$ log - you got annoyed with vampire!dean winchester's constant whining for blood, so you finally satiate him!
$ warn --gn!reader --dom!reader --top!reader --sub!dean --fingersucking --degradation --hair-pulling --power-dynamics
$ wc -w 1.3k
$ cd masterlist
$ tag @twentytomidnight !
The bunker was suffocatingly quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the ancient ventilation system and the obnoxious, repetitive drone of the television. The blue light of the screen washed over the room in cold, sickly waves, highlighting the tension in your shoulders. On the couch, Dean was a restless, irritating presence. He wasn't just hungry; he was vocal about it.
Every groan, every sharp exhale, and every snide, half hearted comment about how "empty" he felt was designed to grate on your nerves. He was leaning into that classic Winchester bravado, using sass to mask the desperation clawing at his insides.
He shifted his weight, the leather of the couch creaking under him, and threw another biting remark about how "some people" were being stingy with the good stuff.
It was a performance, a way to keep the monster at bay with a layer of Winchester snark, but you could see the way his eyes tracked the pulse in your neck.
You rolled your eyes, the sheer audacity of his whining finally snapping your patience.
Without a word, you crossed the small distance between you. Before he could launch into another pathetic, hungry plea, you reached down and gripped his shoulders, forcing him off the couch. He let out a startled, undignified huff as you pushed him down, forcing him to his knees between your legs.
He blinked up at you, the confusion momentarily breaking through his mask. He tried to recover, tilting his head back with a lopsided, sleazy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What’s this?" he murmured, his voice rough and thick with a hunger he could no longer hide. "You finally decided to give in?"
You didn't answer.
Instead, you reached for a spare blade on the coffee table, the cold steel catching the dim light. With a deliberate motion, you pricked the pads of your fingertips, the small droplets of blood welling up instantly. Dean’s pupils dilated, his gaze locking onto your hand with a predatory intensity that made the air between you heavy and thick.
You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair to tilt his head back, exposing his throat and forcing him to look up at you. The sleazy grin faltered, replaced by a raw, desperate yearning. You pressed your fingers against his lips, the scent of your blood hitting him like a physical blow.
"Suck," you commanded, your voice low and devoid of warmth.
He didn't hesitate.
The moment his lips parted, the last of his bravado vanished. He lunged forward with a low, guttural sound, his mouth enveloping your fingertips with a desperate, uncoordinated hunger. The sensation was electric, the warmth of his mouth, the frantic pull of his tongue as he tried to draw every precious drop from your skin.
As he fed, you didn't make it easy. You leaned back, watching him with a look of amused disdain, your free hand winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
When he began to suck too hard, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your fingertips with a sharp, stinging pressure, you gave a firm, punishing tug. He let out a muffled, choked sound against your hand, nearly gagging as you forced his rhythm to break, making him struggle for air before he could settle back into the feast.
"Look at you," you whispered, your voice dripping with a mocking sweetness that cut through the heavy silence of the bunker. "Needed your best friend this bad, huh, Dean?" You let out a sharp, mocking huff of laughter, watching the way his throat worked as he swallowed greedily.
The sight of the legendary hunter, reduced to a kneeling, desperate animal at your feet, was a delicious irony. "Fucking bastard. Just using me for blood, aren't you? All that whining just to get you to this point."
He tried to pull back for a second, a flash of wounded pride flickering in his dark, blown out eyes. But you tightened your grip on his hair, pulling his head back sharply to keep him anchored. He let out a low, needy whine that was far more animal than man.
"Don't you dare stop," you hissed, your voice a blend of command and condescension. You leaned forward, your eyes tracing the frantic movement of his jaw. You deliberately slid your fingers deeper into his mouth, forcing him to accommodate the intrusion of your knuckles as he struggled to swallow around them.
The sensation was thick and wet, the friction of his tongue against your skin sending a jolt of sensation up your arm. He let out a muffled, desperate groan, his eyes rolling back in a trance of pure, unadulterated gluttony.
Every time he tried to regain a semblance of his usual composure, you’d remind him of his place, either by tugging his hair until his scalp stung or by shoving your fingers deeper, making him choke slightly on the sheer intensity of the offering.
He was a mess of contradictions, a hunter, a hero, and right now, a starving dog at your feet, completely undone by the very person he usually tried to impress with his bravado. You watched him, a smirk playing on your lips, savouring the absolute dominance of the moment.
The heavy, rhythmic sound of his swallowing finally began to taper off, replaced by a softer, more rhythmic sensation. You felt the wet, sandpaper texture of his tongue performing a slow, sweeping lick across your fingertips, a feline, satisfied gesture that signalled the beast had finally been satiated. The frantic desperation in his throat smoothed out into a low, contented hum.
With a smirk of pure triumph, you withdrew your digits from his mouth. The sudden absence of your skin left him looking momentarily dazed, his lips glistening and redder than usual.
Before he could even attempt to reclaim his dignity, you brought your hand down, delivering a series of sharp, stinging smacks against his jaw. The sound of palm hitting skin echoed in the quiet bunker, treating him no differently than a disobedient pet.
"There we go," you mocked, your voice dripping with condescending satisfaction. "Bloodthirst all satisfied now, huh? You'll stop whining like a fucking cunt now?”
Dean sat there for a moment on the floor, his chest heaving as he fought to pull air back into his lungs. The predatory haze in his eyes was slowly receding, replaced by a heavy, post feed lethargy that made him look uncharacteristically soft. He wiped a stray smear of red from his chin with the back of his hand, his gaze following you as you stood up with effortless grace.
"Yeah," he finally managed, his voice a husky, wrecked mumble. It wasn't quite the suave Dean Winchester the world knew; it was the voice of a man who had just been thoroughly tamed. He offered a faint, sheepish nod of thanks, his eyes lingering on you with a mixture of lingering hunger and newfound respect.
You didn't linger to bask in his gaze or wait for a witty retort that likely wouldn't come. You had already exerted your dominance, and the satisfaction of seeing him so thoroughly undone was enough.
Turning on your heel, you began to walk away, the rhythmic click of your footsteps on the bunker floor the only sound in the heavy silence.
"You better rest up, Dean," you called back over your shoulder, your voice regaining its usual sharp, teasing edge. "I don't want to see you being a bratty little bitch on the next hunt just because you're feeling sluggish."
You didn't look back to see if he was going to throw a snarky comment your way or simply sink back into the couch in a blood drunk stupor. You already knew the answer. He was satisfied, he was quiet, and for once, he was exactly where you wanted him: humbled.
Hi! Sorry in advance if I came across an outdated post, but I saw one on my feed from you asking for small smut ideas, how about Castiel with a fixation on boobs? Please and thank you, of course 🙏
Oh and also, rules page said to add this, so here! 🦞
Okay so I hope you know I LOVE this prompt!! If you like this, you may also like these little mini-drabbles: bloody spit kink & yoga - only briefly mentioning reader's chest but it's all I have for now, more shall definitely come though!
Explicit/16+ - Cas has a fixation on tits, there's a lotta boob talk here lol
Cas adores every single part of you. He loves you for you. But some part of him fixates on your tits.
It's nothing crazy, he just feels strangely drawn to your chest during sex.
If you're too sore for him to fuck you "properly" but you still want to get him off, because you're such a kind and generous person, he'll fuck your tits every time. He's not opposed to your thighs at all, but there's something different about you breasts, something that makes his orgasm crash through his vessel in another, beautiful way.
The poor little sweetheart worries about you giving him head. He doesn't want you to hurt yourself and it looks more painful than it is when you gag around him. He doesn't realize you enjoy it until you tell him, and then he's still not sure because it can't be fun for you. Surely.
But when you do suck him off, he always pulls out and cums on your tits. If you really want to taste him, he'll shoot ropes down your throat, but just every other time, he feels something almost human when he sees his seed dripping down your chest.
He loves leaving little love bites to the tops of your boobs, where they're bound to be seen if you wear something too revealing. He's happy for you to wear whatever you like, but after Dean's gaze lingers a little too long and you get a few comments from old drunks at a bar, he's sure to lay him claim. He always gets his own over his neck to match, he sees it as a much better version of couples t-shirts.
It may have started with porn, or when you first showed him this side to relationships. You began slowly, guiding his hand to your chest, letting out a soft little sound when his thumb brushed over your nipple accidentally, making him determined to learn how to pull more sounds from you.
He was the perfect student too, but that's a story for another day.
He learned fast though, tongue and teeth toying with you, bringing you to a whining peak with your hand fisted in his hair, tight, holding him against you.
And even outside of sex, the attachment was still there.
When your back was pressed up against his chest, either on the couch or in bed, a hand or two would find their way to your chest, just gently resting, your breasts being his own little arm rests. Occasionally, stress balls, but not around Dean. He gets strangely weirded out when Cas starts groping you out of the blue. Odd.
Possibly is favourite of all though has to be when you're laying in bed together and you tug him up to rest his head on your chest. You card your fingers ever so softly through his hair, peppering kisses to the top of his head, so soft and cozy and perfect. Everything he's spent millennia watching other people have.
wordcount: 1737
summary: Ben was always around, even back then. Your tiny hands and selfless love entranced him from the start, molding the hardened veteran into a softer version of himself. Now, you’re back home and the feelings you once had for each other start shifting.
warnings: (dead dove-ish?) dbf!soldier boy, fem!reader, slowburn soldierboy x reader, age gap (early 20s & middle 40s), nostalgia, normal au (veteran soldier boy), swearing, mention of injury (broken bone), ben briefly opening up about his past, banter, hugs cause they deserve that shit n more– think that’s all for now !!!
An hour later, you were starting to understand why people left small towns. It wasn’t because they hated them, it was because everybody was all up on your business. Somewhere between Mrs.Jenkins asking if you were eating enough and Mr.Turner insisting you try his homemade jerky– your social battery had quietly crawled into a ditch and died.
The heat wasn't helping. Neither was the crowd. Or the fact that somebody had apparently decided one set of speakers wasn't enough, so now? Country music blasted from opposite ends of the street, creating some sort of audio warfare that probably violated several international laws. You adjusted the folded quilt beneath your arm and exhaled slowly, trying to settle down.
"Tired?"
You looked over. Ben stood beside you, squinting against the sun, his own expression looked suspiciously similar to yours. "No" A pause. "Yeah…"
"That’s what I thought"
You glanced around at the sea of people– the children running around with melted ice cream, the endless conversations, the booths, the noise, the goat. Especially the goddamn goat.
"How much longer d'you think we gotta stay?"
Ben followed your gaze. "As long as y’want to, kid" For a few seconds, the two of you simply stood there watching the crowd move around you. Then: "Wanna get outta here?"
You weren't entirely sure which one of y’all said it first– you just looked at each other in a quiet understanding, nodding.
"Yeah"
"Yep"
He rubs his jaw, stubble scratching against his skin– once again with the nervous tics. "We can come back later"
"Mhm" You nod along, at this point you’re just making up excuses for yourselves but hey, free country you guess.
"We already bought everything your daddy needed"
"Mhm"
"We've done our civic duty"
"Mhm" You nodded solemnly. "Think we've earned the right to disappear"
Ben looked downright relieved. "Now you're speakin' my language" A grin tugged at your mouth as he playfully pushed your head into his side, wrapping a strong arm around your shoulders to guide you through the crowd. Together, y'all slipped away from the square– the further you got from Main Street, the quieter everything became. The music faded first, then the chatter, then the smell of barbecue. Until eventually all that remained was the sound of gravel crunching beneath your shoes and summer breeze brushing through the trees. Honestly, it was nice. There were no questions about school, no strangers asking about your life, no country music trying to start a fistfight with itself. Just trees. Dirt. Summer heat. Beside you, Ben took a long breath. The tension left his shoulders so fast it was drastically visible. You immediately pointed at him. "There he is"
He frowned, glancing down at you. "Who?"
"The real you"
"The fuck’s that supposed to mean?"
You gestured vaguely behind y'all toward town. "Whoever the guy back there was, wasn't real"
"Kid, the guy back there was me"
"No"
"Yeah"
"Nope" Ben sighed and you took that as a victory. "See? You're doing it again"
"Doin' what?"
"The old man sigh" You reply simply, like it was the most obvious thing ever. (To be honest it kinda was)
"M'not old"
"Ben"
"M'not" He scoffs.
"Y’make noises every time you stand up"
"That's cause my knees sound like a fuckin’ gravel road"
You laughed and the corner of his mouth twitched up in response– just a little, but enough for you to notice and feel a small hint of satisfaction in your chest. The two of you continued down the path until eventually, you spotted the park through the trees. Still there– same rocky sand, same crooked bridge, same old rope swing somebody had probably died on at least twice. "Holy shit"
"Watch your mouth, kid"
"Sorry– s’just the death swing's still here"
Ben looked toward it. "Mhm"
"How has nobody taken that down?"
" 'Cause everybody's stupid"
Suddenly you remembered one of his old stories, those he told you on late nights on the porch, back in summers just like these. "Didn't you break your arm on that thing?"
"No" He immediately deflects, avoiding your gaze.
"You absolutely did" You can’t help but grin, fully turning towards him now.
He finally breaks, answering in a gruff murmur under his breath. "Wasn't my arm"
You looked over but Ben looked away once more– immediately suspicious. "...Ben?"
"Was my collarbone"
A disbelieving laugh escaped you– it wasn’t mocking, more so just like genuinely dumbfounded. "Shut. Up." You pause, looking up at him once more. "Did you cry?"
"No you little shit, I didn’t fuckin’ cry" He is trying his very best to stay his usual mean-self, but to be honest it wasn’t sounding the as convincing as it would if you were anyone else. Especially because of the stubborn hint of a smile on his lips.
"Oh my God, you did cry" He avoids answering, looking away towards the treeline like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. "Ben" You chuckle.
"What?"
"You cried"
The veteran looked deeply offended. "Got launched outta a tree and landed on a stump" He scoffs like that was enough answer and excuse by itself.
"That's not an answer"
"S’the only one y'gettin' "
You laughed again, his stubbornness always managed to pull that out of you– warm and easy. The sound echoed softly across the water. For a brief moment, Ben glanced over– the same way he always did when you laughed, like he couldn't help checking to make sure you were alright. Ben was many things– a man, a soldier, rough, strong… But soft? Soft wasn’t a part of him anyone got to see, though when he watched you laugh, it might’ve been the closest to that he ever got. For a few seconds, neither of y'all spoke. The breeze stirred the trees overhead, somewhere nearby, water lapped softly against the rocks– it was peaceful in a way Town Day never could be. You adjusted the quilt against your chest. "You really broke your collarbone, huh?"
Ben groaned immediately. "Christ, we still on that?"
"Absolutely"
"Was twenty-eight years ago"
"Which means you've had twenty-eight years t'come up with a better story"
"Why the Hell would I need a better story?" He scoffs, looking at you with an intrigued (reluctantly amused smile on his face.
"You got launched out of a tree"
"Kids do dumb shit"
"You were seventeen"
“So?” He retorts, bumping his side against yours. "Still counts"
A laugh escaped you to which Ben simply shook his head, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like smartass. The two of you reached the old bridge, the wood creaked beneath your feet exactly the way it always had– it was honestly surprising it hadn’t broken down yet. You rested your arms on the railing, looking down at the water.
"Y'ever think about leaving?" The question slipped out before you could stop it and Beside you, the man went quiet. Not uncomfortable quiet– thinking quiet.
After a moment, he shrugged, leaning against the railing beside you. "Once"
You looked over immediately, not expecting an answer much less one that agreed with you nor the idea of leaving. "Really?"
"Mhm"
"When?"
His jaw shifted slightly. "After the army"
That surprised you. You weren't entirely sure why. Maybe because Ben always felt permanent– like the trees, like the town itself, like something that had simply always been in your life. Besides, he usually didn’t talk about the army, nothing more than grumbled comments about how he ‘fought for this goddamn country’ or more grumpy old man stuff like that.
"What happened?"
He stared out across the water. "Nothin' "
"Ben" This time, when you call him out it isn’t firm or judging– it was softer, prodding with genuine interest for his answer.
"Nothin' happened" You gave him a look. He sighed, feeling the weight of your eyes on him even while looking away from you. "The truth?" He scratches his bearded jaw once more, mentally preparing himself for this conversation.
"Please"
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Got about two hours down the road"
You blinked. "Two hours?"
"Mhm"
"And then?"
Ben looked almost embarrassed at the admission. "Hated it"
A grin pulled at your mouth. "That's it?" You’ve known this man your whole life– sure, he complains more than anyone else. But he never avoids doing something, no matter how much he hates it– he’ll grumble his way through, but he’ll still pull through.
"That's it"
"What'd you hate?"
He gestured vaguely. "Too many people"
You snorted. "Rich coming from the man who just survived Town Day as an official town golden boy"
"Exactly" You laughed and Ben pointed at you– trying to look serious despite the dimples on his cheeks tempting to show through. "M'serious"
"Two hours?"
"Two hours" He nods along.
"So what'd you do?"
"Turned around"
"You drove back home?"
"Yep"
"Just like that?"
"Just like that" The smile never left your face. "You are unbelievable"
"Ain't"
"You drove two hours, decided the world was annoying, then came back"
Ben thought about it. "...When y'say it like that, sounds kinda stupid" He admits, a reluctant, gruff chuckle escaping from deep inside his chest.
"Kinda?"
"Alright, very fuckin’ stupid" The laughter that escaped you this time was loud enough to bounce across the water. The veteran looked over automatically– the same way he always did. Like hearing you laugh was something worth paying attention to. For a second, neither of you looked away but then Ben cleared his throat. "Anyway"
"There it is" You huff softly, bumping your shoulder against his.
"What’re you talkin’bout now?"
"The emotional vulnerability lasted six seconds before you coughed n’pushed it away like nothing happened"
"M'not emotionally vulnerable" He scoffs, sounding almost offended by the idea of him of all people, being open about his thoughts and emotions.
"Yeah you were"
"Was not" Stubborn asshole.
"You shared a feeling with me"
"Don't make it weird"
"Too late" You grinned at him.
"Christ on a cross…" A reluctant, choked out chuckle escapes him while he rubs a hand over his stubble. He gives in, shaking his head in fond disbelief before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer into his side. “Fuckin’ unbelievable, doll” You let him pull you in, settling into his embrace with a warm, comfortable smile. And despite all his complaining, all his grumbling, all his attempts to pretend otherwise-- Ben was smiling too.
Older Family Friend!Castiel who doesn’t care that you’re overly affectionate with him. He’ll let you throw your legs over his lap, hug his arm, drink from his beer, and wear his coat while he talks to the fire pit about how his morning church services went.
It’s just a you thing, right?
He’ll let you drag him to the roof of your family’s barn to stargaze and complain about undergrad or boy troubles. He’ll even let you ask about where he bought his belt buckle and he’ll tell you, your fingers grazing the polished metal wings as you wonder what he’d let you do if you asked to take it off.
no thoughts except for starfishing on ben… i need to be as close as physically possible to that man
Omg yes (for a sec I thought you said starfish!Ben and I was like....I think you've lost me here lol)
He would think you're kinda fucking weird but he wouldn't complain too much.
If you just flop onto him with your arms and legs stretched out, he's cocking a brow.
"The fuck're y'doin'?"
"Starfishing" You'd mutter, not really caring about how odd it sounds.
"What?"
"I like having you close, this is pretty much the closest I can get"
"Except when I'm insi-"
"BEN!"
"What? You know it's true, Sweetheart"
"Just- shut up and hold me"
"Fine"
He'd roll his eyes, but he'd wrap his arms around you anyways, silently happy you wanted him close, the fact that you wanted him at all was a miracle in of itself.
lowdown ☆ a week passes, training becomes routine again, and soldier boy decides it’s time for the knife to stop sitting by the sink.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2968 ride style ☆ tense
danger on the trail ☆ knife trauma, mentions of killing, rough training, soldier boy being blunt/crude, emotional avoidance, unresolved healing
liv's log ☆ yall are gonna go wild with chapter 23
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist
a week passes without the safehouse catching fire, which feels less like peace and more like everyone waiting for the spark to light.
that is what it becomes after the warehouse. waiting.
butcher hates it with his whole body. he paces, smokes, snaps at frenchie for taking too long with notes he does not understand and then snaps again when frenchie tells him to stop breathing over his shoulder. mm builds a wall of manuals across the kitchen table and lives behind it, highlighter in one hand, coffee in the other, looking more exhausted every day and somehow more stubborn for it. annie watches the windows. hughie gets quieter, then louder around you, almost as if he’s trying to prove that you both survived the warehouse. kimiko sits beside frenchie for hours.
and soldier boy stays. that is the part nobody says. not because it’s surprising anymore. because saying it would make it into something. he stays through the waiting, through butcher’s ugly little calculations, through frenchie muttering about vapor systems and reinforced restraint anchors, through every mention of a chamber that could hold two supes at once. he doesn’t soften around it. he doesn’t talk about it. sometimes he leaves the room when the conversation turns too clinical, jaw tight, shoulders locked, and nobody follows.
you don’t either. not because you don’t notice. you notice everything now. you notice the way his hand curls around a beer bottle when frenchie says temperature regulation. the way his eyes stop blinking when mm reads restraint failure analysis aloud. the way his chest stays dark, no glow, no heat, but his breathing changes just slightly, enough for you to hear it if you’re close.
and you are close. more often than either of you admits. not in front of everyone, not openly, not in a way butcher can weaponize with that awful little smile of his. but at night, when the safehouse thins out and the old war movies start lying on the tv again, you end up beside him on the couch. not always leaning into him. sometimes just close enough that your knee touches his thigh under a blanket he definitely does not put over you. some nights, you fall asleep there for an hour with his arm heavy behind you, not wrapped—not quite—but near enough that if your body tips, it has somewhere to land.
other nights, you make it to your room and wake before sunrise with him still half-sitting against the headboard, neck stiff, expression murderous, acting like spending another night there was some tactical decision instead of whatever it actually is.
you don’t ask.
he doesn’t explain.
training resumes without ceremony. no please, no challenge, no big dramatic conversation in the gym. you just show up one afternoon, wraps in hand, and he is already there, rolling his shoulders, looking at the patched wall. he glances at you once, eyes dropping to your hands, then nods toward the mat.
that is all.
the routine comes back, but it doesn’t come back the same.
before, training was a fight dressed up as instruction. now, it’s something stranger. sharper. too familiar in places that make your skin remember things you have no business remembering while learning how to block a hook. soldier boy still pushes you hard. harder, sometimes, because you are no longer recovering and he no longer has that excuse to keep his hands careful. he knocks you down. you get up. he traps your wrist. you twist free. he drives you toward the wall mat. you plant your foot before your back hits.
you are getting good. not good in the way he’s good. that would be ridiculous. he’s still a supe, still unfairly strong, still built like vought and america had a fistfight over propaganda and somehow produced shoulders. you cannot hurt him. not really. your best punch barely turns his head if he doesn’t let it. when your knee catches the inside of his thigh, he shifts because he chooses to account for the move, not because you can actually drop him.
but now he has to account for it. that matters. you learn his weight. his timing. the little shift in his left shoulder before he reaches. the way his right foot plants before he decides to crowd you. you learn the difference between a real grab and a trap he wants you to think is real. you stop flinching when his hand comes near your throat in a controlled hold, stop freezing when his arm locks across your chest, stop wasting energy fighting the strongest part of him when his elbow, his wrist, his balance gives you something easier.
“again,” he says, because he always does.
you go again.
his hand catches your forearm; you turn under it before he can lock your shoulder. he steps in; you slide back half an inch instead of giving him your whole body. he reaches for your waist; you knock his hand aside and drive your palm toward his chest, not hard enough to move him much, but clean enough to make him look down at where you landed.
“again,” he says, but he’s breathing harder now. not exhausted—never that—but harder.
you smile before you can stop it. “you okay?”
his eyes lift. “don’t get cocky.”
“i’m concerned.”
“you’re annoying.”
“that too.”
he moves before you finish, but you see it coming. that is the beautiful part. you see it. his hand aims for your wrist, fast and brutal, and you let him take it for half a second before you drop your weight, twist, and slip free so quickly that his fingers close around empty air.
soldier boy pauses. just one beat. barely anything.
you catch it anyway. “getting slow?”
“getting lucky?”
his mouth twitches, but instead of answering, he steps in behind you, one arm cutting across your path. you expect the hold. you expect the pressure at your hip, the hard correction, the usual rough shove into position. what you get is his hand flat against your stomach.
your breath stalls while his palm spreads there, warm through your shirt, pulling you back against him just enough to correct your center. not your hip. not your wrist. your stomach. the touch is not practical in the clean way it used to be. it’s still useful, sure. he can pretend that if he wants.
but his fingers press once, almost playful, and his chin dips near your shoulder, close enough that his next words brush the side of your neck, “brace.”
you stare at the punching bag in front of you. “i am.”
his hand squeezes once, not hard. “you’re not.”
“are you training me or feeling me up?”
“multitasking.”
you should shove him off. instead, you turn sharply under his arm, catch the wrist at your stomach, and use the angle to pull yourself free before he can lock you back. your elbow drives toward his ribs, stopping short because his ribs are unfairly useless as a target, but the move is clean.
he looks at you.
you lift both brows. “multitasking.”
his grin flickers and dies before it gets comfortable. “cheap.”
“effective.”
“again.”
some days, his chin rests on your shoulder for half a second too long when he corrects the angle of your guard. some days, he squeezes your side just to make you hiss and call him an asshole. some days, his hand trails across your stomach as he steps away, and you use the distraction to sweep low, catch his ankle, and make him shift his balance enough that he curses under his breath.
those are your favorites.
you break the almosts before they can become something too soft. when his mouth gets too close, you duck under his arm. when his eyes drop to yours too long, you hit. when his hand stays at your waist, you twist it into a lock and shove him back with your shoulder. not because you don’t want it. that would be simpler. because wanting it is starting to feel too much like giving someone a loaded gun and trusting them not to aim.
he knows what you’re doing. of course he does.
one late afternoon, after a week of waiting and training and sleeping too close without naming it, you catch him properly.
it happens fast. he drives you back toward the mat wall, not hard, just enough pressure to make you choose. you let him think you’re giving ground. then you pivot inside his reach, shoulder under his arm, hand catching the back of his shirt, your knee driving toward the inside of his thigh as your free hand comes up toward his face. he expects hesitation. you know because he leaves the smallest opening. maybe to test you. maybe because he thinks you’ll stop again.
you don’t.
your fist cuts clean toward his jaw and stops less than an inch from his mouth—not because you freeze—because you choose it.
his eyes drop to your knuckles. then to your face. your breathing is high, but steady. “dead.”
the word lands between you.
slowly, soldier boy smiles. it’s not soft. not sweet. it’s worse. proud and hungry and irritated all at once, like he hates that you got there and hates more that he wanted you to. “took you long enough.”
“you were wide open.”
“i let you think that.”
“sure.” you pull your fist back. “whatever helps.”
his hand catches yours before you can drop it. not to block. not to correct. he just holds your wrapped knuckles for a second, thumb pressing over the line of fabric. his other hand comes to your stomach again, steadying you though you don’t need steadying.
the room gets very small. you look at his mouth. his hand tightens once at your stomach.
then you hook your foot behind his ankle and shove.
he doesn’t fall. obviously. but he has to step back—actually step back. his hand leaves you, his shoulder shifting, his mouth parting around a sharp breath that might have become something else if you had let the almost live another second.
instead, you grin. “still standing.”
he stares at you. “you’re getting real full of yourself.”
“earned it.”
“maybe.”
that maybe follows you all the way to the end of training.
by the time the sun drops low enough to turn the gym gold at the edges, your shirt is damp, your arms are heavy, and soldier boy is breathing through his nose with that particular kind of annoyance that means you made him work. he doesn’t say it. he doesn’t need to. you see it in the way he flexes his fingers after you break a hold. in the way he watches you reset without correcting your feet. in the way he stops calling your form shit unless it actually is.
you sit on the bench to unwrap your hands. the old patch on the wall catches the late light. it’s still a slightly different shade from everything around it, even after mm painted it. better than before, but definitely not invisible.
nothing really is.
soldier boy leans against the wall opposite you, arms crossed, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. “tomorrow,” he says, “i want the knife.”
you keep unwrapping. “what knife?”
his face gives you nothing. “the one sitting by the sink.”
the air changes. but it’s subtle—no shift anyone outside your body would notice. but your stomach tightens, and your fingers pull at the wrap too quickly, tangling the fabric around your wrist. “it’s fine where it is.”
“no, it isn’t.”
“did mm complain?”
“this isn’t about mm.”
“then it’s not your problem.”
“it is if you walk into another room without it.”
your eyes lift to his. “i’ve been training without it all week.”
“and tomorrow you train with it.”
“no.”
he pushes off the wall. slow. not angry yet, but getting there. “not asking.”
you laugh once, short and ugly. “you really have to stop mistaking your voice for the law.”
“you freeze every time you look at it.”
your jaw tightens. “don’t tell me what i do.”
“i watch you in the kitchen every night. you stand there for a full minute staring at it like it’s gonna bite.”
“maybe i don’t feel like touching it.”
“yeah. got that.”
you stand before you think better of it, wraps hanging loose from one hand. “what do you want from me? pick it up, strap it on, pretend everything’s fine?”
“i want you to stop leaving yourself open because you’re scared of a piece of steel.”
“i killed someone with it.”
“you saved hughie with it.”
“i know that!” your voice snaps off the walls, sharper than you intend. “i know. everyone keeps finding different ways to say it, like if you phrase it correctly, i’ll suddenly feel clean about it.”
soldier boy’s expression hardens. “clean’s got nothing to do with alive.”
“that is such a you thing to say.”
“because it’s true.”
“because it’s easy for you.”
his eyes go cold. “watch it.”
you should. you know you should. but something in you is already too raw, too cornered by the knife on the counter, by the fact that he’s right and wrong at the same time, by the ugly knowledge that the new placement at your hip saved hughie and broke something in you.
so you step closer. “i’m not gonna become a killing machine just because you found something fragile to work on.”
that lands. you know it lands because his face empties first.
then his jaw flexes. “you think that’s what i’m doing?”
“isn’t it?”
“if i wanted a killing machine, i wouldn’t waste my time teaching you how to stay alive.”
your mouth opens, then closes. it cuts straight through the anger, which only makes you angrier because you are not ready to soften. not with the knife still waiting in the kitchen. not with your hands finally clean and still not feeling clean enough.
“i’m not your concern,” you say.
he looks at you like you slapped him. “bullshit.”
“i mean it.”
“no, you don’t.”
“you don’t get to decide that.”
“i’m the one who had to watch you sit in a van with blood on your pants looking like someone scooped your insides out,” he snaps, voice rough now. “i’m the one who knows exactly where your knife should sit because the wrong inch gets somebody killed. so don’t stand there and tell me you’re not my concern when you keep making yourself my concern.”
silence. your chest rises once. too quick. his does too.
for a second, the fight hangs there with nowhere to go. too ugly to be nothing. too honest to survive.
then soldier boy ruins it—his eyes drag over your sweaty shirt, your damp hair, the wraps loose in your hand. “and you need a shower.”
you blink. “excuse me?”
“you heard me.”
“we’re in the middle of a fight.”
“yeah, and you smell like one.” his mouth curls, crude and familiar enough that your anger stumbles over it. “no way i’m spending the night in your bed if you keep the attitude and smell like a locker room.”
you stare at him.
he stares back like he has said something entirely reasonable.
“you are unbelievable.”
“been told.”
“you think you’re coming to my room tonight?”
“yeah.”
“after this?”
“especially after this.”
your laugh comes out disbelieving and a little too close to something else. “i’ll lock the door.”
“i’ll punch it open.”
“mm will kill you.”
“he can try.”
“i’ll let him.”
“no, you won’t.”
you hate that he sounds so certain. hate more that he might be right. “fuck off.”
“shower first.”
“fuck off twice.”
his mouth twitches. not a smile. close enough to be dangerous. “there she is.”
you turn away before he can see what your face does, gathering your towel with more violence than the fabric deserves. “i’m not touching the knife tomorrow.”
“yes, you are.”
“no, i’m not.”
“we’ll see.”
you stop at the doorway, looking back despite yourself. he’s still standing near the bench, arms crossed again, expression carved back into something stubborn and almost calm. but his eyes are on you.
“you’re not fixing me,” you say, quieter now.
his face changes by almost nothing. “never said you were broken.”
you leave before the room can ask anything else of you.
the hallway is dimmer than the gym, cooler against your skin. you walk toward the bathroom first, then stop halfway when the kitchen comes into view. the knife is still by the sink, clean and dry on its folded cloth. frenchie put it there carefully, blade turned away from the edge, handle facing outward. easy to pick up.
you stand in the doorway and look at it. your hand does not reach. not really. your fingers flex once at your side, then curl into your palm. not yet.
you go shower.
later, with your hair damp and your body sore in the dull, satisfying way training leaves behind, you pass the kitchen again. the knife is still there. the safehouse hums around it. mm and frenchie are murmuring over notes in the back room. annie is asleep or pretending to be. hughie has left a mug in the sink. butcher is gone somewhere with a cigarette and a bad idea.
you look at the knife. then you look away.
when you reach your room, you pause with your hand on the doorknob. for one stubborn second, you consider locking it. you even turn the small metal button halfway. then stop.
the fight is still in your chest. so is his voice. i want you alive. you let the lock turn back.
Reader taking care of Sammy while he’s all drunk and smiley!!! Trying (tragically) to aid him in carrying himself home, Dean on his other side making fun of him lovingly. He’s a happy drunk :) Maybe Sammy professes his favourite things about the reader while he’s out of his head. He’s touchy and nuzzling reader and nuzzling Dean. Maybe even gets emotional and screws together his pretty brows waxing lyrical about the two of them. The two most special people in his life. The only two people allowed to call him Sammy.
Love u!!! <3
𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮
pairing: Sam Winchester x Fem!reader
Summary: Sam gets very drunk and turns into a complete sap.
An: hiya!! This was a bit of a complicated write for me, mostly because it’s hard for me to imagine Sam drunk, and if he was to get drunk I think he’d be more of like a sad, self loathing drunk, however, this was so cute to write!! I do love a drunk Sam fic I can’t lie. I hope you enjoy it anon!!
WC: 1.3k - Sam Masterlist
You hadn't meant to let Sam get as drunk as he did. In fact you hadn't meant to let Sam get drunk at all, this was all deans doing. Encouraging him to 'let loose and drink to your hearts content' his words exactly.
Now here you are attempting to get Sam back to the motel without him and the concrete becoming acquaintances, it sounds easier than it is, seeing as he's 6'4 and two hundred pounds of pure muscle and denim, and apparently very sappy.
“Come on Sammy, work with us here" you groaned, trying to hold him steady. "what?! M'doin my best" he argued back, though he was absolutely not doing his best.
"Dean" you groaned. Dean laughed "Alright I got him" he pulls Sam by the sleeve of his Carhartt, taking the weight off of you. "Thank you" you muttered.
You fix your crumpled shirt, and glance over at Sam, he's smiling at you. Your lips curl up in amusement at his dopey smile.
"Aw look at him" Dean teases "he's got the starry eyes" he continues his steady stride as if Sam isn't completely relying on him for stability.
Sam snorts "I'm not 'starry eyed' Dean. I just… love you guys" he says
You and Dean share shocked glances, extremely caught off guard by Sam's sudden admission. Dean pats Sam on his back "yeah he's out of it" he mutters failing to hide how good it felt to hear those words from his brother.
A familiar flutter settled deep within you, one only caused by the drunken man, you smiled up at him "we love you too Sammy" you tell him, lifting his arm to wrap around your shoulder. He absentmindedly tugs you closer.
"Y'guys are the most importantly people in m'life" Sam continues, trying to keep his legs from giving out beneath him.
It's been about six years since you joined the brothers, most of that time you spent crushing on the younger Winchester so hearing those words from him made something light stir within you.
"alright big guy, don't say anything you're gonna regret in the morning" he says as if Sam's words hadn't made his night.
You smile at the small interaction while trying to hold Sam steady, sam sighs dramatically "no you don't get it, like you guys are so-" he looks at you his face blanks as if something occurred to him. He takes a breath "gosh you're beautiful." He says.
The sudden complement takes you off gaurd "I-" you laugh "thank you, sammy. You're beautiful too."
he trips over a crack in the ground and falls, bringing you down with him, somehow still sober enough to semi break your fall before you hit the ground.
He groaned in pain, and you gasped after the short lived shock wore off, rolling him over to face towards you. You looked over him for any injuries, meanwhile Dean had broken out laughing "oh classic!” He claps “that was classic, Sammy"
You stood up, dusting off your knees. You hit Dean "stop laughing, this is your fault. Help me get him up!" You demanded.
Sam watched you, pouting at his brother’s laughter. You and Dean pulled him up off of the ground. But he moves away from Dean, and leans completely into you.
Dean gives him a betrayed kind of look and you shake your head in amusement. "And she takes care f'me."
Dean stops in front of you and Sam "so what are you saying you like her more than me?" Dean teases, but Sam in this state can't really tell.
"What?!" He says " no, I just love how nice she is, and that I can always talk to her. Oh and that she doesn't leave us." He trailed off "You won't leave right?" He suddenly asks you.
You smile "not if I can help it"
Sam nods, pleased by your answer "She keeps us together, and makes sure we're healthy. Makes us take a break when where driving ourselves crazy" he continues.
Dean raises an eyebrow "wow Sammy, tell us how you really feel"
Sam scoffs "I am Dean, are you listening? Oh! Maybe I'm too high up for him to hear, should I lean down?" Sam asks you, you laugh out loud "you should absolutely lean down"
Dean groans in irritation as the three of you approach their room. You unlocked the door, opening it wide enough to let Sam stumble in, behind him a very amused and ecstatic Dean.
Sam flops down on the bed, a complete, uncoordinated mess of a man.
You rolled your eyes lovingly, "dean watch Sam, I'm gonna get some meds from my room. Don't let him break a bone or anything" you point at the oldest Winchester warningly.
He holds up his hands defensively "hey I am a great caretaker"
Sam lifts his head up "you're leaving?" He asks, quieter than usual. You can hear the disappointment in his voice and it almost shatters your heart "just for a moment, I need to get you meds so you don't wake up with a kick drum pounding in your head"
Sam pouts, eyebrows knitting together like it's paining him. You sigh, closing the door "okay, I'll get it later. But at least drink some water."
Sam sighs "no, I just want you two to sit here with me. We never get to do that anymore… just hang out." He turns over onto his back.
You raise your eyebrows, glancing at Dean who gave you a shrug. "Yeah. Okay we can just sit and hang out then." You move towards the bed, taking a seat beside Sam.
You gasp when he catches you by surprise, putting his head in your lap.
"Y'guys are the most importantly people in m'life" Sam repeats, his eyes staring right up at you.
You look over to Dean who has a light in his eyes that you haven't seen in a long time, he smiles, patting Sam's leg lightly "remind me to never encourage him to over drink again" he says as if Sam's words hadn't made his night.
You smile at the small interaction while trying not to look him in the eye, sam sighs dramatically "you're beautiful." He says, staring at you, from an angle you were sure wasn't as appealing as he made it seem.
Your face heats "you said that already."
Sam rolls his eyes, dismissing what you said. "and I love when you laugh, makes my whole day. Or when you finally figure out something after hours of research, y'get so excited."
His words make your brain falter, these new admissions were coming hard and hitting you like punches. The possibility of you meaning more to Sam than just a friend.
"I'm starting to feel a little left out here" Dean says from his chair, his arms folded over his chest, but you didn't miss the fond look he wore.
Sam shook his head tiredly, his eyes drooping slightly, showing clear signs of exhaustion. "You're my brother Dean, we fight, we hide stuff, but in the end it doesn't matter. It's just what we do. But I couldn't do this without you. Hunting I mean. Need you by my side, no matter what." Sam's voice trails off, as sleep envelopes him slowly.
Your heart clenched, you looked at Dean, there were tears in his eyes as he peered down at his little brother, the one he raised damn near all alone. His eyes met yours, and his body stiffened, he cleared his throat as he stood from his chair, excusing himself to the bathroom.
You smiled faintly as the bathroom door shut. Looking back down at Sam, now completely asleep, you resisted the urge to pull him tight into your arms.
Because underneath all of that hardened exterior, behind the brick walls he had built up, he was still only a man, only a human. Despite all that has happened to him, all he was destined to be, he still remained soft and allowed himself to feel. For you, for Dean, and everyone else he's lost.
You wiped away tears that traveled down the slopes of your face before they fell onto his, not wanting to interrupt his peaceful, vodka induced slumber.
You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. "Goodnight Sammy"
he'd learn a phrase every now and then, maybe a sentence here and there, but he never actually buckled in to fully learn the language, until a case goes sideways. if you hadn't been there to translate, there was no way they would've been able to rescue the victims. so from there on he really wanted to learn, because if they lost someone due to something as small as a language barrier it would weigh heavy on his mind and heart
you start little; naming objects he can see, things he's already familiar with. though after a session in the library, you both learn quickly that sitting down with books isn't really his learning style, he needs to move around, interact, so you adjust your technique—teaching as you go, translating/teaching him anything from how to say car to "we need to stop for gas" in spanish
sam chimes in with his research of full immersion; learning through the complete exposure of the language you're trying to learn, without the use of your own native language (for dean, english). so every sunday you guys would speak only in spanish from the moment you woke up, using many context clues (nearly playing charades) to figure it out, for as long as possible. when you first started he could only keep at it for three hours maximum, now he can go the full day
listening to your music recs (in spanish) and watching telenovelas (soap operas) with you also helped greatly...not that he'd admit it
eventually he gets comfortable enough to start cracking jokes, and of course it's the corniest ones possible (not that you mind, those make you laugh the hardest). it'll be random too, he'll say something like "you know what my favorite word to say in spanish is?" and wait for you to ask which one, before he answers with "mucho, because it means a lot to you."
and you'll look at him, and he'll smile at you, and you'll bust out laughing at how ridiculous (and endearing) the joke is
but it also comes in handy on another case fast forward a couple months, when you get separated and the only reason they're able to find you is with the help of some witnesses who only spoke spanish. he holds you close that entire night, beyond grateful to have understood fast enough to rescue you
it warms your heart greatly that he took the time and effort to learn, both to help others and "to love you in another language, because his love for you is the same in every one—abundant and profound"
you tried translating that with a slight shine in your eyes but quickly gave up, lips meeting his in a tender kiss before you cuddled into his awaiting arms instead.
not that he minded one bit.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ .
dean masterlist ᝰ.ᐟ main masterlist
⋆˙⟡ notes; super short, self indulgent, and slightly silly, lol <3 (for anyone who doesn't speak spanish, "mucho" is the translation for "a lot"). what phrase(es) or word(s) do y'all think would be essential for him to know in spanish? or something he'd wanna know? 😗
BimboHunter!reader is from a long line of hunter women.
People constantly underestimate you, but that quickly becomes an advantage. Not many people know you from looks but from your family name. The hunters in your family have been feared for generations. You grew up with a bow or shotgun in your hands daily, your mother training you on combat tactics. Somehow you never fail to keep your femininity, despite it all. You’ve seen horrible things in this field of work. Lost friends, gotten kidnapped, stalked, traumatized, but you always find a way to make it out.
You actually enjoy your job at times. You help people, travel, and meet new people. This job gives you a kind of freedom at times. For the few people that you are close to, they immediately know when you’re back in town, pink car speeding down the road into the nearest coffee shop, blasting music. Damn near 10 suitcase and duffel bags stuffed into the trunk. Some with clothes and shoes. Some with weapons. Regardless of the pink and revealing clothes, you are one of the most skilled and dangerous hunters.
Dean Winchester x F!Reader; Sam Winchester x F!Reader
Summary: There is only one motel room to share amongst the three of you. Where are you going to sleep? Well, the boys have figured that out for you with a game of rock, paper, scissors.
Content Warning: 18+. MDNI. Flirting. A couple kisses. Discussion of sex. Cuddling.
Word Count: 2.9k
A/N: I thought about making this smutty, but I’m kinda enjoying a break from it for the moment. Besides, I think the rest of them are going to be spicy/smutty so enjoy the lack of it right now. We are going to have to suspend some disbelief that no one wakes up, please and thank you. 🩷
AO3 Link
Series Master list. Read previous parts here: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12
Since the bet had finally come to an end, life looked a little different on the road. Getting your own room wasn’t a priority, nor was it something you really wanted anyway. It saved money and you got to spend the night snuggled up, warm and content. You had suggested moving the beds together to keep from having to decide whose bed you were going to be in for the night, but you were met with looks from both Sam and Dean clearly thinking your idea was crazy. Now, the issue of where you were to sleep was a moment of contention between the brothers.
You sat on the bed, watching them holding out their hands, deciding your fate that night with a game of rock, paper, scissors. Never in a million years would you have thought this is what your life had come to.
“Whoever loses gets her tomorrow night.” Dean says, like he is already mentally preparing to take the loss.
“Yeah. That's fair. Alternating nights.” Sam agrees.
“Why do you guys always go to rock, paper, scissors? What about thumb wars or flipping a coin or the highest card wins?” You ask.
They look incredulous at your suggestions. Heaven forbid you ask a question.
“Do you have a coin or a pack of cards?” Dean asks.
You shake your head. “Nah. But you both have thumbs. And Sam told me you always lose anyways. Wouldn’t a different game even the odds for you?”
“Yeah, I think we are going to stick to this.” Sam says. They both turn back to each other, ready to play. Then the game commences, your night decided in mere seconds.
Dean didn't stop grinning for the rest of the day.
Sam, on the other hand, spent the rest of the day sulking as you all went to the police station to ask about the recent string of disappearances. His mood was still sour as you stopped at a local diner to get dinner before heading back to the motel for some research before you all went to sleep.
“Chin up, Sammy. You will get her tomorrow night.” Dean says, sliding an arm over the back of your chair, the move intentional, like he wants to needle at Sam’s irritation and see how far he can push it before Sam explodes.
“Be nice.” You mutter, poking Dean in his side.
“I am being plenty nice. Just reminding him that he has something to look forward to. Tomorrow. And I have something to look forward to. Tonight.” His eyebrows wiggle as he watches the blush break out across your cheeks.
You roll your eyes trying to ignore his gaze as the food is delivered to the table and you all dig in. All you could hope for was that tonight wouldn’t turn into a pissing match between them.
Arriving at the motel, you and Sam immediately set up on the small table provided in the room to start doing some research. Dean seemed content to relax on the bed, flipping through the channels. You were about to say something when Sam catches your eye and he shakes his head. You shrug, starting to google some basic information about the missing individuals in town, trying to figure out what is connecting them.
“You guys need to relax. All work and no play makes Sam a dull boy or whatever.” Dean says, landing on the most recent episode of Dr. Sexy, his not so secret guilty pleasure.
“You know, we should probably talk with the locals about the disappearances, if you want.” Sam says, looking over at Dean.
Dean’s eyes widened at Sam’s suggestion to go out before settling into a wide grin. “You are suggesting we go to a bar? Sammy, I never thought I would see the day.”
“If you want, you can. I should probably stay behind and make sure we get a dent into the research and lore here.”
You look between the brothers, trying to figure out what is going on when Sam clears his throat, looking at you. “Do you want to go out? Or you could stay here with me?”
Before you have a chance to answer, Dean cuts in. “Sammy, I got to give it to you. That is a smart move, trying to get me to go out and get drunk. Then I can’t fully enjoy my night. Well, sorry to burst your bubble. But I am staying right here. I already had some pie. Got my girl with me tonight. I don’t need anything else.”
You push back from the table, standing up to grab some sleep clothes before heading towards the bathroom. “Boys, there is enough of me to go around. There is no need to fight over me.”
“She says that like we hadn’t been in the middle of a bet over her for months.” Sam mutters.
You can hear Dean’s answering laugh as you close the door behind you.
When you emerge from the bathroom, fresh out of the shower, in a t-shirt and shorts, both sets of eyes land on you. You look between both of them, once corner of your mouth lifting in a smile. “It’s nothing either of you haven’t seen before. In fact, I’m more covered.”
“Doesn’t stop me from remembering exactly what’s underneath.” Dean says, Sam nodding in agreement.
“What exactly is underneath?” You ask, smirking.
“Perfection.” Sam cuts in before Dean has the chance to reply.
“You Winchesters are such charmers.” You say, dropping into your seat opposite Sam to get some more research done before bed.
“Charmed the panties right off you.” Sam says, your jaw dropping momentarily before you are able to respond.
“I would like to point out that it was after I tested the waters for any takers.”
“And wouldn’t you know it, you baited two of us.”
“Hook, line, and sinker, baby.” You wink. “Guess I’m better at this than I thought.”
Turning the tv off, Dean gets up, interrupting your and Sam’s conversation. “Sorry to break up this riveting flirt fest you have going on, but I’m going to take a shower. And when I’m done, we are going to bed.” He says to you.
“Yes, sir.” You half heartedly salute him, your eyes not leaving the computer screen in front of you.
He walks up behind you, grabbing your chin and pulling your head back to look at him as he leans over, kissing you. You gasp at the sudden press of his lips against yours. He pulls back just enough to murmur, “You heard me.”
“That I did.” You say softly, and he releases your chin, disappearing into the bathroom for the next ten minutes. You aren’t sure you have ever seen Dean as excited as you have tonight, to have you sleeping in bed with him. Having shared a bed with both of them before, it didn’t feel like this was monumental, but the way they were acting, this was a huge step in your relationship.
Dean comes out of the bathroom shirtless, toweling his hair dry as he beelined for the bed, climbing under the covers. Without asking what side you want, he put himself on the side that was closest to the door as he always does.
“Come on, sweetheart. It is time for bed.” Dean calls out, patting the empty space beside himself. “Say good night to Sam and get your ass over here.”
You chuckle to yourself at his enthusiasm. Closing the laptop, you walk up behind Sam, hugging him from behind. “Good night, Sam.”
He twists, pulling you into his lap and kissing you, one hand on your waist, the other tilting your chin up. You smile against his lips and he playfully nips your bottom lip. He decides to take his time, forehead resting against yours after the kiss ends, content to keep you close for as long as Dean’s patience holds out, as he watches from his bed, unimpressed.
“You know, we could have been making out while Dean was in the shower.” You mumble.
Sam chuckles. “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t have stopped there.”
Dean clears his throat, signalling to both you and Sam that he is done waiting.
Sam flips his brother off as you start to pull back. But he doesn't let you get far, chasing your lips down, the kiss slower this time. You melt into him, grabbing onto his wrist, holding his hand against your face. His other hand drifts down, squeezing your ass.
You both can feel Dean’s gaze burning into both of you. Sam breaks the kiss, patting your ass. “Go on before he loses it.”
You slide off Sam’s lap, walking over to the bed that was yours for the night. Dean grins at you, pulling back the covers as you slip in beside him. He immediately wraps an arm over your waist, pulling you against his chest.
“That was quite the scene. Are you trying to make me jealous with that display?” Dean murmurs in your ear.
“Don’t even act like you aren’t going to drag it out tomorrow when I’m sleeping in Sam’s bed.” You say, grabbing his chin, forcing him to look at you. He just grins widely at you, his fingers tracing up and down your spine.
“You got me there, sweetheart.” He mumbles, pressing a kiss against your lips.
You smile, leaning up into him further, and his arms tighten around you, keeping you firmly against his chest as he takes control of the kiss. One hand moves behind his neck, fingers tangling in his short damp hair as your other hand stays on his chest, fisting into his shirt. His lips are warm, soft, as he gently runs his tongue against yours, asking for permission. You moan softly, mouth falling open as he takes advantage, tongue darting in to taste you.
You are easily lost in the moment, completely focused on the man kissing you like his life depended on it. That is until Sam cleared his throat, trying to remind you both that he is still in the room working.
Dean pulls back. “Sammy, you get her tomorrow. Let me enjoy this.”
“It’s just a little difficult to focus on research when you both are making out like teenagers over there.”
“We could be doing other things if you prefer...” Dean trails off.
You smack his chest. “Dean!” You admonish.
“What? It isn’t like it isn’t going to happen, right?” He asks, unperturbed.
“I mean, I guess, but...”
“But what?”
“I thought we would all talk about it first.”
“What is there to talk about? We are both going to have sex with you. Right?”
“I hope so.” You mumble.
“And we are all consenting adults here.”
“Yeah. I just thought…” You start to blush and you bite your lip, suddenly nervous.
Dean waits for you to continue.
“I thought it would be separate. You and me. Me and Sam. But I mean, if you guys are okay with it, I would love to have you both…together.” You look between both brothers, pausing for their reaction. You could hear a pin drop, at least you would have been able to if your heart wasn’t thundering in your chest, your ears ringing as you waited for either of them to respond. Dean’s fingers tighten on your skin, while Sam just stares, mouth gaping open.
Sam coughs, recovering first. “You…you want us both at the same time?”
You turn to look back at Sam, eyes wide. “Is that…something you guys would be okay with?” You ask. Sam just nods his agreement.
Dean lets out a slow deep breath, hand running over his face. “Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine with that.” Then he grins, eyes smoldering at you. “Honestly, if you want to test out the waters tonight, we could have sex with Sam watching. Right now. Or wait for him to fall asleep first. I’m game.”
“Time out!” Sam says, closing the laptop turning to face both of you on the bed. “This is an ‘after we finish the case’ discussion.”
Dean groans next to you, pulling you close again so you can feel just how much he likes the idea of sharing you with his younger brother. You fall back against his chest, and he whispers in your ear, “Think you could be quiet enough for me so I could enjoy you alone before I have to share you with him?”
You blush, your eyes widening.
“Not happening. What part of ‘after the case discussion’ was confusing?” Sam asks.
“Oh, come on. Live a little. You can’t tell me you aren’t interested in it. Well, if you wake up and the bed’s a rockin’, don’t come knockin’.” Dean grins, chuckling at himself.
Sam throws his hands up. “You are impossible.”
“Calm down.”
“Dean, he is probably right. We definitely don’t need any distractions during the case.” You interject. “We finish the case, then when we get home we can focus on…us.”
“Us?”
“All of us.” You say.
“Fine. Focus on the case. I can do that. But you both are spoilsports. This could have been very memorable.”
“It will be memorable no matter where it happens.” You say.
He gives you an unimpressed look.
“Just go to sleep, Winchester.” You say laughing as you snuggle against his chest. “Patience is a virtue, right?”
“Patience is a fancy way of saying I’m not getting laid tonight.” He mutters under his breath, pulling you close as you close your eyes.
Sometime in the night, Sam wakes up, and thanks his lucky stars that it is quiet. Glancing over at the bed beside him, he sees the outline of you and Dean. You are curled on your side, facing away from Dean, while it looks like Dean at some point, rolled onto his back and was no longer glued to your back.
And that’s when Sam grinned, an idea coming to mind. It would probably blow up in his face, but if it worked…then he could have you to himself for the rest of the night. He should have won that rock, paper, scissors game anyways. It wasn’t often that Dean managed to beat him. Getting out of the bed as quietly as possible, he snuck to the side of the bed you were on. You looked so peaceful, he almost changed his mind, not wanting to disturb you.
But then you shifted, a soft groan falling from your throat, and Dean started to shift closer to you, and if Sam didn’t act quickly, then he was SOL. He grabbed another pillow, placing it between you and Dean, just as Dean’s arm was reaching over, it wrapped around the pillow instead of you.
Half the battle was done. Sam gently picked you up from the bed and carried you to his mattress, laying you down. You thankfully didn’t wake up, and Sam could hardly believe he managed to get away with this tonight. He climbed into the bed beside you, pulling the covers over both of your bodies and you curled into his chest.
Perfect.
As the morning approaches, your mind and body start to wake up, you feel scorchingly warm. Which wasn’t unexpected any time you were sharing a bed with these radiators in human form. Dean was pressed up behind you, his arms wrapped around your body like he was never going to let you go, morning wood pressed into your ass unapologetically. You smile, pressing your ass back against him, stretching as you yawn, opening your eyes.
And you see Dean, staring at you, frown on his face. Actually, scratch that, he looked furious, stewing in his bed. A look of confusion crosses your features when the arms around you tighten, face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. If you weren’t in bed with Dean…
Sam.
“What—”
“Don’t.” Dean says, interrupting you.
You ignore him. “Next time, we are just pushing the beds together.”
Dean throws the covers off his body, sitting up in his bed. You start to move, wanting to try and calm the older Winchester down, but the movement wakes Sam and he stretches, a big grin on his face. At least until he sees Dean glaring at him with a look that could kill.
“So, listen—” Sam starts, but Dean interrupts him, not wanting to hear any excuse.
“No, you listen. Unless she woke up in the middle of the night and accidentally got into your bed, there is no excuse you could give me that would make this okay.” Dean’s gaze shoots to you. “Did you accidentally get into Sam’s bed last night?”
You shake your head, voice squeaky. You didn’t want to get on Dean’s bad side when he was in this type of mood. “No.”
Dean just raised his eyebrows at Sam, saying “See?”
Sam holds up his hands, trying to placate him. “Listen. Listen. I woke up, and everyone was asleep. I looked over and you both were so far away from each other. I thought it would be funny. And actually, I don’t understand how you didn’t wake up. Come on, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”
Dean just continues to glare at him.
“And you know what? Obviously I shouldn't have done that, but you know I didn’t feel like possibly being woken up by you two doing it in the bed next to me.”
“Maybe we need to have a conversation about ground rules—”
“Totally. After the case, when we get back to the bunker, family meeting. Done.”
Dean sighs, some of the anger dissipating. Then he points a finger at Sam. “She is sleeping in my bed again. And Sam?”
Dean pauses just for a moment to drive his point home. “Retribution is coming tonight.”
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