casey .á she / her. pisces. 9teen. estp. woc. mdni (ik y'all ignore ts). terribly unmotivated writer. aspiring astrophysicist. supernatural fiend. rdr1>>>rdr2. dean winchester and jason todd's gf (REAL). belly piercings. grunge makeup. updates further apart than my controversial age gap with jensen ackles.
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what if we stopped making Ambiguously Brown Character and started actually thinking about the race and ethnic features of the characters we made? what if instead of drawing a character that looks like you painted a white character brown, we started varying noses, lips, eyes, and hair? just a thought
summary: After a stupid fight with Sam, Dean decides to take the road alone for a hunt under the sweat-summer of California. Driving when the sun is setting isn't a good idea, so the view of a hotel on the side of the road makes him park. Your silhouette in the doorway makes him believe he hit the jackpot with this place... but something is wrong here. Dean only realize when it's too late.
major cws: 8k words (oops). gn!reader but focus on dean. psychological horror. time distortion / reality distortion. manipulation & coercive emotional control. implied supernatural imprisonment. intense paranoia. panic attack symptoms. fear of losing memory / identity erosion. emotional breakdown. canon-typical firearm use (gun drawn, threat implied). disturbing imagery (rotting food, mold, flies, decay). sensory horror (smell of rot, heat suffocation, auditory hallucinations). reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!!
additional cws: alcohol consumption. religious symbolism (Eden imagery, damnation undertones). brother separation anxiety (WINC*ST DNI). possible Hell / afterlife ambiguity. technology failure (no signal / inability to contact loved one). gaslighting undertones.
The windows of the Impala were down as Dean drove through the desert of Mojaves, silently cursing Sam for not coming with him on this hunt; pretending that Castiel and him were on something bigger but Dean knew better. He knew that the only reason Sam refused to come with was because of the fight they had a few days ago. He couldnât even remember what the subject had been aboutâbecause it was futile. The kind of fight that you forget a few hours later, apologize with a beer and a tap on the back.
But not that time, because in the end, Sam had stayed back at the shitty motel while Dean took his Baby and left for California; which was a few hours drive away from where they were currently staying. The sun was almost settling down on the horizon, and the heat of the summer was biting Deanâs neck harshly, begging him to grab a bottle of water or stop on the side of the road. The highway was deserted as he drove, no cars in sight, no trucks, no one.
Dean could feel the sheen layer of sweat on his forehead, his eyebrows furrowing at the slight overstimulation the heat was bringing to his brain. Everything felt too much right now and he wished for a place to stay for the night; something that had a bar and good mattresses. Thatâs all he could ask for, at that point, after having his ass sitting in the car for so long. His fingers were tapping on the steering-wheel as an old Bon Jovi song played on the stereo and the warm smell of colitas hit his nose, making him grin.
The sun hit his face, bringing a golden hint to his hazel eyes as he looked away. A gush of heated wind brushed his hair away from his forehead and Dean squinted his eyes for a second, realizing that he was way more sleepy than he thought he was. Summer wasnât his arch-nemesis but it was almost like, if you asked him. He shifted on his seat when seeing a shimmery light in the distance, like the neon of a bar or a motel, something he was clearly accustomed with. A sigh escaped his pouty lips and he ran a hand along his face.Â
Not only was he tired but a migraine was starting to show the tip of its nose through his brain; the memories of the fight with Sam were still so close and he wished to forget them with a drink and maybe someone in his bed. He pressed his foot onto the accelerator pedal, the wind hitting his face but he didnât seem to mind it much. Dean drove until he saw the flickering neon sign of the HOTEL CALIFORNIA; and if you asked him, this didnât look like a hotel at all but more like an old chapel. The entrance looked like something along the lines of the Presidio Chapel of San Elizario he had seen in a book once. A capilla abierta was on the side, looking lonely and old, abandoned.
The buildings seemed to form a square, probably hiding a courtyard in its center. A few palm trees decorated the place, here and there but besides that, everything seemed to be empty. There were no other cars parked, nothing that could tell him how many residents the hotel had.Â
He parked the Impala but didnât get out immediately; his hazel eyes stopped on a shadow at the doorway, looming and almost waiting for him to come. His hands trembled on the steering-wheel for a second and Dean thought to himself. Is this a mirage? Is this Heaven or Hell? But there was no direct answer to those questions. So he only squirmed on his seat to roll all the windows up and grabbed his duffle bag from the passenger seat before jumping out of the Impala. His shoes hit the sandy ground as he walked toward the entrance of the hotel, but stopped half-way just to look around.
âWhat the fuck?â The cursed whisper escaped his lips as he realized the fact that the highway was empty of cars, the sun had settled down and it was getting dark outside. Dean knew better than to let go of his guard when it came to places he didnât know, places that were eerie and in the middle of the desert just like that. But God, he needed sleep. So he turned back to the person that seemed to wait for him, the heel of his shoes hitting the wood of the stairs before he stopped at the porch, mouth opening to speak up.
âHave you had a nice drive?â Your voice interrupted his thoughts and he gave you a grin, seeing you push yourself from the doorway and closer to him. He didnât know what to expect but everything was brushed off when you turned and grabbed a box of matchsticks from your pocket and a candle stick that was just waiting on the wooden floor. Dean hummed at your question, shrugging. âSunâs been a piece of shit, but I managed. The barâs open?â He asked back at you as you lit the candle.Â
âFollow me, Iâll show you around. Your name?â You simply said back and nodded at him to follow you through the door. âDean. Dean Winchester. You?â The interior was way different than what Dean had expected but then again, he didnât expect much. Passing through the hotel entrance led directly on an enclosed colonial-style courtyardâintimate, sun-warmed, and quietly luxurious. âJust someone.â You voiced back. A door on the side was open, letting him see a desk, a bunch of keys and a man reading an old newspaper that didnât seem to be on date.
They locked eyes and the man immediately looked pained, as if he didnât want Dean here; as if the only thought of having someone new at the Hotel California was a nightmare for him. The hunter furrowed his eyebrows before looking away, absorbed with the hotel. He walked deeper into it, following you closely.Â
The space was framed by two levels of soft rose-pink stucco walls, wrapped in elegant stone archways that ran the full perimeter. Each arch was supported by smooth gray columns, giving the whole courtyard a rhythmic, almost cathedral-like symmetry. Above, dark wooden beams lined the ceilings of the upper galleries, adding warmth and contrast against the pastel walls. Then, a multitude of dark wooden doors, both on the second and first floor, and a simple staircase just on the side. In the back, a larger and elegant open dark door gave another courtyard in symmetry to this one.
Dean realized he had never seen a prettiest hotel beforeâthe one he rested at with Sam always seemed so gloomy and sad, like life had decided to not stop there. This was a change and yet⊠He felt his skin crawl at the back of his neck. Something was entirely wrong here, and he could feel it. His eyes kept looking around, taking every single detail. The floor was laid with small, pale cobblestones reflecting the candle lights from old oil lamps on the walls. At the center and along the edges, lush tropical plantsâtall palms with wide, arching frondsârose from large clay and stone planters, their leaves casting shifting shadows across the ground.
Scattered thoughtfully around the courtyard were woven rattan lounge chairs and low cushioned seats in neutral tones; cream, sand, and muted brown. Small round tables sat between them, suggesting quiet morning coffees, late afternoon conversations, or secret meetings held under the open air. The furniture felt light and airy, almost Mediterranean, blending effortlessly with the architecture. On the side, a bit recluse from the rest of the courtyard, was a wooden bar with a few stools. The barmaid seemed to have disappeared for the night, though.
Hanging greenery spilled gently from the upper balcony, softening the stone and giving the entire space a secluded, oasis-like feeling. It was the kind of place where sound echoes slightly with laughter drifting upward, heels tapping against stone, whispers carrying farther than intended. It made a smile appear on Deanâs face for a moment and he tightened his grip on his bag, wishing that Sam was here with him at that moment.Â
When Dean broke out of his thoughts, you were having an animated conversation with the man inside the reception room. His hazel eyes squinted for a second, as if he was trying to read on your lips but God, he knew he couldnât do that. He grunted and before he could walk closer, a voice echoed behind him. âWelcome to Hotel California.â Were the only words he heard but when Dean turned around, there was no one here. No one on the second floor, no one behind a door, no presence whatsoever. He ran his free hand through his hair, telling himself that he needed sleep.
You came back by his side, holding a key in your hand and the candle still in the other one. âFollow me, I got you a room down the corridor.â He hummed at you, and just followed when you started to walk again. Dean gave a final look to the receptionist, who was already looking at him. The heels of his shoes hit the cobblestone floor, feet dragging down a little from the tiredness he felt.Â
As Dean crossed the courtyard behind you, his boot caught on something soft between the cobblestones. He glanced down, for a secondâjust a secondâhe thought it was fruit crushed into the cracks. Dark, pulped and seeping like a pomegranate. But when he blinked, it was only shadow pooled in the grooves. Still, something clung to the sole of his shoe. When he scraped it lightly against the stone while walking, it left behind a faint smear, brownish-red and glistening before it sank into the cracks like the ground had swallowed it whole.
Soon enough, you stopped at a door and turned to give the keys to Dean, the hunter lifting his eyes to you. âBreakfast is served in the courtyard at 9.â And you walked away, not giving him the attention he seemed to want for the night.
Deanâs hazel eyes stayed on your retreating figure for a moment; he couldnât help himself but lower his orbs at your curves, humming to himself before finally looking away when you passed the door of the second courtyard and disappeared into the night. Then, he pushed the key into the lock and opened the doorâthe interior of this one had nothing to do with the colorful and inviting exterior. It was dark and gloomy, with the strict minimum; a bed, an old TV straight from the 80s, a bedtable with a phone, a small closet and a door that probably gave way to a bathroom.
Dean scoffed as he saw that, but it would do. This wasnât the worst for him; he had slept multiple times inside the Impala before, or even on the floor of an old motel to let Sam sleep on a bed when they were younger. He ended up by entering the room, threw his bag around, kicked his shoes off and fell on the mattress, face in the pillow.
The whole room smelled like flowersâbut not the type that made him think of joyous things. No, the smell was more like Lilies, known as a harbinger of misfortune or even yellow Roses that Dean knew as omens of ill fortune too.Â
Lilies and the unmistakable fragrance that is both sweet and subtle; sweet and floral with a hint of spice and citrus. The smell hit his nostril and he coughed once, twice; was it rot? He sniffed, looking around for a bouquet, but he saw none. The overbearing smell of rot then came back; musty, pungent, almost mushroom-like. The hunter knew the difference between dry and wet rot, but at the moment, there was no distinction. He almost gagged at it, bringing his forearm to his nose, but when he sniffed again, the odor had simply disappeared from the room.
He was half-tempted to get out of the room and ask for a second one but his eyelids were starting to get heavy, suddenly. A yawn escaped his mouth, arms stretching up with shoulder bones popping. He thought about Sam, about Castiel, about the hunt he was driving for; a pack of werewolves.
And it was on those thoughts that he fell asleep, not even thinking of checking his phone or moving under the covers.Â
There was a knock on the door, sharp; feeling like nails scratching on old wood. It broke the hunter from his sleep, a hum escaping his mouth when he nuzzled the pillow under his head. His hazel eyes fluttered open and he immediately pushed himself up from the bed, all alert and ready for danger. When Dean realized that he was still in that motel bed, his muscles relaxed and he sighed before running a hand through his disheveled hair. âMâcoming!â He groaned, standing up.
He was still groggy, feet not following the movement of his heavy body and he hit his toes in the bedtable. A curse left his mouth, he closed his hand in a fist like this would help him. When he ended up opening the door, you were here; but now he could see your face better with the sun so high in the sky. Why was the sun so high in the sky?
âItâs two in the afternoon. You overslept.â Your voice spoke and Deanâs eyes blinked, jaw gaping for a second before he turned to look at the clock on top of the bedtable. No surprise, 2:21p.m, was showing. âJeez⊠I really needed that sleep.â He spoke to himself before turning his head back to you. âUh, sorry. I guess breakfastâs not on the menu anymore.â His expression was sheepish, and he rubbed the back of his neck. âNo breakfast anymore, but we are having brunch in the courtyard.â You offered, head nodding to the large open door that gave to the other side of the motel.
Dean only looked at youâeyes focused on your facial expression and how you held yourself. Of course he had seen how pretty you were yesterday, even though the sun had fallen and the sky had gotten dark back then. There was no mistake; you were beautiful. But now, with the sun high, the sky blue and the heat back to the day, you were mesmerizing. He blinked his thoughts away and hummed. âYeah, need some food. Iâll take a shower and uh⊠join you guys.â You only nodded at his words before turning on your heels and walked away.Â
He was ready to close that door when the same voice from yesterday was heard. âWelcome to Hotel California.â Dean immediately turned his head to the open space, but no one was standing there. His eyebrows furrowed and he took one step out of the motel room; sure that someone was fucking with him. But that wasnât the case, and he brushed it away: hoping he wasnât going insane already.
It was only after a shower and too much time in front of the mirror to make sure his hair was in the right places that Dean got out of his motel room, looking around until he spotted you talking to a pretty boy. He closed and locked the door, key in hand as he approached you after making sure he had his phone in his pocket and a gun hidden in his back. He was still a hunter, after all.Â
The boy only gazed toward him as Dean approached before giving you one last look that seemed to be a warning before he stepped away. Only then, when it was only you, did Dean hear the melody of a vinyl player and Fly Me to the Moon echoed in the air. But it wasnât the Frank Sinatra version, but the voice of Kaye Ballard. He hummed quietly, remembering hearing this voice back when Mary was alive and Sam was nothing but a baby.Â
He stopped in his steps after standing next to you, his eyes taking over the courtyard and he realized the hotel had more passengers than he thought, with at least fifteen people around. Some couples danced to the song, a few people were talking and laughing together like they had known each other forever.Â
Some of them seemed to be directly from other decades; one woman was wearing a flapper dress and a cloche hat, while a man wore what seemed to be a slim-fitting Italian-cut suit with narrow lapels and Chelsea boots. Dean wondered if it was a special occasion and he had intruded.Â
The sun was high in the sky, making him sweat even though he had made no efforts to do so. âSome dance to remember, some dance to forget.â Your voice made his eyes shift to look at your face. You were focusing on the people dancing, slowly waltzing around with smiles on their faces. A middle aged man walked past you, hands brushing at your waist before pressing a fat kiss on your cheek, talking in a low tone. âHey, darlinâ, itâs nice to see you out.â Dean only heard before you started a conversation with said-man, the brightest smile on your face.Â
It only lasted a few minutes before the man walked away to meet a woman on the courtyard made-up dancefloor. The hunterâs hazel eyes glazed at your expression before clearing out his throat. âYou have a lot of pretty boys around?â He asked, cursing at himself at the tone of his words. Your eyes shifted to focus on him a second before looking away, again. âI call them my friends.â You shrugged and stepped forward, leaving Dean behind, eyebrows furrowed.Â
His hand moved to grab the phone in his pocket; he thought Sam deserved to have some news, just in case. Because one little fight wouldnât change the fact that Dean still cared for his brother.
His expression became bewildered when there was no data signal showing. Yeah, he was in the middle of the desert and then some, but no data? That was mildly suspicious. âThereâs no use, lovely, you wonât get any calls in here.â A voice broke him out of his stupor and he blinked up, just to see a woman that seemed to be straight out of the 80s standing in front of him. Her hair was bright ginger, curls that fell on her forehead, a pretty brown skin that glowed under the sun and big eyes that looked at him like he was the new attraction around.
âWhat dâya mean? Thereâs no data?â He asked back with confusion. The woman smiled at him, shaking her head like it was cute that he didnât understand yet. âNope. Some of us havenât heard anything about the outside world for decades.â The words escaping her mouth made Dean chuckle, until he realized she wasnât joking at all.
âIn decades? Like⊠You guys have been living here? No one ever left the place, or what?â His shoulders squared like he was prepared for something he didnât understand yet. The woman didnât reply to those words and simply turned her back to him, walking away. He was half-tempted to follow her and get answers to his questions but he did none. Dean just thought, thought and thought until his brain was burning inside his head.Â
There was something entirely wrong with this place and the Winchester man was starting to believe, finally, that he wasnât going insane. He slapped the back of the phone in his palm before pushing it back in his pocket, deciding that a drink wouldnât do bad. He excused himself, passing through the couples waltzing until his feet took him to the wooden bar; he remembered seeing the same one when he arrived. There, a man wearing an old barman uniform from what seemed to be the 20s was making Martiniâs.Â
Dean sat down on one of the wooden stools (so uncomfortable that he hissed), and observed the man behind the counter. He was wearing a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, with a small black bow-tie at his collar. Around his waist was a long white apron tied neatly, falling about mid-calf. It was paired with dark trousers and polished black dress shoes.Â
âCan I get you something, Sir?â The barman ended up asking and Dean hummed. âA beer, thanks.â He waved his hand like to say I donât mind the brand. A scoff escaped from the man behind the counter, his hands moving as he wiped a glass. âSorry, we havenât had that spirit since 1969.â Dean straightened on his bar stool, looking at the man like he had grown another head before he scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. âA glass of Whisky then, on the rocks.â The bartender nodded before preparing the drink.Â
The burning hot sun of Californiaâs Mojaves desert was making Dean overwhelmed already but his thoughts took another turn as he saw you come back his ways. You now wore a shawl around your shoulders; a piece of clothing that seemed to have seen better days.Â
A quiet thud made the hunter thank the barman as the drink appeared in front of him on the wooden bar. Hazel eyes moved to your figure once more when you stopped and sat on the stool next to Deanâs. âYou look pale,â you murmured at one point, your thumb brushing lightly over the crease between his brows. âThe heat does that⊠Makes people imagine things.â
âIâm not imagining the smell,â Dean shot back, quieter than he meant to be. You tilted your head, almost pitying. âSmell?â The breeze shifted and for a fleeting second, the air was cleanâsun-warmed stone and citrus from somewhere unseen. No rot, no lilies, just summer. âSee?â you whispered gently at him like trying to explain something that made sense only for you. âYouâre just tired.â
And the worst part was, for half a heartbeat, he almost believed you.
âI supposed you will be leaving today?â You asked him then, but the tone of your voice hid something deeper now.
Dean took a sip of his Whisky on the rocks before hissing. âNah. Summer afternoons make me feel angsty. Iâll leave tomorrow morning.â He said, focusing his eyes on you. His lips parted to add a few words when the murmurs started again. âWelcome to Hotel California, plenty of room at the Hotelââ Dean turned around vigorously on his stool, alert and eyes wide. He felt the pumping of blood through his veins, the beating of his heart inside his chest, the tingling down his legs. The grip he had on the glass tightened and his knuckles became white.
âDean?â He heard you call, freckled face pale as he turned it back to you. His eyebrows furrowed as if he didnât understand why you seemed to be so calm. âYou didnât hear that?â He expressed, voice paralyzed by the slight fear he felt a few seconds ago. But the thing was⊠Dean is a hunter. He shouldnât be afraid of people talking around. Of people fucking with him. When your own eyebrows furrowed, he gulped. âHeard what? The wind?â You asked him, body shifting forward like you were waiting for something.
âNo, nothinâ. The sun is hitting hard.â Dean only replied, protecting himself from any judgments you could have. He chuckled, brushing it off before porting the Whisky glass to his lips once more. âYou should drink water, maybe.â A silence fell between the two of you after that; heavy, sun-driven, and the minutes passed like that. Deanâs hazel eyes on your face and you looking at the people of the courtyard; the vinyl softly echoing in the air. Discs were changed as time flew, as the sun slowly settled down on the earth and the oil lamps of the motel illuminated the space. Whiskey and wine were served, a buffet that Dean was glad to see.
The hunterâs laugh had resonated in the air when the woman in the flapper dress had pulled him to a dance, swirling with him around. People clapped him on the back afterward, someone cheered with alcohol, you had even bumped your shoulder with him. Dean thought that if he hadnât the life he currently had, maybe one like that wouldnât be so bad. Maybe he could dream about this; about this place, about those people, about you. Maybe he didnât have to think about damnation, about Hell, about burning in the fire of the pit for eternity.
The vinyl crackled as the song shifted, but Dean couldâve sworn it was the same one playing. The woman in the flapper dress laughed againâthe exact same laugh as a minute ago, breathy and sharp at the end like it snagged on something invisible. He blinked, and the couple waltzing near the archway had rotated back to where theyâd started, her heel landing on the same pale cobblestone. The sun hadnât dipped any lower but it pressed against his skull, unmoving, heavy and watchful.
Another man clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations after the dance, the sound echoing too loud in the open air. Dean turned to grin back at him but the man was already across the courtyard, laughing with someone else like heâd never moved. The spot on Deanâs shoulder still tingled. He rubbed at it slowly, eyes scanning the courtyard. The bar now seemed farther away than before or maybe the tables had shifted. He couldnât tell. The palms rustled overhead without wind.
He checked his phone without thinking: 6:17p.m. The battery was lower than it shouldâve been and he didnât remember using it. When he looked back up, the couple near the archway were still dancing except the record had stopped spinning. The needle dragged in a soft, endless hiss but no one around seemed to notice and the hunter brushed it off.
The time passed too fast for his liking after that, it was now night after the blink of an eye. He couldnât remember the last gestures, the last words, the last smiles that had happened. Like his head had become all hazy, or if he just had a nap. But it wasnât the case, and Dean told himself it was probably just the summer sun playing tricks on him again. There was still no data but his phone now showed 10:43p.m when he entered his motel room for the night, closing the door behind himself.Â
The smell from the night before hit him againâthicker this time. Not just rot, but something sweet tangled inside it. More lilies. Funeral lilies. The kind that sat too long beside polished wood and grief-stricken families. It curled into his lungs, syrupy and suffocating. Beneath it was dampness, mold blooming somewhere unseen, like the walls themselves were sweating decay. He swallowed hard, but the sweetness clung to the back of his throat. It tasted like something that had already died.
He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging under the weight of his tired body. For a moment, he stilled; hands on his knees, head thrown to the ceiling but a sigh escaped him. Dean finished by moving and he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket. His fingers were quick as they typed on the keyboard.Â
DEAN to SAM.
Hey, just wanted to send this. Iâm okay. In a cool motel right now.Â
FAILURE TO DELIVER.
Dean sighed at the message showing back on his screen as he tried to text his baby brother, but then again, what did he expect? The thought of it all seemed strange to him but he didnât dwell too much on it, only moved his body to rest the phone on the bedtable. His feet moved and he kicked his shoes off, not caring as to where they would land. The mattress groaned under him as he laid down, eyes to the ceiling.Â
The temperature inside the room was perfectâhe was surprised. The motel didnât seem equipped with air conditioners, nor did it look new. It was on those stupid thoughts that Deanâs eyes closed and he fell asleep like that; wearing his clothes, hands under his head and eyebrows slightly furrowed. The sound of cicadas outside was his lullaby.Â
But that didnât last long: Dean was awakened by a loud gasp coming from his own throat, muscles aching and heart pumping inside his chest like a storm ready to destroy anything on its passage. His back was sweaty and so was his forehead and his neck. Eyes alert, pupils blown out, cheeks red. He looked around like a panther searching for prey, but nothing was giving him the impression of being in danger. His calloused hands gripped at the covers under his body and for a secondâbut what seemed to be eternityâhis mouth pooled with saliva.
He swore he heard that voice again. âWelcome to Hotel California. Such a lovely place.â Dean wondered if it had only been in his dream or if someone had entered the motel room he was residing in. His whole body moved, muscles aching and trembling as he sat up, hands grabbing the gun that had been hidden behind his back. He didnât feel safe at that moment; and it was worse than any hallucinations from before. His back hit the headboard after that, and he inhaled through his mouth.
The hunter swore he heard footsteps outside his room a few times as he stayed awake; but the only gush of wind through the dark was enough to make him paranoid. Visions from the corner of his eyes, bugs on his arms, thoughts that didnât only belong to himself. Dean was now sure of one thing; this place wasnât the paradise it seemed to be. There was something entirely wrong with the motel, and he needed to leave this place as soon as he could.
So when the sun started to show the tip of its nose at 5:45a.m, he was already on his feet. He was too shaken up to even think of taking a shower, but changed clothes, washed his face and his shoes were back on. Dean moved through the room, glad that he didnât have taken things out of his bag. He grabbed his jacket from the floor, grabbed his phone from the bedtable and turned to the door. Though, his eyes caught on the clock on the wooden nightstand where 9:53a.m was now showing.
The hunterâs body stopped straight, a tickling sensation down his spine when his fingers pulled his phone back out to make sure he wasnât hallucinating again. But he wasnât, and his screen showed the same time as the clock. It wasnât possible because Dean was sure it had been at least 5:47a.m when he had started to move around the room. There was no way in Hell four hours had passed by the blink of his eyes, no way in Hell he couldnât remember what had happened a few minutes ago. And while those thoughts hit his brain, he remembered the evening before, in the courtyard.
How time had seemed to pass so differently than what he was used to, and how the people around hadnât seemed to be surprised by that. Like they were used to the shift of space.
All of this was pushed away in his mind when a sharp knock on the door made Dean blink. His hand immediately grabbed the gun that was hidden underneath his shirt once more; his grip firm and unforgiving. His free hand moved toward the doorknob before a voice was heard behind the wood. âDean?â It was you. It was always you, he decided. The shadow that had made him park the Impala, the temptation of the devil, the apple in Edenâs garden.Â
He lowered his gun before opening the door, just ajar to see your face and for you to see his own. âYeah?â His voice was tight, eyebrows furrowed like he suddenly could see through you. See through who you really were. âWe are having breakfast in the masterâs chambers.â Your voice was light but demanding, like you wouldnât let him escape this. Like guarding him in your cocoon was the safest thing you could do for him, the safest thing you could offer to someone like Dean.Â
The door was pushed as he appeared in front of you, almost sweaty and disheveled. âThanks but I have to drive for a few hours, itâs best if I leave now.â He tried to excuse himself, hand carefully hiding the gun behind his back. âYouâll need a bit of sugar for that trip. The sun is hitting hard today.â You voiced back at him, not giving him the choice to refuse the opportunity of a breakfast and something in his stomach. Dean grumbled under his breath, hands shaking as he grabbed his bag back and his jacket before following after you.
The slam of the door closing behind his back made him jump; you were already walking away to realize how jumpy the hunter was now. He followed your steps to the stairs that bring you to the second floor, his hazel eyes all wide as he looked around. The masterâs chambers was the last door of the floor, the door open to let a low level of music escape the room. Once more, the space was filled with residents of the hotel; a buffet on a long table and chairs all along it.
The mirrors on the ceiling caught his attention next; they werenât placed for vanityâthey were positioned like watchful eyes. The reflection looking back at him felt higher somehow, distant. The chandelier above the long table resembled a crown of thorns when he squinted, twisted metal casting jagged shadows across the walls. The buffet stretched long and ceremonial, like an altar laid out for offering. Pink champagne in crystal flutes shimmered under the light like diluted blood. And everyone sat as though waiting for communion.
The longer he stood in that room, the more it felt like something had already been decided. The residents watched him the way mourners watch a casket being lowered; solemn, expectant, almost reverent. A fork scraped porcelain somewhere, slow and deliberate, like dirt hitting wood. âYouâre safe here,â someone said from the far end of the table. Safe. The word echoed wrong, like being buried was safe from storms.
You pushed Dean inside the room, leaving the door open for more light. Inside, the warmth was on the roof and Dean immediately felt the sweat trickle down his neck, his hands becoming damp. It was harder to breathe in this space but he wondered if it had anything to do with the summer sun or his anxiety that begged him to leave, running. He felt a hand on his back slowly lowering him to a chair, he lifted his eyes to see you as you sat next to him. The voices were overlapping, laughters and whispers. A few glances his ways made him even more jumpy.
The laughter in the masterâs chambers rose and fell in strange waves, like it was rehearsed. A woman across the table tilted her head back to laughâand held it there a second too long, throat exposed, mouth open, no sound coming out. The man beside her nodded at something no one had said, nodding and nodding and nodding until Dean felt dizzy watching him. Forks lifted in perfect unison around the table, but none of them ever seemed to pierce the food. The motion repeated; lift, pause, lower, smile and repeat.
A couple near the far end of the table sat too close together, their shoulders pressed tight, unmoving. They hadnât blinked once since Dean entered the room. He noticed because he had to. He was counting nowâbreaths, blinks, movements, about anything to anchor himself.Â
âWe are all just prisoners of our own devices.â The sentence made him turn his head back to you, and his hazel eyes swiftly shifted on your face, trying to grab at all the features he hadnât truly seen before. The tiredness in your eyes, the slight twitch of one of your eyelids; the pain, the fear you seemed to carry around like an armor. Dean hadnât seen deeper than your beauty when his eyes paused on you, that first night. âI wonder: whatâs yours?â You added to him after a second of silence and his eyebrows furrowed.
A cold took over Deanâs body when he looked around again, truly seeing the scene in the masterâs chambers. The smell hit him firstârot, sweat, sex. A reflex made him gag quietly when he saw the rotten food and fruits on the table, flies flying around like lions ready for their prey. Bottles of alcohol with moldy liquids inside, patches of white and green like decoration. But to everyone else around, nothing seemed to be out of place, like it was their usual routine. Dean had smelled death before; it had been his job to hunt all kinds of creatures; but the smell in this room was something he had never known before.
âYou canât kill this beast, Dean.â The touch of your hand on his made him recoil, like he had been burned down to his bones. Eyes glared at him, residents fixating on him like they were waiting for a miracle. âWhat the fuck is happening here?â The words echoed out of his mouth as he gulped, bile on the bottom of his throat. All he wanted was to bolt out of this chair, grab his bag and get the fuck out of this place. He needed to get back to Sam. He had to get back to Sam, now. The feeling of danger coursed through his veins, making his heart pump inside his chest.
His hazel eyes glared at your face and all you could do was shake your head at him, as if you could hear his thoughts. âWelcome to Hotel California.â A voice spurred from behind his back, making him shiver. It was the same voice he had heard when he arrived here, through the corridors, the voice that had woken him up during the night. Deanâs head turned slowly, eyes wide open.
The silhouette of a man rested at the doorway; one he hadnât had the pleasure of meeting him before. A gelled hairstyle, a trimmed mustache, a three-piece suit with a tie, a cane in his left hand. and all Dean remembered was running for the door, bag in hand. When the man with the cane smiled from the doorway, the shadows behind him stretched tall and narrow, forming something almost halo-shapedâif halos were made of smoke. The cane tapped once against the floor, sharp and deliberate, like a gavel in a church that had forgotten its God.
All Dean remembered was running for the door, bag in hand. He could have taken his gun out, threatened for an explanation, demanded what was happening here. But the danger he felt was stronger at that moment, his body and brain begging him to leave the place. Thatâs what he did; boots stomping down as he ran down the stairs, your voice loud as you called him from the second floor.Â
The staircase felt longer going down than it had going up. His boots hit more steps than he remembered climbing. He counted without meaning to: twelve, fourteen, seventeen. When he reached the bottom and glanced back for a second, there were only twelve. A door along the courtyard wall stood slightly ajar, he didnât remember seeing it before. Inside was only darknessânot shadow, not a room but the emptiness that made a cold run down his back. He stared a second too long, and the door eased shut on its own with a soft click, like a mouth closing, eating on the darkness.
âDean! Dean!â You cried out but he didnât stop, not even to look above his shoulders. It didnât matter; you didnât matter, because all Dean wanted was to get back to Sammy. Because if he didnât, what would his baby brother think? What would Sam ever believe, if Dean never came back without any explanation?
They had separated for a few days on a stupid fight, Dean had left for a hunt all alone. He hadnât been able to use his phone since he got to the motel, not able to tell Sam what was going on. And if something happened to him, if Sam thought his brother just leftâŠ? Dean couldnât deal with that. He had to get home to his brother and make sure Sam knew their fight had been nothing but stupid. He had to make sure Sam knew there was nothing more important in this world than him. That nothing could break their bond, not even death.
The force of a grab on his shoulders made Deanâs body stop in its course, a groan leaving his mouth as he turned around, his gun now glued to his hands as he lifted it up. The barrel of his gun met the forehead of the three-piece suit man that had previously been in the masterâs chambers. Deanâs breathing was labored, eyes squinting as he looked at him. His thumb moved to undo the safety, index on the trigger but the man in front of the weapon only smiled; like nothing would happen. Like he was sure Dean wouldnât do anything. âRelax,â said the man. âWe are programmed to receive. You can check-out anytime youâd like, but you can never leave.â The words made bile burning in the back of the hunterâs throat, his stomach lurching.Â
This couldnât be trueâthis was just a nightmare from the sun hitting too hard on the back of his neck. âShut the fuck up!â He ended up screaming, pushing the barrel of the gun harder against the other manâs forehead before he groaned, and took a few steps back. When Dean backed away, heart hammering, the man with the cane sighed softly; not annoyed, not even angry at Deanâs attitude. âEveryone arrives the same way,â he said. âConfused and still clinging.â
âClinging to what?â Dean demanded, jaw tight. The manâs smile widened just enough to show too much gum and what seemed to be rotten teeth.
âTo the idea that they were meant to leave.â
Dean only threw his bag back on his shoulders before he passed through the arch that gave on the reception room and the main entrance, leaving the man behind memories. A few steps were enough for him to leave this hell-ish nightmare but a voice made him stop. âDean! Waitââ You appeared, eyes all wide and hands shaking. âYou canât leave.â
He scoffed at those words, not even turning his head to you. No one on this Earth could stop him from going home to his brother, to Castiel, to his life. âWatch me, because Iâm sure as Hell ainât going to die in this place.â He simply voiced back at you before his hand closed on the doorknob and he pushed the white door open. His body stopped straight when the sun in the sky met his pupils; the burning sun of Californiaâs Mojaveâs desert hitting his face. The sunlight beyond the doorway was wrong; too bright, too flat, like a painted backdrop in an old Western.
He didnât have time to dwell on it, the most important was to take Baby and drive far away from this place. He could see the shape of the highway, the shimmer of heat rising off asphalt, the silhouette of the Impala waiting faithful and black against the desert. Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled and the air shifted, thick as syrup. The sound of cicadas cut off mid-cry. His hand brushed the doorframe as he crossed it but when his boot met the ground, it wasnât gravel. It was cobblestone. The courtyard opened before him again, exactly as it had been with the same angle of sun, same couple turning beneath it, same laugh snagging in the air.
Dean gasped sharply, breath coming faster. The door behind him still showed desertâendless and golden and free. He could see his car, he could almost feel the steering wheel under his palms. He reached for it again, stepped through.
Cobblestone, laughter, vinyl hiss again.
It didnât make any sense. His hazel eyes lifted up to see you, you hadnât moved one inch but Dean was now facing you instead of giving you his back. âNoâNo, what the fuck? What the fuck is that?â He hissed, turning his body back to the door, passing through it one more time. He ended up coming back to his previous position, facing you. âFuckinâ hell, let me go!â Only then, he watched as you walked closer to him, taking the same to see the expression on your face. âDean⊠I told you, you canât leave.â The hunter shook his head at the words, only realizing what they truly meant now.Â
His bag hit the floor in a dull thud, his breathing fastening, pupils blown out. He felt like his body was letting go; he couldnât feel the tip of his fingers nor his tongue in his mouth. Warmth coursed through his body, but not the summery, soft one. This warmth was burning him alive, closing around his heart and expanding in his chest like he had never sensed before. Your cold hands on his cheeks brought him back into his body. âItâs going to be alright, Dean. Everything will be alright now.â You spoke and his orbs lowered to look at the skin of your forehead, like he couldnât meet your eyes.
âYou donât understand, I have to go back home. I have to go back to my baby brother.â He whispered at you but you only shook your head at his words. Your palms cradled his face, fingers on his cheekbones. âWe are your family now, Dean. Youâll see⊠Time passes so differently here but you wonât even remember your brother after a few days.â The sentences coming out of your mouth made him gag, and his body curled toward yours. His head hid in your neck, hands trembling that tugged on the shawl you wore around your shoulders. He didnât seem to cry, but his lips parted to let a gasp escape before he spoke once more.
âBut I have to get back to Sammy⊠I have to tell him Iâm sorry.â
Your expression softened with something almost like pity. âYou did already,â you whispered and Dean wondered what that meant. He couldnât remember talking to his brother all the while he had been here.
He tried to picture Samâs face clearly. Not the way he looked two days ago, or last week, but young. Gap-toothed, too-big-for-his-body, clutching a cereal box at some motel table. The image slipped like oil between his fingers. He could see Samâs mouth moving, hear the cadence of his voice but the words wouldnât come. The reason for their fight felt distant, blurred at the edges.
Sammy.
That was right.
Wasnât it?
It was on those final words that Dean heard the low and soft melody of a vinyl being played in the courtyard; the same song he had heard the day prior. The chatters of voice from the residents, the clicking of knives and forks, ice being broken inside the barmanâs shaker. The sun was high in the summer sky, heat making clothes stick to sweaty skin, shoes and heels hitting the concrete as couples and people danced around. A joke or two being made, champagne being served in flute glasses. And in his ear, the softest voice of them all, murmuring words.
notes: this might be the longest fic iâve ever wrote for tumblr, guys. before anyone comes for me; i know the meanings of the lyrics but iâve decided to do my own interpretation of it. i mean, if you just listen to the song, it sounds like a fever dream. i love the psychological / liminal horror type, so i thought it would be cool to write about it. also, iâve decided to not put the paragraphs in tiny because itâs so long so i thought it would be more pleasant to read in the original size? anyway, thank you to anyone who read this and came this far. please, please, donât forget to reblog if you liked this!
summary. long gone were the days of your peak rankâyour friends even tease you for being washed. after a fateful encounter from queuing at one in the morning, you meet sgt.barnes, a guy whoâs a rank below yours and insists on only playing support. the dudeâs a 50% freak, 50% loser, but 100% your type! maybe being hardstuck diamond wasnât too bad after all.
content. loser!bucky x fem!reader, valorant terminology, mdni (+18), bucky is a certified FREAK iâm telling u, service dom!bucky, cunnilingus, cum-eating, mating press, dacryphilia, belly-bulge, marathon sex, praise kink, oral sex (dick sucking), unprotected sex (wrap ur willy pls), squirting, face-off, big d!ck bucky, pet names (baby, dollface, angel), porn with plot, buckyâs got superman-themed boxers <3 more tags/warnings will be added in each chapter.
word count. (n/a)
from lia. iâm crying look at those warnings lmao, this mini-series is just a tiny bit inspired by this banger of a song, hence the title.
i. round one â match found!
ii. match point
iii. overtime
first part will be released this wednesday! stay tuned xoxo
@ chipotleburritobowl â 2025 , do not plagarize or i will cry fat hot tears , you are responsible for your own media consumption twin. read responsibly and thanks for stopping by!
sometimes i see a wincest post when im looking for new fics and i stare at the view post button. then i click it bc im curious and i always regret it. like theres a reason i have ts blocked bro
âŠRead on a03!âŠ
âŠMasterlist - Dean MasterlistâŠ
âŠpairing: Dean Winchester x female!readerâŠ
âŠsummary: Friends with benefits means no claim. Dean can do what he wants, and so can you. But you don't. And when you start to, it makes Dean have a realization.âŠ
âŠwarnings/tags: friends with benefits, jealousy, angst, pining, shameless smut (blowjobs, Dean Winchester eating pussy like a madman, oversitmulation, p in v sex), no use of y/nâŠ
âŠauthor's note: Request from an anon! Dean is a yearner in every life. Enjoy!âŠ
You watch the sunlight float in through the windows, and hold your breath.Â
If you donât breathe, maybe you can trick this moment into lasting forever.Â
Time suspends, in the air with the swirling dust of the motel and the quiet birdsong outside. Little trills and caws, as the light gets more golden, and you just pretend. These sheets are soft because theyâre yours. This morning is light because thereâs no pressure, pushing down on your chest. You heard the birds, and youâll hear them tomorrow, and theyâre all just singing for you.Â
Dean is lying next to you, mouth hanging open and arm haphazardly thrown over your waistâsuch a light touch, like he knows he doesnât have to pull that hard to get you back to himânot because of last night, but because this is just where he belongs.Â
If you fall asleep again, heâll be there when you wake up. If you press your face into his chest, youâll hear his heartbeat without wondering ifâfor only a secondâitâs ever belonged to you. If you reached out to touch his face, heâd lean into it, and your hand wouldnât get swatted away with a stern glare.Â
Youâve never been brave enough, to just reach out and touch him. Not when heâs quiet and vulnerable like this, and as strong as Dean isâa mountain of a man, unmoving and towering over everything, even Samâyou still feel like you could break him. That your fingers would trace over the wrong line of his face, and heâd dissolve under your hands. Itâs something about how peaceful he looks. How his skin is little golden in the morning, and his hair seems to look softer and his lips get swollen with sleep.Â
No armor made of sharp words or imposing presence. Not heat radiating from him like the sun, drawing youâand everyone else, but mostly youâin like moths. No anger, or sadness, or pain engraved onto ever deeper shadow of his handsome features.Â
Itâs just Dean, lain bare at your side, and not yours to see at all.Â
You roll over and blink at the ceiling, watching it slowly lighten, and Deanâs hand flexes on your hip. He drags you a little closer, with a low grunt, and you squeeze your eyes shut. Itâs nothing. Itâs never anything, when his lips press to your neck and his rough, deliberate fingers dip slightly under your shirt to trace your spine. This would have to be something different, for it to be something. Youâd have to not have rails up, to block yourself from toppling over and bursting into tears every time he gives you that look, and you know youâre not sleeping alone.Â
Itâs always just a look.Â
Thatâs how it started. Just one, strange look from Dean one night at a bar, and then suddenly he was kissing you in an alleyway and hiking your leg up to rub his hand over your core.Â
âYou know that wasnât-â Heâd sighed your name the next morning, as youâd sat on the couch with your knees curled to your chest. âCan you look at me?â
Youâd nodded, and turn with a plastered smile, so well-crafted and fucking delicate just one word would have shattered it like China. âYeah.â
âI donât do relationships.â Dean had muttered, watching you carefully from the bed. His shirt had still been off, and it had only felt a little cruel. âYou know that, right?â
âI know.â Shorter answers had been better. Safer. Made it sound like you really didnât care at all.Â
Dean had fallen for it. Heâd nodded slowly, and never once looked like he doubted a word slipping out of your mouth.Â
âGood. But, while I got you here,â heâd giving you the charming, rogue, wouldnât it be easy to fall in love with me, but donât try to drive down this one-way road, grin, and your fingers had curled into fists in your lap.Â
Where he couldnât see them.Â
âYouâre clean. Iâm clean. Weâre pretty fuckinâ good at that,â heâd jerked his head back to the bed. âIâm willing to jump back in, whenever you need something scratched. Long as you scratch me back, yâknow. Thatâs the classic deal.â
It was the classic deal.
But youâd watched enough movies to know that the other part of the classic dealâthe one Dean seemed to have been leaving out, because he doesnât watch chick flicks so he doesnât know they can be cautionary talesâwas that it never ends well. Someone falls in love, and someone breaks the otherâs heart.Â
Youâd lied to yourself. Youâd said it would be different, because you were already in love with Dean, and heâs broken your heart in a million silent ways before. Itâs always glued itself back together, even if your hands have end up with jagged cults that sting when you try to touch someone else.Â
Itâs not different.Â
Dean still doesnât know he breaks your heart, with every single look of him needing you, but not wanting you. With every flirty comment at a witness, or joke with Sam about beinâ a lone wolf, Sammy, Iâll settle down when Iâm dead.Â
Or worse, the way he wonât treat you like only a hookup when heâs buried inside of you or laying between your legs, but doesnât even acknowledge that this happens once you leave the bed.Â
Itâs why youâre not moving now.Â
Itâs why you have those rails up. Dean can keep breaking your heart all he wants. He doesnât get to take anything else.Â
You donât make flirting comments back anymore, when he teases you. You walk behind him now, so you donât have to feel his stare. You donât pull away when he drags you to his chest in his sleep, but you donât hug him either. Not even outside of the motel rooms.
âYou okay, sweetheart?â Heâd asked you last night, a few hours before the look, and youâd smiled at him.Â
âIâm always okay. I was born okay.â Youâd turned away from him, and the low light had been hiding the tears in your eyes. Your voice hadnât had the same kind of loyalty. âIâm great.â
Dean had made a motion like he was going to reach for you. A lurching step, his hands flying out and face drawn with worry. Youâd taken the smallest pace back.Â
That had been all it took to make him give up.Â
Thatâs always all it takes.Â
And you didnât stop time. Eventually you have to pee, and you climb out of bed without looking back. Stare at yourself in the mirror, at the hickeys on your neck, and wonder if Dean will even remember putting them there after you cover them up.
It doesnât matter. It never matters.Â
Youâre almost done with the caseâjust a salt and burnâand by tomorrow youâll be back at the bunker. Where you seem to transform from something Dean looks at, to something he files into the same category as his brother.Â
Still important to him.Â
Probably less sexual than his fucking car.Â
âMorning, sunshine.â Dean says when you come back out of the bathroom, and youâre not sure how he got up so fast. âHave a nice piss?â
âThe best.â You mutter, and he holds out a cup of coffee for you.
âYou ready to kick ghost ass so we can get the hell out of here?â
You take the coffee and just hum, shuffling over to the table. Dean doesnât push you. He never pushes you, when itâs about anything but safety.
That would imply he cares where you end up.Â
âI think I know what we gotta do.â He tells you over breakfast, and you hum, spinning your fork in your hands. âFound the grave, ran it by Sammy, he says itâs the guy weâre looking for. We can head there this evening, so we donât get caught grave digging again. Spend the day just camping so no one else gets whammied by this son of a bitch.â
âOkay.â You poke at your pancakes, and Dean says your name with a tight frown.Â
âAre you feeling alright?â
You sigh. âI told you, Dean, Iâm fine-â
âYouâre not acting fine.â He grunts, narrowing his eyes. âYou didnât accuse me of messing up the last grave we dug.â
âDo you want me to?â
âNo, I just-â His fingers tap quickly on the table, and he shakes his head. âNever mind.â
You donât mind. You let it wash over you, and you walk behind Dean back to the car. For most of the stakeout, you keep your eyes closed so you can only hear the music.Â
But there are moments of weakness.Â
There are always moments of weakness.Â
âI fucking hate these pretzels.â You grumble, poking at the bag, and Dean chuckles.Â
âYou bought those, sweetheart, you got no one to blame but yourself.â
âI didnât mean to buy them.â You shoot him a glare. âYou couldâve stopped me.â
âAnd how the hell would I have stopped you?â
âBy reminding me that I hate these pretzels-â
âI did remind you,â he drawls your name, giving you an amused look. âI said hey, whenever you get those you end up just throwing them at my face and stealing my shit, put them back, and you ignored me.â
âOh.â You flush. âShut up.â
âThat doesnât sound like sorry- Fuck-â
You laugh as one of the pretzels hit his cheek, and Dean groans.
âFine. Iâm never lettinâ you get those again. Iâll tackle you next time.â
âYouâll tackle me?â You raise your brows, and he nods, drumming arrhythmically on the wheel.Â
âIâll jump you, sweetheart, donât test me.â He pauses. âThatâs not a challenge.â
You grin at him. âIt sounds like a challenge. I think Iâd win anyway?â
He snorts. âYou think youâd win if I tackled you?â
âIâd get away.â You shrug. âIâm slippery, like a seal. You wouldnât be able to get a grip, then Iâd just wiggle away.â
Dean makes a low sound, shifting in his seat, and shakes his head. âYouâd just wiggle away, huh.â
âYep. You wouldnât even know what happened.â You pause. âOr Iâd kick you in the balls.â
âChrist.â He mutters, lips twitching in the dark. âYou know I love it when you talk dirty, baby.âÂ
Shit. âAll for you, Winchester.â You pop another shitty pretzel into your mouth, playing it off. âI know it turns you on when I threaten you.â
He chuckles. âI think I just like fuckinâ the sass out of you.â He shoots you one of those looks, and you can resist this. You just have to stop flirting back, to keep the guards up, to remind yourself that the sex means nothing.Â
To him.Â
Never to youâto you, itâs the closest youâre ever going to get to the stratosphere, the only kind of heaven youâll be allowed to seeâbut to Dean. It means nothing.Â
âAnd youâve really succeeded into that so far.â You mutter, making your voice a little more bitter, a little more spiked, than you can manage to actually feel.
Dean just shrugs. âTakes some time, sweetheart. You got a big mouth, canât fill it up all at once.âÂ
Thereâs a slight pause as you try to figure out how to stab him back without the blade turning on you, but Dean clears his throat and breaks it first.
âAnd Iâm not gonna tackle you. Iâll just go in myself. Get you what you want, keep you away from the pretzels.â
âDean, you donât know what Iâd want-â
âYeah, I do.â He waves you off with a small grin, and thereâs the weakness. You can survive the electric, when he flirts. You canât survive the warmth, waving in the air between you, reminding you that he really does care. He knows what youâd want, because youâre more to him than just one night but not enough to just lean over and kiss him right now.Â
âFine.â You wrinkle your nose at him, looking away before he somehow sees it on your face. How your stupid heart is breaking again. âThanks.â
âNo problem.â He shrugs. âTry and toss them into my mouth.â
âDean-â
âYouâre not eating them, gotta prevent food waste or whatever.â He bumps your shoulders together. âCâmon.â
You roll your eyes, but turn and start to toss them into his mouth. And it hurts, with every giggle and small joke. It hurts that he can do this with you when your knees are only casually bumping, but not when heâs whispering filth in your ear.Â
But thatâs why you have the rails up. This is Dean, your friend, who throws M&Ms into your mouth and listens to you when you start to ramble about something dumb, after the snacks run out. Who jokes and teases you and makes you stand guard while youâre grave digging, instead of letting you help.
âLatest report,â you call down to him. âThereâs a fox up here. Itâs my new best friend.â
âWhat?â He looks up at you, and you grin. âWhatâs it got that I donât?â
âA tail.â
âI can grow a tail.â He shovels out another thing of dirt, and you giggle.
âCan you catch me squirrels?â
âI dunno. Probably. That all I gotta do to be number one again?â
âOh, Dean.â You give him a teasing pout. âYou were never number one.â
He groans. âSamâs the one who messed up your laundry, sweetheart, donât forget that-â
âSamâs not number one either.â
âWell, who the hell am I losing to then?â
âThe concept of time.â You hum, looking back up the graveyard, and Dean snorts.
âYeah, yeah, alright-â
âAll these creepy dead people? Theyâre my best friends.â
âThis one tried to kill you,â he drawls your name, and you can hear his smile. It pulls on your own.Â
âWe have a complicated relationship. She tries to kill me, I try to kill her, but at the end of the day? Best friends.â
Dean laughs again, the sound echoing through the night and making it warmer, and thereâs no way to freeze time here.Â
No way to freeze it ever.Â
He hops out of the grave, lights the bitch up, and looks at you with bright eyes in the light of the fire. With all the shadows and light, itâs sort of like he really is just a comet that crashed out of the sky, and right into your side. Youâre blinking at him a little too slow, before he looks away.Â
âYou want to make marshmallows?â You say, trying to lighten the taut, painful and hungry feeling in your chest, and Deanâs grin almost knocks you off your feet and right into the fire.Â
The heat canât be that much worse than what youâre feeling right now.Â
âNot on the dead body, but we can get some in the car tomorrow.â He puts a hand on your back, and slowly starts to guide you away. âBet I can fit more in my mouth than you can.â
You scoff. âThatâs a stupid bet, your mouth is bigger.ââHell yeah, it is.â He winks at you, and you whack his chest. The lingering warmth of the fire hides your flush.Â
And even if it didnât, itâs not like he ever sees.Â
Dean makes you go get drinks, before you leave town. He always wants to get drinks. Youâre pretty sure itâs so he can draw that hard line back up, when he takes someone else, and you know that thereâs nothing for you to cling onto. No hope. No delusions that he loves you back. Just Dean, leaning on the bar and flirting with some redhead while you try to see how many shots you can get in before they cut you off. You know how this dance goes. Youâve done it a million time.Â
You pretend that you donât care, when nails trace on Deanâs forearm and he grins like he won the lottery. You get drunk enough that itâs all just a little numb. Dean disappears to the bathroom, you stare at the shelf behind the bar, and try to count how many bottles there are. Dean comes back with a lazy smile, and tells you itâs time to go.Â
And you do, because part of Dean having your heart means he gets to pull on it, and tug you wherever he wants.Â
Then you end up back at the bunker, the slate wipes clean, and you sit in a purgatory of waiting for the next case. For the next time the mountain is going to ask you to climb it, as if youâre more than an ant. For when the Sun is going to shine, and itâs only going to be for you. In the dead of night, where no one else can see, and itâll be gone in the morning.Â
This is all going to be gone in the morning.
âHey, doll. Drinkinâ all alone?âÂ
You glance up, and find a pretty, rough featured man grinning at you. Heâs got perfectly straight, shining white teeth, and messy hair. He looks like heâd been pulled out of one of those old black and white movies Dean likes. His hand is resting near your elbow, brushing lightly as he leans towards you, and thereâs no electricity. No little sparks that fly through you like lightning, the way that Deanâs touch does. This manâs lips pull into a smirk, and itâs not none of the charm Deanâs has. Thereâs a scar on his cheek, but it makes him look less heroicâlike Deanâand more like someone youâd regret ending up behind a closed door with.Â
Itâs not fair to be comparing him to Dean so much. He canât be blamed for not being the man you love, because no one ever comes close. And he doesnât have that snake-like glint in his eyes that always makes you cover your drink.Â
This wonât go anywhere.Â
At least while youâre looking at him, you wonât have to look at Dean and his redhead.Â
âI wasnât.â You smile at him, a little polished and polite. âBut I am now.â
âWell, only a fool is leavinâ something like you behind.â The man drawls, and you raise your brows.
âSomething?â
He doesnât skip a beat. âYouâre too gorgeous to be anything human, sweetheart. Thatâs all.â
You smile softly, looking back to your drink, and you can feel something prickling on the back of your neck. It feels like a wired, burning heat. The buzzing feeling you only get under Deanâs attention.
When you risk a quick look, out of the corner of your eyes, heâs staring at you. The redhead is draped over him, and his hand is on her waist, but heâs looking right at you.Â
Code red? You mouth to him with a small frownâhe and Sam have a bad habit of making out with monsters, so you had to develop a whole fucking plan for itâand his jaw just clenches.Â
Weirdo.Â
You look back to the man with another smile. If Deanâs not about to sleep with a vampire or something, you just donât want to see it.Â
âSmooth recovery.â You tell him, and the man lets out a low laugh, extending his hand.Â
âArcher. I never leave pretty girls at bars.â
You say your name, taking his hand. âAdmirable of you. Let me know if you find any.â
He laughed again. âYou got a mouth on you, huh?â
âSo Iâve been told.â You hum, and Archerâs grin grows.Â
âYou talk big when you play darts?â He leans in a little closer, and he mostly smells like booze and oddly sweet amber. âYou seem like the kinda girl that would be good at dart.â
âWell,â you smile at him. âWhy donât we find out if I am.â
Archer helps you up, and he really is nice enough. He doesnât get mad when you beat him at darts, but he also stands a little too close the whole time. He throws too much with his shoulder, and you donât think heâd be open to the feedback, so you just laugh softly at all his jokes. Theyâre not bad jokes, but they have an edge that might cut you if youâre not careful. Youâre already good at cutting into yourself with words. You donât need Archer to do it for you.Â
Thatâs one of the reasons you love Dean. All his jokes are so fucking stupid, and they feel like being wrapped in a hug or having the barbed wire around you softened into nothing.Â
You need to stop comparing him to Dean.Â
But itâs hard, when heâs right across the room. Still with his redhead, whoâs combing her fingers through his hair possessively, and pouting at him with honeyed words he canât seem to hear any better than you. She touches him like heâs hers.Â
Right now, he is. Maybe more than heâs ever yours.
But heâs still glowering at you. Itâs like a dagger, driving into your heart and making you a little dizzy.Â
You look away.Â
If he needs you, heâll come get you.Â
And he never does.Â
You spend the rest of the night drinking with Archer, trading sharp jokes like a sparring match and grinning in the hazy light of the bar. His hand rests on your hip while you choose a song from the jukebox. Sits next to you in a booth, thighs pressed together, and his shiny grin completely focused on you. It doesnât make you feel gooey and malleable, like Deanâs does. For a moment you think Archer at least gives you the hummingbird heartbeat that Dean doesâwhere your breath gets shallow and your hands get restless to touchâbut thatâs just Dean.Â
Still staring at you.Â
All fucking night.Â
âSo,â Archer drawls, and you refuse to look away from him. It takes more effort than when you stare at Dean. Itâs less magnetic.Â
You need to fucking stop.Â
âYouâre not from âround here, are you doll?â
You grin at him, playing with the straw in your glass. âYouâre just asking that now?â
âForgive me,â he places a hand over his heart. âWanted to make sure you werenât just a dream.â
âYeah, okay.â You laugh, shaking your head. âIâm not from here. Iâm passing through for work.â
âAh. Any chance you might pass through more than once?â
âDepends. Are you going to murder someone to make me come back?â
Archerâs brows raise. âMurder? What, you a fed?â
âNo. Iâm more of a⊠private investigator.â
âInteresting. You dazzle them out of all their secrets, doll?â He smirks at you, and you tense slightly.
âActually, Iâm the muscle.â You hum, just to test how he reacts.Â
Another laugh. It was a joke. You canât fault him for that.
Dean wouldâve laughed as well.
But Dean never wouldâve said you dazzle. He wouldâve chuckled and said something like private investigator? Like those mind-reader shows?Â
You wouldâve said, Yeah, but I donât need to read minds. People usually tell you everything by themselves.Â
Yeah? He wouldâve leaned in, holding your gaze. What am I telling you, sweetheart?
And you wouldâve flushed, and whispered. Youâll have to pay me first.
Dean wouldâve made a big show of grabbing a twenty out of his wallet and passing it to you. Wouldâve said something else like, probably should be worried you got me all figured out-.
Archer says your name, and you blink at him.Â
âHuh?â
âI was askinâ if you wanted to get out of here.â Archer grins at you, leaning in so close you can smell the whiskey on his breath. âI got a truck you can investigate, doll?â
You swallow. You canât.
Archer is nice.Â
Heâs not Dean.Â
âIâm sorry.â You give him a small smile, bracing for a possible fight. âI have to leave pretty early in the morning. I canât tonight.â
Archer shrugs it off. âAlright. I leave my number. But-â He hasnât leaned back. âPrice of it is one kiss.â
You let out a slow breath, and nod. Archer almost crashes into you, a little more rough and passionate than it feels like it needs to be. Thereâs a lot more teeth and spit than there needs to be. Itâs clumsy, and mostly him grabbing your jaw and you trying to breathe through your nose. Not the worst kiss of your life.
Nothing youâre going to remember in a week, no matter how Archer presses into you.Â
Dean snaps your name, and you pull back suddenly with wide eyes.Â
Heâs standing at your booth, his redhead nowhere in sight. Youâve never seen his jaw that tight before, and his arms are crossed over his chest the same way he headlocks a demon so Sam can exorcise it.Â
The same way heâs head locked you, when itâs dark outside and heâs shoving his hand between your thighs, keeping you pressed against him while you scream his name, overwhelmed with his fingers playing your pussy and his lips attached to your neck-Â
Not a helpful thought to be having right now.Â
âWhatâs up, man.â Archer grins at Dean lazily, wiping his mouth, and Deanâs nostrils flare.Â
âWe need to go.â He grunts your name, gaze fixed on yours, as if Archer isnât even there. âSam called. Might be a storm. Donât wanna drive Baby in the rain.â
You frownâhe drives Baby in the rain all the timeâbut donât call after him when he marches away.Â
âSorry.â You mumble to Archer. âHe takes his car really seriously.â
ââS alright. You want, you can call me if heâs an ass to you, and Iâll beat him up.â
Archer grins as he says that, sliding you the paper with his number, and you press your lips together. Deanâs never an ass to you. Heâs just frustrated about something, because thatâs how he acts when heâs about to snap, and trying to shove it down. You know him. You know whatever it is isnât your business, and he wonât take it out on you, but itâs best not to push him when heâs trying to push it down.Â
You wish, more than anything, that if you took his hand and asked him what was wrong, heâd tell you.Â
But he wonât. So you kiss Archerâs cheek, thank himâand murmur another apology when Dean barks your name from the doorâand walk away. You donât look back. Archerâs nice. You might end up back here in a few week, if you get lonely enough.Â
But right now, everything you love is in front of you.Â
Grumpy and silent, barely speaking in more than grunts, but in front of you.Â
Dean still opens the door for you. Still guides you through it with a hand on your lower, and helps you into the Impala before rounding the hood with a scowl. He turns on the engine a little more aggressively than he needs to, and grips the wheel with white knuckles, glowering out at the road. You want to reach over and rest your hand on his knee. Ask him whatâs wrong, if you can help.Â
Help by talking about it, or help by letting him fuck it out into you, until he collapsed with a groan of your name and his brow pressed to yours. Then he could say thatâs just what I needed sweetheart, thank you, and youâd say always, and heâd look at you like he was seeing you for the first time-
âThat guy looked like a discount cowboy.â Dean grunts, and you blink at him.Â
âWho?â
âThe dude you were with.â He wonât look away from the road. âLooked like someone pulled him right off the street.â
âOh.â You look down to your fingers. âHe was nice.â
âYeah, I bet he was.â
You frown. âWhatâs that supposed to mean-â
âYou gonna go back and see him?â Dean ignores your question, and youâre a little worried heâs going to break his own hand.
âMaybe. I donât know. I- He was nice.âÂ
Deanâs jaw ticks. âYou said that already.â
âYeah, well- He was.â You sink into your seat, glaring at your nails. âAnd he liked me.â
Dean laughs, cold and flat, and you scowl at him.
âWhy is that funny, Dean? Is it really that insane to you that someone might actually like me?â
âI never said that.â He snaps, and you roll your eyes.Â
âReally? Because it fucking sounds like you think him liking me is funny-â
âItâs not.â
âThe whyâd you laugh, Winchester?â Your heart feels like itâs ripping apart. Splintering and fracturing, all the glue that kept it together unraveling, and you donât know why this is the line. Deanâs been mad at you before, when you jumped in front of him during a hunt or made a choice he didnât agree with. But itâs how he fights with everyone he cares about.Â
This is different.Â
This is about nothing, and even if youâre not the source of his wrath, youâre the target. And you donât even get a grumble of Sam messed up or found out someone died. Heâs just pissed, and heâs being a dick, and youâre too tired to pretend it doesnât hurt.Â
He canât just laugh.Â
Itâs killing you faster than the indifference did.Â
âIs it hilarious to you?â You sneer, twisting to fully face him. âThe idea that someone could actually talk to me, and find me interesting, and want to see me again?â
âI never said that, sweetheart-â
âDonât sweetheart me, Dean. You canât fucking fathom that maybe someone would find me attractive-â
âI never said that.â He snaps your name, and some small part of you thatâs only there to please him cowers. âI just meant that discount cowboy isnât fuckinâ special for finding you attractive, alright. Donât matter how nice he is.â The words sound like theyâre physically hurting him. âHeâs not the only douchebag who likes you.â
You snort. âYeah, alright. I think you just donât want to lose your fucktoy.â
The car jerks slightly. âDonât fuckinâ say that.â
âWhy not?â You lean back into your seat, propping your knees on the dashboard. âOnce I find someone who actually likes me, which I will because apparently theyâre everywhere and just alluding me somehow, you lose your backup, Winchester. You canât wrap your head around a world without your plan B, if you strike out. You canât imagine that theyâd kiss me in public, instead of behind a door so nobody else has to see. That they wouldnât want to go around and fuck someone else while they kept me on standby.â
Deanâs words are pushed through his teeth. âOh, heâll fuck someone else, sweetheart. Donât worry about that.â
You gape at him, blood pounding in your ears. âWhat the fuck is your problem, Dean?â
âNothing.â He mutters, and you scoff.Â
âNothing.â You echo, tone filled with more venom than you thought you were capable of, and you could swear you see him flinch. âYou know, he did like me. He laughed at all my jokes, and he paid attention to me, and maybe I will go see him. Maybe weâll fall in love, and Iâll move out, and I can send you Christmas cards every year so you can see how much he actually fucking likes me-â
You cut yourself off with a noise of surprise, as Dean turns the car and slams on the breaks. Your stupid, traitorous hands fly to grab him, because heâs still the safest place in the world, even when heâs being a dick.Â
Dean stares out at the dark of the woods, breathing heavily. You slowly draw your hands away, and wrap your arms around your stomach. Too far. You pushed it too far.
âIâm-â
âShut up.â He grunts, and you scowl.
âIâm trying to apologize to you, asshole-â
âSave it. Donât want it.âÂ
âI- You donât get to stop my apology-â
âYou donât- No.â He bows his head, fingers still clenched on the wheel. âYou didnât do anything, sweetheart. Just- Forget it.â
You stare at him. Forget it. He wants you to just fucking forget it, and you canât.Â
âDean.â You say, lowering your voice like youâre telling him a secret. âYou- Iâm sorry.â
âStop.â He looks up at you with a rough glare, voice hoarse. âDonât- I said you didnât do anything-â
âIt seems like I did.â You hold his gaze, refusing to let your voice falter. âConsidering you fucking shouted at me and pulled over.â
He blinks at you, then lets out a dry, humorless. âSo you want me to apologize? That all I gotta do, to make you drop it?â
âNo, I want you to tell me what I did.â
âYou didnât-â
âDonât lie to me, Dean.â You let out a long, slow breath. âJust- Please. We donât have to talk about feelings, but just say like, you forgot to get me a drink and weâll⊠pretend this never happened.â
Dean stares at you for a moment. âYou think Iâd get that pissed because you forgot to get me a drink?â
âNo.â You mumble, picking at your nails again. âThat was just an example.â
He keeps staring at you, tapping his fingers on the wheel again, and lets out a slow breath. âDo you really believe that?â
You frown. âNo, I told you, I was just thinking of something stupid and random, like a drink-â
âNo, not that.â He sighs, scanning over your face for something he canât seem to find. âYou think I donât actually like you? That youâre just my backup, that Iâm ashamed of you or something?â
âOh.â You flush, and suddenly you canât bear to look at him, but you canât figure out how to look away. âMaybe.â
âMaybe-âÂ
âI donât know, Dean, and- I donât know why thatâs important, itâs just- I was angry, I was just saying things-â
âBut you believe them.â He mutters. âFucktoy, sweetheart. Thatâs what you said.â
âI- Yeah.â You swallow. âThis isnât about me, Dean.â
He laughs dryly, looking out to the road with a shake of his head. âYeah. Itâs not about you.â
âDean-â
âItâs always about you,â he says your name, giving you a strange look. âEvery time, itâs- Goddamnit, itâs never not about you, and I didnât- I never thought that was something- Itâs always about you.â He says it again. He keeps saying it. Like mantra. âYou wanna know whatâs wrong, sweetheart. You really wanna know?â
You nod, not trusting your own voice, and his throat bobs.Â
âI didnât like it. Seeinâ you with him. Didnât like that you smiled at him. Didnât like how you were looking at him. Didnât like how he was touching you.â He glares out at the night, hands twitching slightly. âDidnât like it.â
Thereâs a long moment of silence, as his words sink into you, and you start to feel a little dizzy.
âYou- Dean-âÂ
âI know what it sounds like. But- I never once thought of you as plan B.â He turns back to you, eyes shining in the dark. âEver.â
You shake your head, voice barely more than a breath. âDean, you- You canât say that-â
âYou asked me what was wrong. Iâm telling you the truth-â
âThatâs not the truth-â
âYeah. It is. Like it or-â
âYou donât even let me have sex with you when weâre home, Dean!â You cut him off, voice rising quickly. âYou- You donât even look at me, youâve never once said anything, and if you did youâd have said something like- Weâve been doing this for nine months-â
âI didnât think about it until tonight, alright-â
âNo,â you shake your head, reaching for the door. âNo, you just didnât think you could lose me until tonight, then suddenly itâs always about me-â
âShit, no- Wait-â He grabs your arm, eyes filled with a strange kind of pain. âI didnât mean it like that, donât- I didnât know. It was always about you but I didnât let myself fuckinâ think about it, and I didnât think about how I canât lose you until I could see it, and I hated it, and- Just donât walk away,â he says your name, and it comes out low and desperate. âI know itâs fucked, sweetheart, but I didnât let you in my room âcause then it would be something real that I could lose, and turns out I can lose it anyway, and- Donât walk away. Donât.â
You blink at him, and let go of the handle. âYouâre such a fucking hypocrite, Dean Winchester.â
He lets out a low breath, drawing back his seat with that flat, empty amusement. âI donât think I am, sweetheart. Roadâs gotta go both ways for that.â
Itâs your turn to laugh, and he frowns at you.
âWhat.â
âNothing.âÂ
âNothing-â
âNo.â You shoot him a tight smile. âBut you see how annoying that is?â
He stares at you, then chuckles, leaning back in his seat. âAlright. Fair hit.â
âThank you.â You look down to your nails, then mumble. âIt goes both ways.â
âIt- What?âÂ
âWhy do you think I cared so much, about being your fucktoy?â
âUh-â He coughs. âObjectification?â
You laugh softly, and thereâs no fight left in you. âNo. I- I hate it.â You look up at him, letting the words spill out of you before you can stop them. âI hate it when you go home with other people. I hate it when you fuck me then pretend it didnât happen. I hate it when you break my heart and put it back together and never even think about what youâre doing.â
âI-â
âI hate it because itâs not fair.â You whisper, and he stares at you with a slack expression. âItâs not fair that I love you and I have to pretend that I donât.â
Dean rasps your name, and you give him a small, sad smile.
âBut I do love you, Dean. And I donât hate that.â
He swallows, then shakes his head. âNo, you donât.â
âYes, I do.â You lean forward, bracing your hand on his knee. âDo you love me?â
Dean stares at you, his hands flexing on the wheel again, and you donât look away. Donât take it back. Itâs too late for that, and you donât want to back. Not if youâre headed where you think you are.Â
âYou donât- Son of a bitch-â Dean looks away, shaking his head. âDonât just say that- You donât get what youâre doinâ, sweetheart.â
You just keep watching him, waiting, and he looks back to you with an expression like youâre physically hurting him, and something shifting in his eyes.
âSay it again.â He mutters, and you smile.
âI love you, Dean.â
He makes a low sound in his throat, and almost lunges for you. Wraps his hand around your neck and pulls you forward, grabbing your thigh and dragging it over his. Deanâs lips smash into yours with a brutal fervor, and your hands shoot to grab his shirt in an attempt to balance on his lap.Â
Dean wraps his arm fully around you, and balance isnât a problem anymore. Youâre pinned to his chest as he kisses you like he wasnât just kissing you last night, like heâs never going to kiss you again. Like heâs been starved of it, and canât do anything but devour you and hope it saves him. You wrap an arm around his neck as a small sound of need leaves your throat, and Dean grunts, deepening the kiss by pressing your head closer. It a rough, messy kiss, but itâs fucking wet and breathless and making your head spin because you donât ever want to pull away.Â
Your nails dig into his neck as he pulls you a little further forward, making your core press right against his crotch. Heâs pressing through his jeans and hard, and your mouth falls open in a wanting moan as you start to grind down on him. Just a little friction is all you need, and Dean is swallowing every sound, and with the jerk of his hips up when you bite on his lip, maybe heâll give you everything you want-
He grunts, and suddenly youâre being flipped over. Pinned down on the bench, Dean never once breaking the kiss. One of his hands shoots under your shirt to trace your sides, and it sends little shivers through you that make your back arch.Â
âDean-â You whisper, the sound falling into a broken moan when his hips drop over yours. âOh, god- You didnât-â His knee pushes up, right against your core, and you push out the words before you forget you were ever fighting at all. âWe were talking-â
âYeah, I know.â Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. âAnd I love you,â he mutters your name, lips wandering everywhere on your face. âLove so much it makes me fuckinâ sick, sweetheart. Made me want to rip off his arms then rip off mine for letting someone else-â He takes a ragged breath, pressing his brow against yours and searching your open face with hooded, shining eyes.Â
âDean, I-â
âNever think of anyone but you.â He rasps, leaning down to kiss you again, this time slower, with so much care it almost breaks your heart. âAnd Iâll keep tellinâ you, I swear. Never gonna be a question, youâre never gonna think I donât care, I-â He leans up, handsome features almost fallen in desperation. âWonât mess it up this time, baby, it can be whatever you want.â He reaches out, tracing his thumb over your cheeks. âI can be whatever you want.âÂ
âDean,â you whisper, reaching up to cup his face. âI just want you. Iâve only ever wanted you.â
You stare at each other, and youâre not entirely sure this isnât a dream. But Dean feels real, over you. Settled between your legs and hard and looking at you with obvious, plain adoration written on his face. Itâs a look youâve only ever seem limited to his eyes, in the dead of night.Â
But now itâs all you can see. And itâs every bit as beautiful as the rest of him.Â
Deanâs throat bobs, and he dives back down, pressing another, softer and passionate kiss to your lips. You hum happily into it, and his lips curve into a grin.Â
Then heâs gone.Â
Dean sits up, taking you with him, and moves you back into your own seat as he looks back to the wheel. You blink at him, so cold from the loss of him everywhere over you. Youâre about to open your mouth and plead for him to come back, or maybe just cry, when he grabs your thigh and squeezes.Â
âSorry, baby.â He mutters, glancing over his shoulder to the road. âWeâre not doinâ this here.â
âDoing-â Your mouth falls open as his hand moves up, letting two fingers press against your aching center. âOh.â
He smirks, rubbing his fingers back and forth with slow, teasing motions as he pulls back onto the road.
âDean.â You whisper, grabbing his wrist as it starts to feel unbearable. âWhy, I- We can do it in the car, I donât mind-â
âI mind.â He grunts, curling his fingers so his knuckles press against you. âYou think I donât wanna have you in my room, so weâre goinâ there.â
âBut thereâs still and hour-â
âSo sit still, baby.â He drawls, using the low taunting voice that follows you into most dreams. âYou can take what you want,â he rubs his knuckles, and you head falls back with a moan. âBut youâre cumming âleast three times once I get you in my bed. So play careful.â
You glare at him, squeezing his wrist like it can somehow teleport you back to the bunker, and Deanâs grin just widens.
âYou know how pretty you are, when youâre pissed at me?â
âShut up,â you mutter, dropping your face into his shoulder, and he laughs, kissing your brow.
âYes, maâam.â
Deanâs hand between your legs shiftsâeasily despite your hold on himâand suddenly his palms is pressed over your clit, his fingers crooking right over where he knows your entrance is. And you might have given him too much power, but thereâs no one else youâd rather have this effect on you. No one else would so stupidly obey your command with such a strange, smug pride on their face. Dean keeps humming along with the radio and lazily rubbing his fingers like this is just perfectly normal. A little boring, as if your cunt is just a toy for him to play with while he drives.Â
But you can see the evidence of his own desperation, pressing through his jeans. And when you press your thighs together, trapping his hand, he grunts and flexes his fingers. A moan slips through your lips and he grins with that same, smug pride, repeating the movement. The louder you moan, the more he looks like a child on Christmas.Â
And it canât be comfortable, how hard he is right now.Â
You can help with that.Â
You lean back, grabbing his arm and slowly dragging it away. Dean shoots you a curious look, butâper your earlier instructionsâdoesnât say anything. You give him an innocent, slightly pouting smile, and trace your hand up his thigh until youâre brushing against his cock through his jeans.
He coughs, grabbing your wrist. âWhatâre you doinâ.âÂ
Itâs not a question. He fucking knows, with how his ears are red and voice is low.
âNothing.â You hum, scooting a little close on the bench, and his throat bobs.Â
âYou donât gotta-â
âI want to.â You hum, brushing your lips over his neck. âPlease?â
âJesus.â He mutters, already sounding wrecked, and lets go of your wrist. âYeah, okay. Just- be careful, donât hit your head on the wheel or somethinâ-â
âYou thought I was talking about going down on you?â
He shoots you a slack, guilty look, and you giggle.
âDonât worry, I was.â You squeeze him over his jeans, and Dean lets out the loudest, longest moan of your name youâve ever heard. You could get addicted to that.Â
You kind of already have.Â
With slow, careful hands, you unzip his jeans. Dean lets out another guttural sound as you pull out his cock, rock hard and already weeping with pre-cum. You swipe your thumb over the angry head of him, then stroke him with a firm, dragging pace. A vein in his neck bulges, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm as his grip on the wheel looking like heâs about to try and rip it from the car.Â
You squeeze the base of his cock, then lean down to swipe a tiny, kitten lick over the slit.Â
He makes that same, loud and desperate moan of your name, and you can feel his thick muscles fighting to not slam up into your mouth. You wrap your lips fully around him, swirling your tongue and sucking like heâs the best lollipop youâve ever had, and Dean makes a broken, pained sound that vibrates through you.Â
âSon of a bitch, baby.â His voice is loud and rough, sweeping straight through you like an electric fire. âGonna fuckinâ kill me- Christ-â
You start to bob your head up and down until heâs hitting the back of your throat, and wrap your hand around what you canât fit in your mouth. His cock is heavy on your tongue, and he keeps groaning your name, and you can feel your own arousal starting to drip down your thighs. Itâs too much heat for you to handle yourself, and this has always been the part where Dean takes over. But when you drag one of his hands down to grab your hair, he just holds it with a loose grip and keeps still below you.
You double your efforts, starting to grind against the air and moaning around him, and Dean chuckles.
âToo much, baby? You start somethinâ you canât finish?â
No. You can finish it. Deanâs hand is gliding away from your head to rub your back, and you can finish this yourself. You whine and moan around him, speeding up until youâre lightheaded, and youâre rewarded with the deepest, most desperate groan of your name yet.Â
You smile around him, using every broken noise from Deanâs chest as fuel, and keep fucking the air as you suck him off. You know what the sight is doing to him. His hand on your back is pressing and firm, his thighs are strained as you drive him right up to the edge, and heâs losing control faster and faster.Â
Dean ruts up into your mouth with a groan. âShit- Baby, you gotta- Iâm âbout to-â
You throw everything you have into him, moaning his name as he hits the back of your throat, and Deanâs hips slam up so fast you almost choke.
âFuck- Sorry, sweetheart-â
You shake your head, even as tears prick at your eyes, and donât stop.Â
Dean cums down your throat with an almost feral groan of your name, and the leash heâd been keeping on himself snaps. He fucks up into your mouth as he cums, and when you risk a look up at him under your lashes, he staring at you like youâve fallen from space. Hooded eyes and face painted with a hungry, insatiable kind of pleasure.Â
You swallow every bit of his release. You pull off of him with a pop, and barely get a chance to lick your lips before heâs dragging you up into a heavy, deep kiss.Â
Dean groans at the taste of himself on your lips. âLook at you, doing it all by yourself.â He drawls. âDirty girl, you get off sucking my cock, donât you baby?â
âYes.â You whisper, and Deanâs grin widens.
âYou wanna see what I get off on?â
You nod, mouth hanging slightly open, and Dean drags you into another, deep, heavy kiss.Â
âLemme show you, sweetheart. Câmon.âÂ
Youâre not sure exactly when Dean parked the car, but you know youâre back at the bunker. With Dean. And heâs not ignoring you this time.Â
He carries you bridal style inside, marching with long strides and only a shout of donât bother knockinâ to Sam. Youâve only ever seen this kind of determination in him during a hunt.Â
But heâs a man on a mission. And you have a feeling heâs not going to stop until you canât walk for a week.Â
Worse things have happened.
Dean kicks the door to his room closed, eyes flashing as he looks down at you, and he lowers you carefully down onto the bed.Â
You stare at him, mouth hanging open, and his mattress is so soft. The whole room smells like Dean, and heâs towering over you, tracing his hand gently over your face like heâs trying to memorize you with every touch.Â
âLie down, baby.â He mutters, and you nod crawling backwards until your head is settled on the pillows.Â
Dean groans, prowling slowly over you and dragging your knees apart.
âYouâre so fuckinâ gorgeous.â He mutters, playing with the hem of your bottoms and holding your gaze. âYou wanna know how often Iâve imagined you in here? Lyinâ down just like this, all ready for me, all mine?â
You shake your head, a little at a loss for words, and Dean smirks.
âEvery goddamn night.â He leans down, brushing his lips over yours. âThese sheets already know who you are, pretty girl. Theyâve heard me callinâ for you.â
This still feels like a dream. A hot, wet dream where Deanâs looking at you like youâre the only thing in the world.Â
âDean-â
He silences you with a deep, long kiss, and thereâs so much electricity buzzing through you, that alone almost sends you over the edge.Â
âI know, sweetheart.â He mutters, pressing another, sloppy kiss to your neck. âIâve gotcha. Arms up.â
You obey his low command, and Dean undresses you with a slow, taunting deliberation. His eyes are locked onto yours the entire time, as he drags your shirt over your head and unhooks your bra with a single hand. Calloused, warm fingers cup your breasts for a moment and his gaze drops, filled with a gentle awe as he rolls your nipple between his fingers.Â
âGod-â Your breath hitches, even as you roll your eyes. âDean, youâve seen them before-â
âYeah, but they never get any less hot.â He mutters, grinning at you and his hands travel lower.
âDork.â You mumble, and he just laughs.Â
âSave the dirty talk, sweetheart. Havenât even given you that first orgasm yet.â
You blink at himâyouâd forgotten that promiseâand before you can ask if heâs serious, Dean picks your legs up and pulls off your pants. Every word vanishes into a lustful daze as he kisses your ankle, then your knee, drawing a line with his mouth right up to your inner thighs.Â
He sucks a tiny, mark on the soft skin, keeping your hips angled up with hands on your ass, and you grab at the sheets as your need for him grows painful.Â
âI- More, Dean, more-â You gasp as he open mouth kisses your cunt over your panties, eyes locked onto you and almost glittering with lust.
âSo wet,â he teases, repeating the movement. âAlways so wet for me, baby girl, and just from thinkinâ about me wrecking this pretty pussy.â
Tears of need start to prick at your eyes. âDean please-â
âHereâs what gets me off, darling.â He almost growls, and thatâs new. Darling. Low and rough, like he adores you. âYou, lookinâ at me like you fucking love me. Like just this,â he kisses your inner thigh again, and you shudder. âIs enough. Is it enough, sweetheart?â
No. âI- I donât know-â
âYeah, you do.â He smirks at you. âItâs not, is it. You want me to wreck you. Fuckinâ ruin you, make you feel me for a week, show you who owns this pussy.â
âDean-â
âCause you own me,â he mutters your name, voice suddenly soft, breath warm over your ruined panties. âYou know that, baby. Just tell me what you want, and Iâll get it for you-â
âFuck me.â You almost scream, because any more teasing might kill you. âJust fuck me, Dean, please fuck me, please- Oh-â
He grabs your panties and your breath hitches as he rips them from your body in a single motion.Â
âGood girl, usinâ your words.â His thumb brushes over your clit, and you shudder below him. âTurn around.â
You blink at him, too dazed to register his words, and Dean doesnât wait for you to catch up. He grabs you and flips you onto your stomach, dragging your ass up so youâre fully exposed to him.Â
âJesus.â He mutters, dragging two fingers between the fold over your pussy. âJust for me, huh, baby.â
âYes.â You breathe out, twisting to try and look at him over your shoulder. âDean, donât tease-â
âIâm not teasing.â He winks at you. âJust admiring the view.â
You open your mouth to snap something back, and Dean shoves his face right into your cunt. You fall forwards at the overwhelming feeling of him, making out with your pussy like a man possessed. Swiping his tongue through your arousal, and dragging you back against him as he presses his tongue flat on your clit. You press your face into the mattress as you moan his name, fisting the sheets for some kind of anchor.Â
Dean groans against you, the sound reverberating against you and making your grind against his mouth. One of his hands squeeze on your ass as the other rubs up and down on your thigh. You feel his tongue drag around your clit and his arm wraps fully around you, forcing you to stay up as your knees go weak.Â
His free hand moves to your clit, rubbing furious, tight circles as his tongue refocuses onto fucking and eating you, and you feel a burning coil in your gut snap. You cum so hard the edge of your vision goes white, but Dean doesnât stop. He keeps going through your orgasm until you feel like youâre made lightning. Youâre arching into and away from his touch, trying to chase more while clawing at the sheets to try and get away from his unrelenting mouth.Â
âDean-â You whine, trying twist back around but pinned by his grip. âDean, too much- Canât take it-â
He pulls back so fast, leaving only one sloppy kiss against you before drawing fully up.Â
âYou can take it, baby girl.â He mutters, rubbing your thigh gently, and you shiver. âLook at me, darling.â
You twist your face, still pressed into the mattress, and heâs looking at you like youâre an angel. You donât feel like one. You mostly feel like a hot, needy mess thatâs devout to the wrong type of god.Â
âI can stop.â He says your name gently, still rubbing your thigh. âYou want me to stop?â
âNo.â You whisper quickly, and he smirks.
âYeah, thatâs what I thought.â His thumb presses over your clit again, and you whine, turning your face into the mattress as you roll your hips. âThatâs my girl.â
His girl. Your head spins around the words, trying to find the divet in them that will let you tear them apart. That means theyâre a lie, and this is really all a dream.Â
But itâs not. And Dean sounds like heâs saying those words like a vow.Â
He grabs your jaw, and gently turns your face for a deep kiss. You hum against his full, perfect lips, then gasp as his cock rubs between your dripping pussy lips.
Dean grins against you, even as a low sound rumbles through him. âRelax.â
You go slack, trusting his words more than almost anything, and Dean kisses your neck, pushing himself into you with one move.Â
âGood girl.â He starts to trail the kisses up spine, hands wandering over your body, touching and groping every bit of you he can reach. âSo fuckinâ tight, baby, every damn time, drives me crazy.â
He pulls almost fully out, grabbing your hips to keep you steady, and slams fully back into you.Â
A broken sound falls between your lips, and you shudder and clench around him. Thatâs all it fucking took, with all his teasing from before. Your face presses into the mattress as your toes curl and you start to feel limp, but Dean doesnât let you hide. His arm wraps around your stomach, hauling you up onto all fours as he starts to fuck into you with a rough, unforgiving pace.Â
âOne more, baby, you got one more.â He kneads at your hips, filling you up over and over, slamming over every sensitive spot inside of you. âSo tight, my pretty girl, fuckinâ- Hell yes-â
âDean- Dean-â You keep fluttering around him as he groans your name, unable to keep yourself up, and you canât remember any other words. âDean-â
He understands, not breaking pace as he pulls you up against his chest and grabs your throat. Kissing you with an open mouth and moans as the angle lets him hit deeper.Â
You grab his arm, staring at him with an open, adoring expression. Heâs always handsome, but itâs never sharper than when he lets go. Then when he envelops you with his everything, when you can feel him everywhere. You shake in his arms, lost in the taste of him and lewd sounds of sex filling his room.Â
You donât even see this one coming. Dean fingers find your clit again, right as his movement get staggered, and pleasure washes through you. It makes you float, so high that it feels like youâre never going to come down. It feels so good, you might be crying from how much it is, but then Dean kisses your cheeks. Mutters your name in your ear as you sink backwards into him, and ruts into your abused cunt as he falls over the edge with you.Â
You just smile a little stupidly at the air as Dean heaves behind you, leaning your head against his shoulder.Â
He lowers down onto his knees, keeping you pressed against him, and he looks just as wrecked as you feel. He kisses your cheek once, before turning you onto your back and lowering you back down to the mattress.Â
His mattress.Â
Youâre lying on Deanâs mattress, where heâs never let anyone else sleep before. Where he said it made this real.Â
And it is real. He really loves you.Â
When he tries to rise back upâprobably to do something stupid and romanticâyou find enough strength to grab him.Â
He looks down at you with raised brows, and you just keep smiling at him.Â
âWhatâs wrong, darling.â He mutters, and you giggle.Â
âNo. I just love you.â
His lips twitch, his voice still rough. Like he canât fully believe it either. âYeah?â
You nod eagerly, and Dean grins.Â
Time feels frozen. Just you and Dean, smiling at each other in the low light, his hands on your so careful, still trying not to break you.Â
You donât care if he does.Â
He knows just how to put you back together.Â
âŠEnd note: God he's such an idiot. I need him.âŠ
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