling on top of her.
For a moment, time didn’t move.
His fingers stroked feather-light up and across her ribs as he dotted kisses against her neck and jaw, until he finally lifted his head to press a soft kiss to her mouth.
“Hi.” She whispered when he leaned back and he smiled, a sweet loving thing.
“Hi, you,” he murmured, stroking her ribs. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, all flushed as she stole another kiss, her fingers stroking his hair made him relax. A thought nagged at him that he was sweaty and gross and he sighed, expression shifting to something a little more serious.
“I’m sorry.”
She frowned at him. “For what? Sam that was… that was great.”
He shook his head. “You should’ve had something better. I’m… I’m gross and sweaty and it was so rushed and I should’ve taken my time with you and… I’m just sorry.”
Her hand lifted to cup his cheek. “Don’t say that,” she leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and he just about melted. “We broke the curse. I just saved your life, mister, I think that’s pretty great to me.”
He was still frowning. “I know but-”
“Sam,” Her finger pressed to his lips. “It was good. I promise.”
She kissed him again, soft and slow and gentle, and time melted again.
Eventually they pulled away from each other, and since he hadn’t taken care of her in the moment, he made sure to completely care for her in the aftermath. He got a wet cloth from the bathroom and gently wiped her clean before himself, and kissed her forehead before he left again to run the shower for her so that the water would be nice and warm by the time she stepped in. There was a relaxing domesticity to the way they stepped around each other with gentle shared kisses and whispered comforts until she took up the shower first.
Once the room was full of the scent of her shampoo and the gentle pitter of the shower on the other side of the bathroom door he found his phone and thought it was best he told Rowena it had worked.
“Samuel,” she greeted in that delighted tone of hers she had whenever they spoke. “How's the heat?”
“The uh, the curse is broken. I’m fine now.”
He could picture her grin through the phone. “Marvellous. I knew you could do it. It hasn’t been that long since I left, dearie, she must’ve been quite eager to help.”
He ignored the heat that rose to his face. “Yeah, well… thanks for your help, Ro.”
“You’re welcome, pet. I got started on the cure just in case you didn’t have it in you so I’ll send it your way once I’m finished in case you happen to ever need it.”
Sam stilled. “You told me there wasn’t a cure.”
“Aye, I suppose I did. It’s a pretty simple potion, actually. I just thought this way would be a little more… beneficial for you and your love.”
“Rowena-”
“I’ve got to go now, Samuel, but I’m glad you’re feeling better.”
The line went dead and he lowered his phone, sitting with what she’d just told him for a moment, that there had been a cure, a simple one. But then his eyes trailed up to the closed bathroom door, the soft humming behind it reaching his ears, and he just laughed.
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