Warning(s); Fluff, kissing, edited but not really.
Summary; An afternoon spent in Dean's bed.
Word Count; 2.2k
Author’s Note; Don't really have thing for blondes, but he pulls it off so well, so of course I had to write for him 😄. Another short fic, sorry for that, still trying to get back into the groove of writing. I do plan to write more for Dean, maybe Logan and Tucker too, so if you have any fic requests, you can send those through my inbox 🤍. Hope all is well in your corner of the world. Go Canucks! - Honey
Dean Masterlist
The sun filters through Dean's half-closed blinds in strips of gold, painting bars of light across the rumpled sheets and your bare legs tangled with his. It's that particular kind of day that feels suspended in time, when the whole day stretches ahead with no obligations, no places to be, nothing demanding your attention except the slow, pleasant pull of sleep and the warmth of Dean's mouth finding yours again.
You're not sure what time it is anymore. Late afternoon, maybe? You'd both been awake earlier, properly awake, when you'd first arrived at the house around eleven. There'd been the usual chaos downstairs, Tucker making breakfast for what appeared to be half the hockey team, Garrett playing some sort of video game, Logan sprawled on the couch complaining about a paper he hadn't started. Dean had intercepted you at the door, his hand slipping into yours with easy familiarity, leading you upstairs before anyone could rope either of you into whatever plans were being formed.
That had been hours ago now. Or maybe just one hour. Time feels elastic up here in Dean's room, where the world has narrowed down to just the two of you and the lazy rhythm you've fallen into. Kissing, dozing, waking up to kiss some more. There's no urgency to any of it, no clear destination. Just this slow, meandering afternoon that keeps pulling you both under and back up again like a gentle tide.
Dean's hand is tracing patterns on your lower back, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His shirt, actually, one you'd pulled on earlier when you'd gotten too warm in your hoodie. The fabric is soft and worn, smells like him, like laundry detergent and something woodsy that might be cologne or might just be Dean. His touch is relaxed, mapping out the curve of your spine with the kind of attention that makes your breath catch even though you're half asleep.
"You awake?" he murmurs against your temple.
"Mm," you hum, which isn't really an answer but is all you can manage right now.
You feel him smile against your skin, and then his mouth is trailing down to your jaw, pressing lazy kisses there that make you shift closer to him instinctively. Your leg slides between his, and his hand moves from your back to your hip, fingers spreading wide against bare skin where your shorts have ridden up.
This has been the pattern for the past hour, maybe longer. Drowsy kissing that builds into something deeper, more heated, hands starting to wander with clear intent, before one of you pulls back and you both drift off again into a light doze. Then you wake up. Sometimes five minutes later, sometimes twenty, and it starts all over again, this comfortable cycle that neither of you seems particularly motivated to break.
It's different from your usual dynamic. Usually when you're in Dean's bed there's a clear trajectory, a straightforward progression from point A to point B. This thing between you started as purely physical, after all, built on a little chemistry and the convenience and easy attraction that doesn't require much discussion. But lately, and especially today, there's been this softness creeping in. This willingness to just exist together without any particular agenda, to be close for the sake of being close rather than as a means to an end.
You're not examining it too closely. That feels dangerous, like putting a name to something might change it into something else entirely. So instead you just let yourself sink into it, into the warmth of Dean's body against yours and the pleasant weight of his arm around your waist and the way his breath hitches slightly when you kiss the corner of his mouth.
"C'mere," he says quietly, even though you're already as close as two people can reasonably be while still technically clothed.
But you understand what he means. You shift upward slightly, and his hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The kiss is slow and deep, the kind that makes your toes press into the mattress and your fingers curl into the fabric of his t-shirt. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, like he's got all the time in the world to explore your mouth, to figure out exactly what makes you sigh against him like that.
Your hand finds his hair, fingers threading through the blonde strands that are messy from sleep and from you running your hands through them repeatedly. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat when you tug gently, and you feel the vibration of it against your lips. His hand slides from your jaw down to your neck, thumb brushing over your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating.
When you finally break apart, you're both breathing heavier, and Dean's eyes are clouded when they meet yours. He looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he leans in and presses a softer kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth again.
"I like you," he says against your lips, affectionate, and uncomplicated.
"Yeah?," you let out a hum before responding, your voice coming out raspier than you intended.
"Yeah," he admits easily, his hand sliding back down to your waist, fingers splaying possessively across your ribcage.
The house is quiet around you, that particular mid afternoon lull when everyone's off doing their own thing. You can hear faint sounds from outside, someone's music playing a few houses down, a car passing on the street, but inside it's just the two of you and the soft whir of the ceiling fan above the bed. The sheets are a disaster, half kicked off, pillows everywhere except where they're supposed to be. Dean's room always looks lived-in, comfortable in its chaos, but right now it looks particularly messy in a way that makes you smile.
Dean catches the smile, his own lips curving up in response. "What?"
"Nothing," you say, but you're still smiling. "This is just nice."
Something flickers across his face. Surprise, maybe, or pleasure, before he's kissing you again, harder this time, with more intent. His hand slides under your shirt properly now, palm warm against your stomach, and you arch into the touch without thinking. The kiss deepens, grows more urgent, and you can feel the shift happening again, that slow build of heat that's been simmering all afternoon starting to intensify.
You roll onto your back and Dean follows, his body covering yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. This position is familiar, well practiced by now, but it still sends a thrill through you when his hips settle between your thighs. He's kissing down your neck now, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you gasp, and his hand is sliding higher under your shirt.
"Dean," you breathe, and your hands find his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift under your palms as he moves.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair falling into his eyes, his expression full of intensity. "Yeah?"
You're not sure what you were going to say. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. But before you can figure it out, he's kissing you again, stealing whatever words you might have found. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, holding him close, and he makes that sound again, that low rumble of approval that you've learned means you're doing something he likes.
The afternoon stretches on, golden and hazy, and you lose yourself in it. In him. In the way his hands know exactly where to touch you, the way his mouth finds all the places that make you forget your own name. There's a languidness to it all, even as things intensify, a sense that you've got all the time in the world to figure each other out.
Eventually, though, the heat peaks and then subsides, leaving you both breathing hard, skin flushed, completely tangled together. Dean's face is buried in your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and your fingers are still in his hair, gentler now, just touching because you can. The room feels warmer than it did before, or maybe that's just the two of you.
"Jesus," Dean mutters into your shoulder, and you feel him smile against your skin.
You hum in agreement, too content to form actual words. Your body feels heavy, satisfied, and already you can feel sleep trying to pull you under again. Dean shifts slightly, enough to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression that makes your chest feel tight.
"You good?" he asks quietly.
"So good," you confirm, and you mean it in about a thousand different ways.
He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then carefully extracts himself from you, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him. You end up tucked against his chest, his arm around you, your leg thrown over his hip in a tangle of limbs that should probably be uncomfortable but somehow isn't. The sheets are even more of a disaster now, but neither of you makes any move to fix them.
"We should probably get up at some point," you say, but you make no effort to move.
"Probably," Dean agrees, also not moving. His hand is back to tracing patterns on your skin, slow circles and figure eights that make your eyes drift closed. "Eventually."
"What time is it?"
He stretches slightly to glance at his phone on the nightstand, then settles back. "Like three thirty."
Three thirty. You've been up here for four and a half hours, just existing in this bubble you've created. It should feel like too long, maybe, like you should be bored or restless or ready to do something else. But instead it just feels natural, like this is exactly where you're supposed to be on an afternoon with nowhere else to be.
"The guys are gonna give you so much shit when we finally go downstairs," you observe.
Dean snorts. "They give me shit regardless. It's like their primary function."
"Fair point."
The fan continues its rotation above you, and outside the window you can hear what sounds like kids playing in a yard somewhere nearby. Normal sounds, the world continuing on while you're suspended here in this room that smells like Dean and sex and easygoing afternoons. Your eyes are getting heavy again, and you let them close, pressing your face into Dean's chest.
"You falling asleep again?" he asks, and you can hear the amusement in his voice.
"Maybe," you mumble against his shirt. "You're comfortable."
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. "Sleep if you want. I'll wake you up in a bit."
It's such a simple statement, but it settles something in your chest anyway. The casualness of it, the ease. The implicit promise that he's content to just stay here with you, that this doesn't have to be anything more complicated than what it is right now. Two people who like each other, who are good together, who've found something that works.
You let yourself drift, lulled by the steady rhythm of Dean's breathing and the warmth of his body against yours. Sleep comes easy, pulling you under like a whisper. The last thing you're aware of is Dean's fingers still tracing those absent patterns on your back, and the thought that you could get very used to this.
When you wake up again, the light in the room has shifted, the sun lower now, the strips of gold across the bed turned to amber. Dean is still beside you, still holding you, but he's awake. You can tell by the change in his breathing, the way his hand is moving gently along your back.
"Hey," you say quietly, your voice rough with sleep.
"Hey yourself," he replies, and there's something warm in his tone that makes you smile.
You tilt your head back to look at him, and find him already looking at you. His hair is an absolute mess, his t-shirt wrinkled, and there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks perfect.
"We really destroyed your bed," you observe.
He glances around at the chaos of sheets and pillows, then back at you with a grin. "Worth it."
You laugh, the sound disrupting the quiet in the room, and lean up to kiss him, just because you want to. When you pull back, Dean is smiling, and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face with careful fingers.
"You hungry?" he asks. "We could order something. Or go downstairs and see if Tuck made too much food again."
"In a bit," you say, settling back against his chest. "Don’t wanna move."
"Mhm," Dean agrees quietly, his arms wrapping around you again. "Me either."
And so you stay, wrapped up in each other as the afternoon fades into early evening, in no particular rush to return to the real world. This thing between you might still be undefined, might still exist in some gray area between casual and serious, but right now, in this moment, it feels good.
If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it at least a little bit (: - Honey
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