$ log - dean winchester made one (1) flirtatious remark and now you've decided he has to suffer for it!
$ warn --sfw --suggestive --slow-burn-ish --gn!reader --flirty!reader --flustered!dean --tension
$ wc -w 1.5k
$ cd masterlist
$ echo "still gn!reader, despite the fic inspo pic" > authors-note.txt
The bar's neon sign buzzes behind him as Dean pushes through the door, and the first thing he sees is you. Draped across Baby's hood in that red thing, legs kicked out, head tipped back like you're sunbathing at eleven at night in a gas station parking lot in rural Wisconsin.
He stops walking.
"Get off my car."
You don't even open your eyes. "She's warm."
"She's mine."
"Relax." You finally look at him, completely unbothered. "I'm warming my ass."
Dean opens his mouth, closes it, and walks to the driver's side. He waits. You take your sweet time sliding off the hood, patting it once like it's a good horse, and drop into the passenger seat while he gets behind the wheel.
"You should really invest in one of those fancy cars," you say. "Seat warmers. It's called technology."
"There is nothing wrong with this car."
"Didn't say there was. I said you should get a different one."
He starts the engine. Baby rumbles to life and he pulls out of the lot without looking at you, because that is a whole problem he hasn't figured out how to solve yet.
"If you wanted a warm seat," he says, eyes on the road, "my lap's right there."
It comes out before he can stop it. The rum, probably. Or just a long night and his mouth running ahead of his brain, which happens more than he'd like.
The silence that follows is exactly two seconds long.
Then you turn in your seat to look at him, and he can feel it without seeing it.
"Alright."
He doesn't process the word fast enough. One moment you're in the passenger seat and then you're not. He has to grab the wheel with both hands and keep his eyes absolutely forward because you've settled yourself right into his lap, Your legs were swung out across the centre console, feet propped on the empty seat, all while leaning sideways against his chest like you live there.
The road is dark and long and straight. Good. He needs it to be straight right now.
Your nail traces along his jaw, light and slow. "Awh, baby." Your voice is soft in a way that does things to him. "You'll grind your teeth to dust. Loosen up."
And that's the part he can't explain, the part that keeps him up at two in the morning when you're asleep in the next motel bed and he's staring at the ceiling like it owes him answers.
He loosens up — just like that — lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, jaw unclenching on pure reflex, shoulders dropping half an inch.
Your nail stops moving. You noticed.
Of course you noticed. You notice everything, that's the whole problem. You're the most annoyingly perceptive person he's ever hunted with. He can't even be mad about it because it's also what makes you good at the job.
"There you go," you say, quietly. Not teasing this time, just saying it.
His ears are warm. He keeps his eyes on the road and tells himself it's the rum and the heater and the fact that it's been a long week. He tells himself this very firmly.
You settle a little further into his chest. He drives.
You tilt your head back against his shoulder, just enough to look up at the underside of his jaw. "Seat warmers though," you say. "Genuinely. You ever tried one?"
"No."
"Life changing."
"I'm fine."
"You said that about GPS too." You shift slightly, getting comfortable, and his knuckle goes white on the wheel. "And then you got us lost in Tulsa for forty minutes."
"I knew where we were."
"Dean."
"I had a general idea."
You hum, and that's somehow worse than if you'd laughed. He hates that hum. It means you've filed something away to use later.
The road stays dark and empty, with dense trees on both sides. Good, no turns, he can do this.
"So." He clears his throat. "The vamp nest. Based on the pattern, they're probably running a rotation, two on the outside, maybe four inside—"
"Mmhm."
"—which means we go in quiet, no shooting until we're past the perimeter, and you actually listen to the plan this time instead of just—"
"You never talk about cases in the car," you say.
He keeps his eyes forward. "I talk about cases."
"You listen to Zeppelin and complain about other drivers. You don't debrief in the car." A pause. "You're deflecting."
"I'm strategising."
"From what?"
He doesn't answer that. He starts talking about the nest again, the town layout, the victim timeline, something he read in the file about missing cattle which is probably unrelated but worth mentioning. The whole time his jaw is tight and his ears are pink and there's a sound building somewhere in his chest that he absolutely refuses to let become anything.
Your nail traces up from his jaw to just below his ear. It’s idle, like you're not doing it on purpose. He cuts off mid-sentence.
"Cattle mutilations," you remind him, helpfully.
"Right." He swallows. "Cattle. So, could be a second group, or just territorial marking, which—"
You shift your weight and he loses the word entirely.
"Which—" he tries again. Nothing, it’s gone.
He grabs onto the next thought with both hands. "Small towns like this, they usually got one main road in and out, which works in our favor because—"
You look up at him again. He can see it in his peripheral vision and he refuses to look down, keeps his gaze locked on the road ahead like it's the only thing keeping him alive, which right now it might be.
Because if he looks down even once, he knows what he'll see. You, tilted back against his chest, watching him come apart at the seams with that expression that's half amusement and half something else he stopped letting himself name about three hunts ago.
He'd pull over; he knows he would. That's the problem.
You're just a hunter who tagged along for the free gas, he reminds himself. Annoying, mouthy, and always right about the wrong things at the wrong time.
Gorgeous.
No, you’re infuriating. But deep within his messed heart, the words are blending into the same fucking thing.
Three hours, he thinks, staring down that long empty road. Why is this town three hours away?
"Dean," you say, soft and even.
"The nest." he says immediately. You laugh, quiet, against his shoulder. You don't push it.
"What is it about the neck, you think?"
Dean catches the shift in your voice before he catches the question. It’s a lower tone, slightly casual in a way that is totally not casual.
"What?"
"Vampires." You're looking at his throat now. "Why always the neck?"
He built this exit himself: he decided to ramble about the bloodlust and fangs of the case as means to strategise away from your siren calls. And now, you're just walking through it, easy-peasy.
"Easiest access to the jugular," he says. "Blood flow's fastest there."
"Mmm. Maybe."
Your lips hover just above his pulse. They weren’t touching. They were just close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath sitting on his skin, and the road was straight and empty. He has nothing to do but feel it.
"Or maybe," you murmur, "it's something more—"
"Accessible," he says.
"I was going to say enticing."
He keeps his eyes forward, while his foot stays even on the gas. He considers this a personal achievement.
You don't move away. Nope, you stay right there, and the silence in the car does something it hasn't done all night, which has become completely unbearable.
He lasts about thirty more seconds. His grip on the wheel goes tight enough to hurt and he glances down at you, just once, just for a moment. You're already looking up at him. The smirk is already there.
"Please." Low and rough. "Stop teasing me."
You watch him look back at the road.
"We can stop," he says. "Motel, bar, wherever, just—" a breath out, short and controlled, "—cut it out."
You think about it for half a second.
"Stop what?" You settle back against his chest, easy and unbothered. "You offered. You're my seat warmer. Sit there, drive and act like one."
The silence that follows is long.
Dean faces forward and does the math on how far they still have to go. He genuinely considers whether you were sent specifically to ruin him — some demon's long game. Hot, irritating and completely impossible to ignore, engineered in a lab somewhere purely to make his life difficult.
Two hours forty minutes. He drives, struggling to throat down pathetic whines at each swivel of your hips against his lap. Oh, he’s so fucked.
x fem reader ୨୧ ִ ࣪ ⋆ dean winchester taking the strap like a good boy
character featured. dean winchester.ᐟ + sub.ᐟ dean
rating: mature.ᐟ
The smirk, the swagger, the leather jacket, the “I’m fine” that means absolutely nothing. He’s spent his whole life being the strong one, the protector, the one who takes care of everyone else. So when you take charge? When you put him down?
He short-circuits. Immediately.
requesting rules. masterlist.
Dean doesn’t do vulnerable. Dean does jokes and deflection and sex as a weapon. But with you.. the second you say “tonight, you’re going to let me fuck you,” his whole facade cracks. He laughs first. Nervous. A little too loud. “Yeah, right. That’s funny.”
Then he sees your face. Sees that you’re not joking.
His throat works. Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands find his own thighs, gripping hard. “You- wait. For real?”
You don’t answer. You just start unbuckling his belt.
And Dean lets you. That’s the thing. He could stop this. He’s stronger than you. But he doesn’t. His hips lift off the bed so you can pull his jeans down. His arms go over his head without being told. He’s already panting.
“This is so fucked up..” he whispers, but he’s half-hard. “You’re gonna make me into a- a bitch or sumthin'...”
“That's kind of the plan.” you say. “Now shut up and turn over.”
He does. God, he does. Dean Winchester, on his hands and knees, ass in the air, face burning red. He can’t look at you. He buries his forehead in his crossed arms and mumbles, “I hate you. I hate this.”
But his hips are already rocking. Small, involuntary circles. Seeking.
“sure you do, Deanie.”
When you grab his hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, he groans. Deep. Guttural. “Fuck. Yeah. Hold m'down. Don’ let me move. I’ll be bad. I’ll be so fucking bad. You have to make me.”
He talks constantly. Dean cannot shut up when he’s turned inside out like this. Sam whines and begs and cries. Dean runs his mouth like a fucking porn star, and it’s the hottest, stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.
You lube him up—two fingers, then three—and he chokes on a groan. His hips push back onto your fingers like a starving thing. “More. More, more, more. Give me another. I can take four. I want four. Stretch me open. Make me a mess.”
He’s dripping precum onto the sheets in thick, sticky strings. He reaches back with one hand and tries to help you finger himself. You slap his hand away.
He whines. Dean Winchester whines. “fuuuuckkk, jus' gimme anotherrrr.”
When you finally line up the toy he pushes back onto it before you can even thrust. Impales himself in one desperate, reckless movement.
“Oh fuck-”
His voice cracks, his arms give out. He collapses to his elbows, face in the sheets, ass still up, and he’s grinding back onto you. You grab a fistful of his short hair and yank his head back. He moans like a whore. His back arches harder, presenting himself to you like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. You set a brutal pace: hard, fast and mean, and Dean meets every thrust with a slap of his hips, no shame, no hesitation. He’s fucking himself back on you so hard the headboard is banging against the wall.
“Harder-” he gasps. “Fucking destroy me. I want to limp tomorrow. I want everyone to know.”
He’s just a man. Loud, wrecked, and greedy.
“Oh fuck- oh fuck- yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, holy shit-”
His mouth is running nonstop. Dirty, broken, desperate nonsense. “You like that? You like fucking your boyfriend’s tight little ass? God, you’re so deep, you’re so deep- faster, come on, fuck me faster, I can take it, I’m not fucking made of glass-”
You, suprisingly, listen to his demands and speed up the pace to his heart's content.
“That’s my girl,” he pants, grinning through the sweat and the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “That’s my fucking girl. Look at you. Look at what you do to me. I’m such a mess. I’m such a fucking mess for you—”
He reaches back with one hand and spreads his own cheek wider. Wider. For you. Just to give you a better angle. Because Dean Winchester in doggy style isn’t just submissive—he’s an exhibitionist about it. He wants you to see every inch of how pathetic he is. He wants you to know that he’s yours.
“Harder,” he gasps. “Harder, harder, fuck- break me, I don’t care, I want to feel this tomorrow, I want to sit in the Impala and wince every time I hit a bump and remember-”
His cock is leaking onto the sheets, untouched, and he’s so close you can see it in the way his thighs shake. But he doesn’t ask to come. He doesn’t even think about it. All he wants is more. More thrusts. More depth. More of you.
“Tell me I’m yours-" he moans, and for the first time, his voice cracks. “Tell me I’m your good little slut. Tell me or I’m gonna fucking lose it-”
You lean down, lips to his ear, and you whisper exactly what he needs to hear. It makes him choke on a breath that turns into a sob once and then come so hard his vision whites out. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as he spills all over the comforter in thick, pulsing ropes.
And when he comes back to himself, ten seconds later, he just laughs. A breathless, wrecked, happy laugh. He doesn’t move from his position. He just looks over his shoulder at you with those fucked-out green eyes and grins.
“So,” he says, voice hoarse. “Same time tomorrow?”
"-and don't let them stay up past seven-" Dean orders into the phone, trying to sound stern, "-they'll say they're not tired but you can't listen to them- no not even fifteen-" There's a pause. He slowly brings the phone down, eyes going wide as he looks at you, "He hung up on me!"
"Probably because that's your third call in an hour." You try to hold back a laugh at your husband's expression.
"I'm gonna phone him back-"
"Baby-" you finally stand up, walking over to him, "-Stop calling. Sam's got this, he's good with the kids, you know that. The whole point of this weekend was for us to relax and you're more tense than when we left!"
"I'm fine! I just need to tell him-"
"Stop-" You lean up to kiss him, pressing your lips against his lightly to stop him talking, "-I got you a present."
He quirks an eyebrow, prompting you to continue.
You lean down to your bag, opening it up and pulling out a small ziplock bag, one pre-rolled joint inside.
---
"Jesus look at you-" His fingers are curled around your waist, pupils blown and mouth hung open in a half groan, absolutely enamored.
"De- baby- fuck-" you can't say anything else, your thighs burning as you ride him, his cock filling you on every hard thrust of his hips up into you.
"Y'so goddamn gorgeous-" he hums, smiling without realizing it, "Have your eyes always been this bright?"
"You're so high-" you giggle, running your hands down his chest.
"You're high- I'm just in love-"
The sound of Dean's ringtone cuts through your conversation. He lifts it, Sam's face lighting up the screen. You know you both have the same feeling- that small twinge of worry that it's an emergency. Dean picks it up, holding it to his ear.
"The kids okay?"
There's a small pause, then he gives you a nod to continue, everything obviously fine. You move slowly, letting him fill you as you stretch out above him.
"Yeah, yeah if they want ice-cream give them ice-cream-" he hums, rubbing his thumb against your waist, "-Yeah they can watch that, it's not that violent-" he looks up at you, a dazed expression of awe spread across his face, "-Yeah they can stay up 'til nine, why not!" He nods slowly, then pulls his phone away from his ear, "He wants to talk to you."
You take the phone out of his hand, holding it up as you continue to grind your hips, "Hey Sammy-"
"Who the hell is that and what have you done with my brother."
✧･ﾟ: Dean didn’t really get it at first. He doesn’t care for phones and texting that much—I’ll call you if I want to talk, sweetheart—and he’s got a perfectly intact memory, self-control, and a car if he needs to see you that damn bad. No need to sext. Doesn’t even sound like a real fuckin’ word.
✧･ﾟ: Then you decide that he’ll be a big boy and get over his texting hang up. You put on something tiny and made of lace, spend longer than you’ll ever tell him on hair and makeup, and take a few photos. They’re lewd. Your tits pushed up and your legs spread, skin looking soft and lips pouting at the camera.
✧･ﾟ: And you were right. Dean goes feral. In the moment he drops his phone, his jaw hanging open and pants tightening, body catching up with the goddamn vision on his phone before his head can. He scrambles into the bathroom the moment he can remember how to move, locking the door and rubbing himself through his jeans at the sight of you.
✧･ﾟ: He asks for another. Then another. By the time you’ve sent four or five more, he’s unbuckled his pants and started to fist his dick in his hand, head tipped back against the door and eyes locked onto his screen. You send him teasing texts every few moments, telling him what you’d want him to do if he was here. How you’re rubbing your pussy and imagining it’s him, sliding two, three fingers into your soaked hole and wishing they were his. He comes all over his hand, and from there, he’s not turning back.
✧･ﾟ: You have a habit of sending them at the worst times. In the middle of an interview, or while he’s actively cleaving his way through a vamp nest. But Dean never minds. It’s almost a pavlovian award. The moment he finishes up with the damn case, the moment he gets to lose himself in the thought of you.
✧･ﾟ: At one point he starts to buy you lingerie specifically for the photos. Once or twice you split up on a hunt—only a few blocks apart—and your phone will buzz with Dean’s what are you wearing? text. The one that always starts something, and ends with both of you racing back to the motel, already worked up.
✧･ﾟ: You have to teach him how, but he starts to keep a folder on his phone of every picture you send him, every heated text thread screenshot and saved for later. For hunts where there isn’t wifi or data, and he needs something to tide over his never-ending desire.
✧･ﾟ: Even when he has you just a call away, sometimes he won’t take it. He likes watching the little bubbles move slowly, meaning you’re occupied while you types. Likes seeing the little typos and suddenly sent texts that show you’re just as wrecked as he is.
✧･ﾟ: And on his way home, he’ll study the messages. Read them over and over, until he knows exactly what he’s doing when he sees you again. Pinning you to the bed and fucking you just as you asked, his cock dragging in and out of your pussy as he grunts filth in your ear. How good you feel. How much he missed this.
✧･ﾟ: Every single time, how he needs you so much, every form could never be enough.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦
✦Author's Note: we are doing headcanons bc my brain go burrrrrrr all the time if nobody cares we will never speak of this again okay go team thank you break✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦
Pretty boy Dean Winchester has bruises on his knees. Carpet burn where the fibers rub his skin raw. Poor boy doesn't even care, just too excited to please you.
Pretty little glossy eyed Dean, who kneels down at the foot of your bed, your thighs wrapped over his shoulders, his face obscured by your body. Where he belongs, all he wants.
Desperate Dean, who whines when you pull away, groans against you when you shift back, rutting against nothing like the needy thing he is.
He fucks you with his tongue like he's offering you his soul, moaning and messy, begging to please. He's a slut for the way you react, fawning over your twitching thighs and shaking legs.
He's so gentle with it, so devoted. Got sweat on his brow, hooded lids, fluttering lashes. Sweet, sweet boy, just wants to make you feel good- all to get himself off.
Pretty, bratty Dean, who digs his fingers into the flesh on your thighs to keep you still as he pushes you over the edge.
When you're done he lays his head on your stomach, let's you run your fingers through his hair. Soft and sweet and all yours.
oh hi there…just want to…riding dean winchester’s abs…are you feeling me? pretty pretty please even a small drabble🥹🥹
riding bf!dean’s abs
⟢ ྀ𓈒𑁥౿ “yeah, that’s it baby. juuuustt like that.” dean’s words are completely inaudible to you when you’re humping pathetically against his toned and solid stomach, leaving glistening trails of arousal all over his abs.
the concept of riding your boyfriend’s abs had never crossed your mind once. shocking, i know. but seeing him laid out on the couch shirtless looking like that? the sudden waterfall between your legs was an understatement.
“mm—uh, dean!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut to just feel the moment. feel the way your hole clenches around nothing. feel the way your clit bumps over the defined ridges of his skin.
dean just groans, hands struggling to find where they wanna grab you. your waist, hips, tits, before finally settling on your ass, giving it a sharp smack. you cry out, the slap sending a wave of shock throughout your body, traveling to your core which was soaking his flexing abs to the bone more than before now.
“dean—” you whine his name incoherently, head falling down to hide your flushed face in his chest. he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight. “you close baby?” he asks in a low tone, lips finding yours.
you moan into the sloppy kiss, hips rutting over his stomach harder to chase that high. when he pulls back, it’s only to tut at you, kneading your already reddened backside. “jesus look at you. already ‘boutta cum from this ‘n i haven’t even fucked you properly yet, doll.” his fingers find your swollen, neglected clit, giving it the attention she needs—sweet, delicate rubs and little presses here and there while your hips continue dragging up and down on him.
you let out a broken sob at the overstimulation and his words, thighs shaking around his waist and pussy dripping so wet it should be a crime. the only right thing to do in this situation, should be to punish you for being able to cum faster on his abs than his cock. it’s honestly disrespectful, dean thinks. he fucks you stupidly good every single fuckin’ night. takes his time with you, makes sure you feel every inch of him inside your warm little cunt—and this is how you repay him? cumming quicker somewhere else not his dick?
so not right. but that’s okay. he’s being nice right now—but later, he’ll make sure you learn your lesson. “c’mon sweetheart—wan’ my cock in here next don’tcha?” he says more impatiently, giving your pussy a few quick smacks. you moan out loud, nodding dumbly. you’re so close. dean hums low, slapping your ass before his thumb probed at your tight rim, “yeahhh you do. now fuckin’ hurry up or i’ll stick my cock right here instead, huh?”
Asking solider boy if u can hold his cock whilst he’s pissing 🤗🤗🤗
MDNI!
me core
you just know that bastard is teasing you like crazy after you ask that. "you really are one nasty bitch. just when I thought you couldn't sink lower..."
with pleading eyes you beg him once more "please I really want that... it would make me so happy." he scoffed down at you "god, should fuckin' film how pathetic you're acting right now. greedy whore, wanting my piss all the damn time."
he grabbed your wrist so tightly and walked you over to the toilet. when he finally let go off your hand to take off his boxers you noticed the imprints he left on your wrist. his cock sprung free and you looked away akwardly. "ain't no need to be actin' so shy now as if you weren't begging for this a few minutes ago." he scolded, his voice a low rumble.
"am' sorry" you pouted and directed your gaze towards him now. he guided your delicate fingers on his cock, showing you how to aim. a satisfied groan leaving his lips as golden piss streamed down. you bit your lip, your cheeks blushing at how wet the sight was making you.
ben tugged on your hand that was holding onto his cock making the piss splash everywhere. his voice barked "dumb bitch, can't do one single thing right. look at the mess you made."
you whined frustrated at his antics "but that was your fault!" after he was done pissing he shoved you down on your knees, grabbing you by your hair "oh sure slut, put the fuckin' blame on me. now shut that whore mouth of yours and lap your mess up."
prophecy in prose ⭑ dean can’t keep it in his pants with sam still awake, so he pulls you out for ice and makes a show against the snack machine.
vessels ⭑ dean winchester x reader (f)
celestial count ⭑ 1701 ℘ essence ⭑ smut (mdni)
what even angels whisper about ⭑ explicit sexual content, exhibitionism kink, public sex in a motel hallway, unprotected, dirty talk, risk of being caught, slight come play
another job, another town, another rundown shitty motel.
this one was at full capacity, so you, dean, and sam had to share a room—two beds. okay. done before.
the air hangs thick with stale cigarettes and that cheap pine cleaner that never quite covers the damp. the carpet is worn thin under your boots, and the air conditioner rattles like it’s fighting for its life.
you drop your duffel by the chair, kick your boots off—the sound too loud in the cramped space. sam already claiming the bed closest to the door, his long legs stretched out, a dusty lore book cracked open on his chest like sleep is a suggestion he refuses to take.
dean takes the other bed. his eyes find you the moment the door clicks shut—that half-smirk tugging at his mouth, the one that always means trouble. the kind you crave, even when your brain screams caution.
his leg bounces restless under the thin sheet, and you catch the way his hand drifts low, adjusting himself when he thinks no one is looking. your stomach tightens because you know that look. you know what it does to your body—the slow heat building low, even as you tell yourself: not here. not with sam two feet away, flipping pages like the case is the only thing that matters.
the lamp between the beds casts everything in a sick yellow glow. you lie back on your mattress; the sheets scratchy against your bare thighs, your tank top riding up just enough to catch dean’s gaze again. he doesn’t hide it this time. his eyes drag over the strip of skin at your waist, and you feel it like fingers. the ache between your legs already starting to pulse—soft, insistent. you turn your face to the ceiling, trying to breathe steady, but your pulse is loud in your ears.
minutes crawl. sam mutters something about sigils, his eyes never leaving the book. the air conditioner clunks off, leaving only the buzz of the lamp and the heavy sound of three people pretending they aren’t aware of each other.
dean sits up suddenly—the mattress creaking. “this room’s a fucking oven,” his voice comes out rough, edged with that impatience he gets when the hunt adrenaline hasn’t burned off. “ice machine’s down the hall, right? i’m not sleeping like this.” his stare locks on you—direct, no subtlety at all. “come with me. don’t want to wander this dump alone. you never know.”
sam grunts without looking up. “whatever.” he turns another page like the whole conversation is background noise. but your heart is already hammering because you hear what dean isn’t saying. the real reason. the way his eyes flick down to your mouth, then lower. the invitation is so not-subtle it makes your cheeks burn.
you hesitate for half a second—your mind whispering bad idea, sam will notice, sam will hear—but your body is already moving. sliding off the bed, slipping your flip-flops on. the cool plastic between your toes. “yeah, okay,” you manage. the words come out too breathy.
the door shuts behind you with a soft click, and the hallway air hits different—cooler, damper. the long stretch of faded wallpaper and thin carpet stretching out under the fluorescent lights that buzz overhead like they’re alive and watching every step. the big window at the end frames the parking lot perfectly: cars scattered under the same harsh glow, a truck idling at the far end, someone stepping out, stretching their legs. the possibility of eyes on you sends a shiver racing down your spine, but you keep walking. dean’s shoulder brushing yours, the heat of him cutting through the chill.
halfway down he stops—turning so fast you almost bump into him. his hands find your waist, backing you against the snack machine. the cool metal ridges press into your back through your thin tank; the rows of chips and candy rattling softly behind you.
“ice was just an excuse, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth already close to your ear—breath hot and ragged. “sam’s never gonna sleep, and i’ve been hard since the car ride. couldn’t stop thinking about you.” his hips roll forward, pressing the thick line of his cock against your hip through his sweats. the proof right there—solid, insistent.
you glance sideways at the window. the parking lot staring back. headlights sweeping across the asphalt every few seconds. “dean, someone could see us. right there.” the protest slips out, but your hands are already fisting his shirt, pulling him closer. the words feel weak against the way your thighs press together, chasing friction.
the push and pull inside you is dizzying. you hate how much you love this—the danger, the exposure, the way it makes dean’s touch feel like the only real thing in a life that keeps trying to take everything else.
he chuckles low—the sound vibrating against your neck. “that’s the point, baby. the thought of them watching you fall apart for me.” his fingers slip under your tank, palms rough and warm, sliding up to cup your breasts. thumbs brushing your nipples until they tighten, almost painfully. you gasp—the sound too loud in the empty hall.
he kisses you then—messy and urgent. tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping your lip. the taste of him: salt and mint and pure need. you kiss back just as hungry, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
“fuck, you’re soaked already,” he groans when his hand dives into your shorts, pushing the fabric aside. two fingers sliding through your slick folds, circling your clit once, twice—the pressure perfect and immediate. your hips jerk; the machine shakes behind you. the fluorescent light above casts everything in sharp, unforgiving white—making every detail too bright: the flush on your chest, the way your lips part, the bead of sweat sliding down dean’s temple.
“dean, please,” you whisper. the words break, messy. “what if someone—”
but he doesn’t let you finish. just yanks your shorts and panties down to your ankles in one motion. the cool air hitting your bare pussy makes you shiver. he shoves his own sweats low enough—his cock springs free, heavy and flushed, the tip already glistening. he strokes himself once, eyes locked on yours. “gonna fuck you raw right here. no rubber, nothing. just you taking every inch while the whole lot watches.”
you nod because words are gone. the leg he lifts hooks over his hip. the head of him nudging your entrance—hot and blunt—then he pushes in. slow at first. the stretch burning so good, so full. just the thick drag of him filling you completely. your nails dig into his back—hard enough to leave marks.
“so full,” you breathe. the fragment slipping out, broken and honest. “too much. perfect.”
he bottoms out with a groan, forehead dropping to yours for one second. the tenderness there—soft and real in the middle of all this heat. “you okay, baby?” he whispers, the question too open, too vulnerable. it makes your chest tighten even as your walls flutter around him.
“yes. more,” you manage. and he gives it. the rhythm starting deep and steady, then building—harder, faster. the snack machine rattles louder with every snap of his hips; the wet slap of skin on skin echoing down the hall—obscene and loud under the buzzing lights.
outside, another car pulls in. the engine rumbling closer. you freeze for a split second—eyes wide on the window—but dean doesn’t stop. if anything, he fucks you harder. one hand gripping your ass, holding you open; the other sliding between you to rub your clit—fast and firm. “let them look,” he growls against your throat. “let them see how pretty you look creaming on my cock.”
the pleasure coils tight and vicious. your thighs start to shake. the fluorescent light blurring above you. the short, sharp sentence hits you again. “harder,” you gasp. and he delivers—pounding into you so deep it steals your breath.
the orgasm crashes—sudden and violent. ripping through you white-hot and overwhelming. your vision spots; your mouth opens in a silent cry. nails raking down his back. he follows right after—hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt with a low, broken groan. the heat of him spilling deep and raw inside you. the sensation so intimate it makes tears prick at the corners of your eyes.
for a moment he just holds you there—arms wrapped tight, breathing hard against your neck. the roughness fading into something softer. his lips brush your temple—gentle, almost reverent. “god, i love you like this.” the line comes out too honest, too awkward in the afterglow. it makes your cheeks burn even as you cling to him.
the mess of him starts to drip down your thigh—warm and sticky. he pulls out slow, careful—using the hem of his shirt to wipe you clean. tender in a way that twists something deep in your chest.
you tug your shorts back up—legs shaky. the hallway feels brighter now; the risk settling heavy in your stomach. but the ache between your legs is already humming again—soft and insistent. you grab a bucket of ice on the way back because you have to at least pretend.
the keycard beeps too loud when you slip back into the room. sam glances up from his book, eyebrow raised. “no ice?”
dean shrugs—easy as ever. “machine was slow.” but his eyes flick to you with that secret little wink. the air between the three of you suddenly thicker.
you crawl into bed—the sheets cool against your heated skin. but sleep stays far away. the buzz of those hallway lights still echoes in your head. the feel of dean still inside you. the memory of the parking lot. the possibility of eyes on you.
it all swirls into this quiet, unresolved pull—low in your chest. you want more. you want him again. right now. you want the safety of four walls, but the danger calls to you like it always does with dean.
and you lie there staring at the ceiling—the faint ache a personal little reminder that nothing in this life ever really settles. not the hunts. not the rooms. not the way your heart keeps reaching for him, even when it knows better.
Ok so. I may have been sitting with this for too long
Dean…
You know he's fucking got extra sperm… that man is built like a fucking god.. I just can't shake the feeling that if he was hell-bent in getting you pregnant (both consenting ofc) then he would. And he would pump so much into you..
requests open!!
pairing : dean winchester x reader
summary : dean has the craving to impregnate you , even if he tires you out round after round.
warnings : mdni , 18+ , est. relationship , pregnancy/breeding kink , p in v , smut , dirty talk , mommy kink (?? u decide).
615 words
ily for this , wish he was the breedable one sometimes 🫦
in the shared space that was dean’s bedroom, it felt even smaller and more cramped than usual due to the strong arms that were planted on each side of your head, caging you in. your legs were wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his lower back as his hips pistoned into your own, your hair getting tangled between his fingers with each deep thrust.
you two had been at it for an hour or so, ever since he got back from a hunt with sam. he came straight to the bedroom where he knew you were and bent you over the edge of the bed, ripping your pants down alongside your damp panties. as of lately, every night ended with you being fucked stupid and stuffed full of his seed that dripped out of your tired entrance. but obviously, he shoved it back inside of you, never letting a single drop go to waste.
he’d been hellbent on having sex raw, even going as far as to throw away all condoms he kept in his bedside drawer, and insisted on not pulling out. besides the few times you gave him a blowjob and he’d paint your face white, his cum was shooting deep inside of you and making home. sometimes he’d even shove a plug in the tight hole of your cunt just so nothing was spilling.
"fuck, sweetheart.. gonna pump you full ‘til your round with my kid." he spoke during grunts, the headboard still creaking despite the pillow behind it to stop it from slamming against the wall, his body leaning over yours to hit a deeper angle. his hands slid down from beside your head to grab your calves, lifting your legs so they were slung over his shoulders, the tip of his cock assaulting your cervix as his hips quickened the pace somehow.
your moans were drowned out by his lips suddenly crashing against yours, tongues swirling and teeth clattering against eachothers. "so tight, all for me." his mouth left yours only to drag down your chest, tongue flicking at your perk nipples before he wrapped his lips around one, his hand kneading the other one to give his favorite girls the attention they deserved. "can’t wait for these to get swole, dripping with milk." his hips stuttered at the delicious sob you let out at his words, your hands clutching the sheets.
"you’d like that, huh? you’d like me to make you a mommy?" his pace began slipping and becoming sloppy as he felt his balls tighten and that feeling flutter in his stomach. "gonna cum, baby, gonna fill you to the brim." when your walls tightened around his cock and you reached your own climax, legs twitching around his neck and back arching off the bed, he gave a final deep thrust before emptying his load inside of you, his mouth detaching from your breast as his head tilted back.
it took a few moments until the ropes stopped and his cock began softening inside of you, his forehead resting on your collarbone with heavy pants coming from his lips. but, of course, since he had his mind set on giving you his baby, two rounds was obviously not enough (you’d already had a round prior), and his hips slowly started up again and he was hardening inside of you.
"did so good for me, sweetheart. i know you’re tired, but please. one more, i promise."
he definitely broke his promise that night, as it took a few more hours until sam could finally take off his headphones and not be met with the sounds of his favorite people planning to make him an uncle.
Summary Dean gets thrown back into the day things between you and him fell apart. There’s something he’s supposed to learn, he thinks, something he’s supposed to solve. It’s tough, though, since he’s incorporeal, and there’s also no way in hell you’d ever forgive him. Or is there?
CWs Time loops. Dean being an idiot. Some sexual content (oral, penetrative). Magical shenanigans. Arguments. Forgiveness & second chances.
9.1k words
AN This is another old one from over on AO3 that I honestly kinda forgot existed. 😄 But I liked re-reading it, so it's allowed to live over here. 😁 Hope you enjoy!
Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
You wake up, stretching like a cat. You make a little sound when you roll your shoulder, forever sore after that time you got stabbed in it. You sit up, swing your legs over the side of the bed and get up, almost staggering out of the bedroom, legs still stiff from sleep. You’re rubbing your eye as you walk into the kitchen, yawning as you spoon coffee grounds into the filter. Water’s next. Your hand goes under your t-shirt, rubs at your shoulder again as you set the coffee percolator on the stove and turn it on.
Dean sees all of this. He’s standing so close to you that if this was real, if he was really there, you could feel his breath on your face. But you can’t, because he’s not. Because somehow, he can see everything you do in this moment, but he can’t touch you. Can’t get your attention. No matter how much he screams and waves at you. He already tested that on the previous tries, without success. So now, he just watches.
You walk out of the kitchen, to the bathroom. Dean stays behind, feeling like he should give you some privacy, although he would love nothing more than to see you tug down your shorts, get a look at what’s underneath. He’s not that big of a pervert. At least that’s what he tells himself.
You come back, and when you walk past Dean so closely that you’re almost walking through him, he can smell the freshness of toothpaste on you, because for some reason he is granted that olfactory function. This is further confirmed by the smell of coffee that is filling the small kitchen. It tickles his nose, if such a thing is possible when you, technically, don’t have a nose. The coffee you use just has that distinct smell. One he’ll never forget.
You fill two cups and walk back into the bedroom. You set them on your night table and then crawl back into bed. Crawling being the key word here, because you stay on all fours, giving Dean, who’s followed you to the bedroom, a perfect view of your perfect ass. He shakes his head at that. It’s a good thing there seem to be no boners in ghost world.
You lean over, and your lips land on his naked back, gently kissing him. The Dean in the bed with you stirs, groans a little, because he hates being woken up. Well, that’s until he realizes who he’s being woken by. He’ll be fine in a second.
It's a damn strange experience, watching himself slowly wake. It was also a strange experience when he spent the morning, before you woke up, confused, distracted, trying to make himself known, trying to find the magic door that would allow him to leave. Not being able to use his body is its own punishment for the man who likes to shoot, smash and punch first, and ask questions much, much later. Dean has no idea what his own physicality means to him until it’s taken away. How not fulfilling his own tactile needs, even though there technically are no tactile needs, is making him itch. It’s like a smoker who stops, all the poison already out of his body, but the brain still makes him crave that one after dinner or after sex so much that he’s almost salivating. That’s Dean, alright.
The Dean in the bed is slowly stirring, back moving. Your hair falls off your shoulder, the ends of it tickling his back and ghost-Dean almost groans at what he knows that feels like. A spiritual boner, that’s what he’s getting. A mind boner. How’s he gonna deal with that?
He watches himself roll over and he sees the moment he registers it’s you. He knows the way you’re smiling at him. The things it makes him feel. He could walk around the bed, see for himself, but he knows. You look like you’re happy he’s alive, happy he exists. Dean’s not sure how many people have ever made him feel like they’re happy he exists, rather than taking it for granted that he does.
“Got you coffee,” you say in a quiet voice, but he’s already pushing himself up on his elbow, hand going into the hair at the back of your neck. He knows that hair’s gonna be a little knotted from how you toss and turn at night. He knows it carries the distant smell of your shampoo, but more than that, after a night of sleep in this humid weather, it’s going to smell nice and earthy and like you. He knows the feeling of pressing his fingertips into your scalp and neck, knows the low scratching sounds it makes, how it makes you relax your jaw immediately.
“Come here,” Dean says.
When he pulls you in to kiss you he knows what that feels like too. The softness of your lips, the warm wetness of your mouth. He’d like to bury himself in that, move in, set up shop. He was never sure how to say that without sounding like a weirdo, so he never did. He regrets that now.
But then you pull back, make a sound. “Morning breath, baby,” you say and Dean hears himself breathe out through his nose. He pecks another kiss on you, then he’s getting up, striding to the bathroom. What a horndog, Dean thinks of himself, watching his double rush to brush his teeth, gurgle some mouth water, piss while he’s in there. All hurried, all needy. He wants to scoff at himself, but the truth is he would do the exact same thing now.
He's back in the bedroom in no time. Dean, the ghosty Dean, has been watching you, since he doesn’t need to watch himself empty his bladder. You’re leaned against the headboard, sipping your coffee. Bare legs stretched out in front of you and Dean would love to kiss your toes. He tries to remember if he ever did that. If not, he should have. They’re lovely. His double walks up to your side of the bed, sits, takes your coffee cup out of your hands and sets it on the night table. It’s a dick move, Dean thinks, but the truth is, he’s just jealous. Because he knows what’s next.
He kisses you and Dean can’t deny that getting to see your face this way, see you react to how he’s kissing you is a treat. Your eyes fall closed and you look like you’re eating something delicious. It flusters him a little, makes him blush like a young maid. That you like him that much. Soon bodied-Dean, eager guy that he is, is running his hands down your sides. He used to be an exclusive tits-ass-pussy guy, but with you he’s found the pleasure in all the other parts of your body. Legs, hips, thighs, obviously, but the softness of your stomach. The back of your knees. Your wrists. Dean Winchester never thought he’d get so turned on by wrists.
He wrestles your shorts off you, and ghost-Dean nearly groans when he sees you. The bunched skin where your leg and crotch meet makes him sure he can destroy the metaphysical rules of whatever this world is and pop a tent. The Dean on the bed gets to kiss you again, then moves down to kiss your stomach, shirt pushed up, gets to run his tongue over your skin there at which you suck in your lower lip, which is absolutely criminal, that’s how good it looks. He moves lower, and your hips are already gyrating in anticipation of his touch. Because that’s how much you want him.
His mouth finds its way and so do his fingers, and then Dean watches himself, watches the back of his head move, the muscles in his arms tense as he pushes two digits into you. One of your hands goes to the top of the headboard and the other to the top of his head, fingers running into the hair there. Ghostly Dean almost feels the wonderful tension in his own scalp when you tug at it.
He gets you to the edge, to the point where you’re pressing yourself against his face, breaths and sounds becoming choppy, and then he slows down. You don’t complain, instead lean your head back and close your eyes. Dean does it again, carries you up the mountain but stops before you reach the peak. The sound you make is so perfect that in retrospect he cannot believe he’s the one who drew it from you. Desperate, needy, wanting. He’s the one who holds it just out of your reach, but you’re not mad at him. You know it’s worth the wait.
On the third time he draws you close, Dean’s had enough of teasing you, not least of all because his own situation is becoming very difficult to ignore. Dean’s always been a fan of giving the women he was with a good time, but he’s never gotten so achingly hard just from this. Once, earlier in your relationship, when he first started doing this to you, drawing it out, your sounds and movement surprised him so that he absentmindedly started humping the mattress, nearly came like that. He’s a little bit embarrassed now, thinking back on that, but you loved it, thought it was hot.
When you finally fall over that edge, your hand reaches for something to hold on, desperately fumbling against the wooden headboard, and ghost-Dean actually cringes by how hard your hand hits the wood, wonders if you’re hurt but it seems you couldn’t give less of a shit. Your back arches and you whine and shake and it’s all so damn perfect. How you don’t hold back, don’t worry about your sounds and your face and just feel. It drives Dean crazy. It drives him absolutely crazy.
Now he gets to watch how you sit up, pull him towards you by his shoulders. Kiss his wet mouth while trying to get his boxer shorts off. Dean, while he still has any wherewithal, sits himself against the headboard and then you’re climbing on top of him, kiss him again. He holds your face in both of his hands, makes you look into his eyes while you sink down on him. What a fucking sap.
You ride him slowly and sensually. The Dean he was before was a fuck-fast-and-get-it-done guy, the end always the goal. Now, he gets almost sad when it’s over. Well, he comes, so he’s not that sad, but still. He wishes this part could last forever.
Your hips are circling, and your arms are around his shoulders, as Dean’s hands run up your torso, run under your shirt that in the heat of the moment you’re too busy to discard, touch all that soft, warm skin on you. His hands go to your front, find your nipples, perfect little nubs, that he gently twists and in response you ride him a little faster. You lean down to kiss him and he grins against your mouth, grins at your responsiveness, at how much it makes him feel like a man that he can make you feel this way. You must be able to feel his smile against your lips, because Dean knows that you’re making that face, the one where you’re trying to suppress your own smile when he’s making you laugh, but you don’t want to admit it. He wants to lick and kiss and nip at your face then.
“Shut up,” you say, even though he hasn’t said anything. Dean’s still grinning, and then he watches himself twist your nipples again and your head falls back. It’s too much. It’s too good and it’s too painful to watch. He steps out into the hallway, runs his hand over his face, because for some weird fucking reason that he can do. He can’t close the door behind him, though, so he still hears you, hears himself, and even as he moves a few feet down the hallway he definitely hears the moment the Dean in the other room wraps his arms around your back, pushes himself forward and lands you on your back, to which you reply with a high moan. It’s not fair, and whatever cosmic entity has cooked this up could have thought of something a little less on the nose. Because Dean knows what happens next. Dean knows.
The reason he knows is because he’s lived this day before. This isn’t some alternative reality or a djinn creating his perfect day – although so far, it’s pretty close to what he’d imagine his perfect day to be. Coffee in bed and morning sex, although if this was a perfect dream or something, the coffee would remain hot, not go cold the way it is right now. Dean will take a sip when the two of you are done, and make a face. He knows this because this is a memory. It’s the memory of the day things ended between you and him.
He moves to the living room. He sits on the couch, and he actually manages, doesn’t fall through to the floor. The rules of this reality are all over the place and he doesn’t totally understand them, which pisses him off. He sits there, elbows on his thighs, and thinks. He was in the bunker, before he came here, or rather, was transported here. He and Sam and Cas were going through some old artefacts, Sam reminding him every five minutes that he should be careful, pointing out that they didn’t have any protection and before Dean could even say condom, he touched something and then he was here.
So now he’s wondering what here is, and why he’s here. He clearly can’t change anything, can’t do anything, so it doesn’t seem to be time travel. All he can do is watch, which is what brought him to his current conclusion: there’s something he’s supposed to learn, to understand. That’s his best guess. A Groundhog Day situation. Because this is the fifth time Dean is experiencing this day. Well, sixth if you count the original, real one. He keeps getting thrown back and he has no idea why.
The loop starts a few minutes before you wake up, and it ends when he walks out of your apartment. The door falls shut, and he’s back in bed, or not him, his corporeal version. Damn, this is confusing.
So whatever he’s supposed to learn, supposed to understand, it’s not coming to him. The only thing he’s getting is this perfect morning and then your stupid argument afterwards. Dean sighs. What is the lesson here?
He zones out on that thought for a good long while, because he doesn’t even notice you and him have entered the living room until you’re almost right in front of him. He wonders if he’s slipping. He wonders if he’ll go crazy after enough repetition, after he’s seen this a thousand, two thousand times. Probably.
“I just don’t understand why you think it’s such a wild thing for me to say,” you say as you’re picking up some discarded clothes off the back of one of the chairs that stand around the small dining table. You are dressed, and so is Dean, and Dean, the one sitting on the couch, knows that this argument started while you were still lying in bed together, the post-sex bliss making room for the conflict you’ve carried your entire relationship, if that is even what you can call it. You’re both damaged, volatile and as pigheaded as any two people can be. Yes, you’re head over heels for each other, have the best sex Dean has ever had, make each other laugh until you’re crying and Dean’s pretty sure he’s in love with you, but that doesn’t seem to be enough.
“Can we just not talk about this? Again?” past-Dean says, running a hand over his face in what could be a perfect parody of what ghost-Dean (future-Dean? he thinks. Sounds like a bad super hero) did earlier. He doesn’t like his own tone, doesn’t like how it sounds like you’re being the unreasonable one when he knows he’s being a huge idiot himself.
Your expression shows you’re annoyed, because this is what Dean always does – or did – which is to want to push the topic, leave it for some other time.
“Well,” you say, as you’re haphazardly folding one of the shirts you picked up. “We never get anywhere when we talk about this, so, yeah, we have to talk about it again, because we haven’t come to a solution.”
Dean, corporeal Dean, sighs, leans with his arm against the wall. Looks irritable. You damn idiot, the Dean on the couch thinks. You have no idea how lucky you are you get to argue with her. You see it in him, how his entire posture is telling you how frustrating it is for him to talk about this, and what he thinks comes off as charming and Don Juan-y is actually coming off as arrogant and hurtful. If Dean could restore his physicality in this realm for one second, he’d use that second to punch himself in the face.
You look down, and it breaks his heart. What you want from him, and what Dean is refusing to give you, is some goddamn commitment. Which he’s already giving you – he’s not sleeping around, he’s not dating anyone else, he’s only with you because you’re the only person he wants to be with – but you just want him to say it. And because Dean is terrified that he cannot stick to his own promises, that he will fail the moment he commits, he’s not giving you the one thing you’ve ever asked him for.
Your thumb is rubbing along the fabric of the shirt you’re holding. Dean knows what’s coming. He wants to walk out, get away, but if this really is some sick way for him to learn his lesson then he knows that the pivotal moment comes now.
“I don’t know if this is working, Dean,” you say, and your voice is so damn sad. He sees it on his own face, the shock, the surprise, because of course he’s big enough of an idiot to take you for granted. Of course he thinks there will never be any actual consequences to all his stupid choices. He’s righteous enough to go through life thinking that way.
“Hey,” he says, and Dean the Friendly Ghost hears the change in his tone, hears the sneaking suspicion that maybe you’re being serious, and that he will actually lose you. Oops, he thinks, internal voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Maybe we just want different things,” you continue as if you didn’t hear him. You’re not looking up, still staring at the shirt in your hands. Dean gets off the couch, then. He walks to roughly where his other version is standing, but closer to you. Always closer to you. Maybe this is the key, the thing he’s been looking for. Maybe if he hits his mark, stands on the right spot on the stage and says the right lines, he can get out of here or, even better, change what actually happened that day. And then he’ll go back to the real world, and the universe will have adjusted accordingly. You’ll be there in the bunker, share his room. Your stuff will be everywhere and he’ll complain but he’ll be the happiest man in the world. And he’d be so grateful, every day. He promises that now.
“I love you,” he says into the continuing silence of the room, willing you to look up. “I’m an idiot and I only want to be with you.” He waits a second, breath baited.
“If that’s what you think,” he hears his other version say behind him, and Dean closes his eyes. At the stupidity and also because nothing’s changed. This is still the original version. What the hell is he supposed to do?
He opens his eyes again, and you’re finally looking up. You clearly want Dean to say he’s sorry, were maybe trying to get him to freak out and tell you that he wants you, needs you. But he’s doubling down on the bluff, and you can’t back down now. You’re too proud, and honestly, Dean thinks, good for you.
“Then I think you should leave,” you say, voice angry but controlled. Dean knows that his other version behind him is opening his mouth, gearing up to say something, but then doesn’t. Instead he pushes himself off the wall, and walks into the bedroom where his bag and the rest of his things are.
Dean stays with you in the living room, once again surprised by how quickly things escalated. He knows what the other guy is doing – throwing all his things in his duffel, forgetting half of it. Also making a little bit of extra noise because he’s not above being a petulant little asshole. But Dean stays with you. Watches you. Watches tears build in your eyes as you take a deep breath to still your emotions. Watches you chew the inside of your cheek. He wonders if you’re thinking about going after him or if at this point you’re just glad to see him gone.
It's stupid. It’s so stupid. You have all the ingredients for something good here. All the parts you need to build a whole. And yet you, or he, or both of you, have managed to make such a mess out of it.
Dean listens to himself walk back into the hallway. He hears himself stop, stand in front of the door that leads out to the apartment. Rather than just talk to you he stands there for a moment, just out of sight of you in the living room. Hoping you’ll stop him. No such luck.
Finally he opens the door. Dean watches you look down again, stare at the floor. Then the sound of feet, the door closing, and everything goes dark.
You stare down at yourself, waking up, cross your arms over your chest and groan. You are so damn tired of this. So tired. You don’t want to keep going through this. You watch yourself stretch, and then your eyes go back to Dean next to you in the bed. He makes a pretty picture and as fun as it is to watch you and him fuck over and over (although you could do without the dramatic second act), the only thing this weird experience has really led to is that you want nothing more than to take the place your double is now abandoning, slip between the sheets and sling your arms around Dean, pull him close and never let go.
Because you’ve been in this godforsaken hellscape for what feels like ages now, and if you don’t touch something soon, feel something, experience any kind of change, you’re going to self-destruct. Which, hey, at least that would be something new. You’d take someone pulling out your teeth and fingernails one by one at this point.
You were on a case, minding your own business, not doing much of anything when all of a sudden, you found yourself here. You genuinely wondered for a few minutes if you’d simply driven home, in the way you sometimes drive a route you know well without realizing you’re doing it. But there was no route you knew well, because you were two states over from where you lived, and also, also, there was a copy of you and Dean Winchester in the next room. No, not just a copy, a memory, an echo. You remember this day, but you’d be happier if you didn’t.
Even though you know it won’t have any effect, you scream at your memory-clone for a few minutes, follow her from the kitchen to the bathroom. She doesn’t react. She sits on the toilet while she pees, staring into the middle distance, and has a stupid goofy grin on her face. She has no idea what’s coming to her and it makes you want to scoff, slap the smile right off her visage.
It’s easier, like this, to be angry and bitter at her, because then you don’t have to admit the other thing – that you’re jealous. That she gets to climb back into bed with Dean, gets to touch him, feel him. That she gets to live, at least for a little while longer, with the belief that you two will manage to make things work. That you won’t be your own worst enemies and fuck everything up.
Then comes the coffee and then the kissing and then Dean touching you and you leave as you see your face start to contort in pleasure. Go to the living room and look out the window.
You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do. You’ve seen this dozens of times now. You’ve tried everything you can think of. Tried to slip in at the right moment. Whispered to yourself. Nothing works. You don’t know what to do. There’s no physical needs or physical… anything in this reality, but you feel the ghost-memory-prison equivalent of a panic attack rise in your chest. You’d try to slow your breathing, except that you’re not, well, breathing. So you can’t actually panic, but you also can’t not panic. Is this the moment? Is this the moment you go crazy?
Just stand and wait. Maybe you need to simply ignore everything that’s going on. Maybe that’s the solution. You have no idea what the fuck that would be good for, but you’d stand on your head if it meant changing anything. Actually, now that you think about it, you haven’t tried that yet.
There’s a sudden vibration in the air behind you and you spin around. Something is different. Something just happened that hasn’t happened before. You can’t see it now, but you definitely felt something. You stand there, as still as you can, praying to whoever’s listening that it happens again.
It does, just when you don’t expect it to anymore. A ripple in the air. Like there’s a wall of saran wrap in front of you that’s suddenly bunching up before straightening out again. You squint at it, trying to understand what it is you’re seeing. Carefully you raise your hand to it, try to touch the air where something is happening. It feels like the air is thicker there, there’s some resistance, like you’re moving your hand through water instead of air, so you do it again, and then again.
“Please stop doing that,” you hear a familiar voice and jump back. “It is very difficult to pierce the walls of the metaphysical realm while also having my face stroked.”
“Castiel?” you ask with a frown, sure you would recognize the deadpan growl of the angel anywhere. “Is that you?” Your eyes are going over the disturbance, and you’re pretty sure that’s where the voice came from.
“It’s me,” he says, and the ripple almost looks like a soundwave, like Castiel speaking is making it appear. “Are you alright?” You want to say no, because that’s the truth, but that seems beside the point now.
“I’m fine,” you say instead. “Is there… do you know if there’s a way to get me out of here?”
“It depends,” Castiel the Air Ripple of the Lord responds. “Where is here?”
“My apartment,” you reply. “Except it’s not my apartment. I mean it is, but it’s my apartment in the past.” You give a humorless chuckle. “I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“It doesn’t,” Castiel responds, as usual not invested in sparing anyone’s feelings. “Is Dean there?”
The question gives you pause.
“Uhm, yeah,” you reply.
“What is he doing?” Castiel’s disembodied voice asks.
Screwing my brains out in the next room.
“Sleeping,” you say, hoping that if you can’t see Castiel it means that he can’t see you, because if he did, and there is a way for you to blush in this dimension, you would definitely be doing that.
“Sleeping?” Castiel asks to confirm. “No, that’s highly unlikely. When you are astral projecting there are no physical needs, so Dean wouldn’t need to sleep.”
“Astral projecting?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “I thought that was a religious practice. Go to the astral plane, life before and after death, talk to the angels and all that. Oh.” You interrupt yourself. “I guess I am doing that last part.”
“That is part of it,” Castiel explains, not acknowledging at your joke at all. “The practice left the spiritual realm at some point and was used to allow a copy of the body to exist detached from time and space. Dean accidentally activated something here in the bunker that created the detachment.”
You lean your head back, push your fists into your sides. Of course Dean did that. But then you frown. “Okay,” you say, “but what does that have to do with me? Why am I here?”
“We’re trying to figure that out,” Castiel answers, but he sounds a little distracted.
“Listen closely,” he continues, and you already are. “You need to tell me where you are. Where your body is currently. Sam will go and get it and we will bring you back to the bunker. Meanwhile I will work on a way to bring you back to your body.”
Sudden worry blooms in you. Your physical body is out there somewhere. You worry at what this could mean.
“Cas,” you say, “I’ve been here for days and days. I don’t even know if my body is alive anymore.”
“It might feel like you’ve been there for days,” Castiel answers, “but it’s only been a couple of hours. You’ll be fine. Sam will come and get you.”
You sigh, relieved, and then give Castiel the address and room number of the motel you were staying at. He repeats it, probably to Sam.
“I should continue looking for a way to bring you back into your body,” Castiel says, now addressing you, and the thought of him leaving, the thought of him simply going away again and you going back to the tedium of repetition is almost too much to accept.
“No, Cas, please,” you say, a desperate tone that you don’t like at all in your voice. “Please don’t leave me alone here.”
Cas is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if he’s contemplating staying with you.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he genuinely is, and your hopes shatter into a million pieces. “Try to find Dean. I think it would be helpful for you two to connect. It might make the extraction easier.”
“I told you,” you say. “Dean is in the next room. Sleeping.”
“The astral version of Dean,” Castiel explains. You want to make a joke about astral body, but you hold back, because Cas continues. “He’s there as well, but somehow you need to find a way to connect, to communicate.”
“And how do I do that?” you ask.
“I don’t know,” Castiel responds. Great.
There’s silence for a second and then the air wiggles again. “You can do this,” Castiel says, doing his best to sound encouraging. He doesn’t quite hit the right tone, but you appreciate the effort. It’s quiet then.
“Castiel?” you say into the room. No answer. He’s gone. And you’re alone again.
Dean, you think then. He’s here somewhere. You need to find him.
Dean has been doing everything he can for the last few loops. He’s banging on the walls. He’s yelling, trying to find something, something, that will allow him to find you. He hasn’t heard back from Cas, and the worry that causes sits in the back of his head with a heavy, uncomfortable finality.
Currently he’s running his hands over the wall in the bedroom, while you and him are lying entangled behind him. He knows you’re running your fingertips over the inside of his arm and staring off into the distance, because at this point he has seen this scene so many times he knows it by heart, every single word, every single look.
“I don’t want you to worry about that,” the Dean on the bed says as the Dean near the wall runs his hand over the wallpaper, in the hopes that they will catch on something.
“But I do,” you say.
“Just… don’t, okay?” Dean says and the other Dean feels his lips move. He freezes. Why did he do that? Why did he mouth the words he said so long ago? He turns around, looks at the two of you. You’re quiet now, but Dean knows what happened. He’s sure he moved his lips to those words and he didn’t do that on purpose. He doesn’t think that’s a good sign. He closes his eyes. He needs to get out of here.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” you say, but it sounds closer than it’s supposed to. Dean’s eyes fly open and he looks around. It felt like you were standing right next to him when you said it. He watches you get up, his hand reaching after you but then dropping on the mattress, as you walk to your dresser, pull out underwear, start putting it on. Dean just lies in the bed, stares at the ceiling. The other Dean opens his mouth.
“Can we not make a big deal out of it?” he says at the same time as his counterpart on the bed does and then suddenly, there you are.
You’re looking down at the bed, standing next to your double, who’s now pulling a shirt and pants out of the dresser, but you’re looking down at Dean, look at him lying there. Dean, ghost Dean, takes a step forward and for a second, he’s terrified that he can only see you, and that you can’t see him, and that he has to spend the rest of eternity looking at two version of you. But then his movement draws your attention and you look up. Your eyes go wide. You can see him. Dean could cry from happiness. You can see him.
“How—” you start and Dean can only shake his head. His other self is getting up from the bed now too, is pulling on his clothes (Dean almost clears his non-existent throat at the fact that there’s a copy of him right next to the two of you with his junk out), but you don’t take your eyes off him.
The other two of you are moving slowly around you, you leaned against the dresser, quiet, Dean putting on his clothes and then sitting on the side of the bed. You, the ghostly you, hasn’t said anything else, you just keep staring at Dean, so he gives himself a push.
“Hi,” he says, and your eyebrows go up. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Your laugh is half of a choked breath. And then the next second, you frown.
“What did you do?” you ask. Dean’s taken aback.
“What do you mean, what did I do?” he asks, defensive.
“You did something,” you say, crossing your arms. “Cas said you played with some artefacts and that caused this.”
“First of all,” Dean says, one hand going up to indicate the number of his first correction. “I wasn’t playing with artefacts. I touched something and it whammied me… wherever the hell it is we are. Secondly—”
That’s the moment your doubles start arguing again. Dean closes his mouth, annoyed, and when he looks at you, you’re crossing your arms over your chest, looking at him challengingly. God, he loves that look on you, the one you get when you call him on his bullshit.
You’re quiet while your alternative versions bicker. Dean knows they’ll move to the kitchen in a second, and then later the living room. So he waits patiently, and so do you, he notices. He raises his chin.
As the two finally leave the room, he looks you up and down. “How long have you been stuck here?” he asks. You push out your jaw, probably weighing whether to sass him or just answer.
“A long time,” you answer finally, and Dean gets it. Gets that you have been here as long as he has. He lowers the hand he still had raised.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking into your eyes. The hardness in your face wanes.
“I thought it wasn’t your fault,” you say, only a little bit of challenge in those words. Dean chuckles.
“I said I didn’t get us here on purpose,” he answers. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t my fault.”
He almost rolls his eyes at himself, because it’s just too much an explanation for all of this, but he doesn’t. Which is fine, because you do it for him.
“What?” he says. Your arms uncross and instead you raise them defensively.
“I didn’t say anything,” you respond.
“You rolled your eyes,” Dean replies.
“What are you,” you say, giving him an unbelieving look, “the eye rolling police?” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at the floor, and then up and he catches the sparkle in your eyes.
“God,” you say, “it feels so fucking good to be talking to someone.” Dean groans.
“I know,” he says. “Holy shit.” You both huff and then you’re quiet again.
“Do you think,” you say, voice carful, like you’re unsure about what you’re saying, “that there’s something we need to do? Like something we need to learn, or, I don’t know, accept?”
You probably don’t mean for the last word to carry the meaning it does, but your and Dean’s eyes meet and it’s clear what that entails. Is the reason you’re being shown this day over and over again so that you accept that things are over between you and move on?
“I don’t know,” Dean says, honestly. “Sam was caught in a time loop years ago, and that was all instrumented by someone who wanted him to learn something. So maybe?” He shrugs, just to underline how absolutely clueless he is. He watches you as you chew on your bottom lip, and it is so adorable that despite the anxiety and discomfort he has been feeling, his heart does a little extra ba-dum.
“If they wanted us to accept something,” he starts and he can’t fully look at you while he says it. “Like, that it’s the right thing for us to have broken up, they really should have left out that first part.” It takes you a second to understand what he means, and then you make that face. The one where you’re trying to hide your smile because you don’t want to admit that what Dean said is making you laugh. You lick your lip and try to control the corners of your mouth. Dean can’t help but grin.
No, he realizes, he could see this fight a million times more, and he’d never think it was right for you to break up. He’d always want you back, no matter how often he is forced to watch this.
You open your mouth to say something else, when there is suddenly a rumble, like a distant earthquake. You look to the side, then back at Dean, eyes going wide. It stops and then it starts again, louder, stronger.
“Dean?” you say, probably hoping he has some sort of explanation, but all it does it make him step closer to you and reach out.
Your hands touch before the two of you even know what you’re doing and when they do, it’s like a bolt of lightning goes through you. Dean looks down at where your hands are touching and then back at you, and the feeling, the feeling of touch, is overwhelming after such a long time without it. It’s stronger than anything he’s ever felt. But again, he’s wrong.
He felt this way the first time he touched you too. And every single time since. Like it was the first time he was touching someone in his entire life.
You look into his face and Dean’s not sure if you’re thinking the same thing but the roaring around you is getting louder and more intense, it’s shaking the ground and the walls and the ceiling and the two of you, it vibrates the air around you and in the next second, everything is gone.
Dean’s eyes open and his head shoots up and he sucks air into his lungs so hard that he coughs. You don’t fare much better as you lean over, hand splayed on your chest, shoulders up. Sam grabs Dean by the arms to steady him but Dean’s just confused by it for a second, flails his arms, until Sam has said his name a few times and he recognizes his little brother.
“You’re back, it’s okay,” Sam says, but Dean’s eyes shoot back to you, watches as Cas gently pats your shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Dean asks, his lungs feeling like they’re on fire, like he just ran a mile. It seems you’re not immediately aware that he’s talking to you, but then Dean says your name and you look at him.
It feels dramatic, the way your eyes meet, like you’re looking at each other across some great expanse of time and space. Dean must have heard that somewhere, because it sure as hell didn’t come from his brain. But it fits.
“I’m okay,” you say, voice low. Dean nods. Then he turns to Sam, who is looking between you two carefully.
“Now,” Dean says, “what the hell happened?”
The device, according to Cas and Sam, that Dean touched, served as a way for people on both sides of the veil, or those outside and inside of the astral plane, which is the same thing but a different vocabulary, to communicate with each other – a dead person talking to a living person. Dean frowns.
“But neither one of us is dead,” he observes. Castiel tilts his head.
“Yes,” he says, “but you have been dead often enough that the device might have gotten confused, paired you with a living person instead.” Dean nods, takes a sip from his drink. He has died a lot.
“That’s all fine and dandy,” you say from the other side of the table, “but then why did I get dragged in there as well?” Dean looks at you. It hasn’t been that long since he last saw you, in the real world that is, but he feels like he’s trying to make up for lost time without being a weirdo. He keeps stealing glances at you, and sometimes he catches you looking back, and he’s not sure if it’s because you noticed what he’s doing or because you’re looking at him too.
“The device brought people together that had unfinished business with each other,” Sam explains, and Dean looks at you again. You look at him at the same time and then you both look away quickly, like pre-schoolers, when you realize the implication of what Sam just said. Unfinished business. There it is, all spelled out. You clear your throat.
“And then you just relive whatever your unfinished business is,” you say, “until the end of days?”
“No,” Sam explains. “Usually a shaman would be present during the ritual to drag you back out, but, uh, we didn’t have a shaman. So Cas had to bend the rules a little.” All eyes go to Castiel.
“It wasn’t pleasant,” is all he says. Dean sniffs, then leans back, drink in hand.
“One thing I don’t understand,” he says. “Why does one of the people getting sucked in need to be dead? Why not give closure to two living people.” Castiel turns his steely blue eyes to Dean, not a hint of humor on his face.
“The dead deserve closure, too, Dean,” he says. Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. He leans forward, looking a little embarrassed.
“Alright, Patricia Arquette,” Dean mumbles into his glass.
“Okay,” you say, setting down your glass on the table, laying your hands on your thighs and looking around. “I think I should go.” You stand up and Dean feels himself freeze, feels himself try to come up with a reason you should stay. Sam gets up too.
“Uhm,” he says, throwing Dean a look. “You don’t have your car.” You’re standing, looking down at yourself, brushing something invisible off your leg when he says this and you look up.
“I broke into your motel room,” Sam explains, looking awkward. “And kind of, uhm, carried you out.” Dean has a sudden image in his head, of lanky Sam hoisting you over his shoulder and running through the motel parking lot with you, hoping no one sees him. Beautiful.
“Shit,” you say, raise your shoulders and sigh. “Uhm, I’ll figure something out.”
“Dean could drive you,” Sam says, looking at his brother, who has been quiet so far. Dean turns to Sam, sees the scheming look going over Sam’s face. Son of a bitch. He really is the smart one.
“Yeah, I can,” Dean says, getting up as well. He’s still holding the glass with the drink all of you, except Cas, needed when you were done being dragged out of astral hell, and he puts it down on the table to show he is a responsible driver.
You seem unsure for a second, look at Dean with doubt in your eyes.
“Sure,” you finally say. “That would be great.”
Sam sits down and in a move that is unusual for him, props up his legs up on the long wooden table.
“Do you think they believed the story?” Castiel asks, looking over at the hunter. Sam shrugs.
“Seemed like it,” he says. Castiel is quiet for a moment, then speaks up again.
“It doesn’t feel right… to lie to Dean,” he says, grimacing a little. Sam nods as he reaches for the glass he poured earlier. He deserves it, after today.
“I know,” he answers, raising the glass to his mouth. “But you saw him. He wasn’t doing well. Hasn’t been for weeks. And he was never going to get off his ass on his own. We just… pushed him in the right direction.”
“By sending him and the woman he loves into a micro universe,” Castiel clarifies, “that tortures everyone who ends up there with their biggest regret.”
“Not torture,” Sam points out, recalling the exact translation of the text he read. “Confronts. That’s different.”
“And then,” Castiel continues, ignoring what Sam said, “we left them in there for much longer than we originally planned.” Sam spreads out his arms.
“We didn’t know it would be that complicated to get them out,” he responds.
“We knew there were risks,” Castiel points out. Sam gets up with a groan. He walks to the little bar cart, pours a new glass and carries it over to Castiel. Then he sits down again.
“My brother has sacrificed himself again and again,” Sam says, his voice now serious. “He deserves something good. If this is how he gets it…” Sam looks down into the glass he has picked up again. “I just wanted them both to understand how ridiculous they’re being.” Castiel sighs while he studies the earnestness on Sam’s face. Then the angel raises his glass.
“Let’s hope they understand this time,” he says, a sweet and placating look on his face. Sam looks up, takes a moment, then raises his glass as well.
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, and then he does.
The beginning of the drive is incredibly awkward.
Dean and you are both sitting there in the car, staring straight ahead, not saying a word. It’s dark out, late, and now Dean thinks he should have simply offered for you to stay the night. But he completely blanked on that. Sam’s the one with the manners, so now here you are, driving down the dark country road.
“So,” he says after a few miles, “unfinished business.”
“Yeah, how about that?” you say. Dean smiles, the grip on the steering wheel relaxing a little.
“I still don’t totally get it,” you say, and Dean dares to quickly look over at you. There’s only a little bit of light to see you by, but he can see your features, the moonlight gleaming off your skin. “I mean it sounds really complicated. This whole astral projection thing.” Dean nods.
“Yeah, not sure I need to get it,” he says, fingers drumming on the wheel a little. “Just happy that we got out of there.”
“You know,” you say a second later, “while we were in there, I was sure there had to be some kind of… I don’t know. I was sure there was something I had to do? To get out, I mean. Like in Groundhog Day.” Dean nods and chuckles.
“Exactly like Groundhog Day,” he answers. “Like there was something I had to learn, to realize. Or that I had to date Andie MacDowell.” By the movement he tracks out of his periphery, Dean’s pretty sure you’ve turned to face him.
“Can’t knock Andie. So did you learn anything?” you ask, and Dean’s pretty sure he can hear an edge of humor in your voice.
“Uhm,” he says, pretending to think for a second. “That I’m a pretty big idiot.” It’s quiet after he says it, and Dean can’t stand it. “I know,” he adds finally, “you could have told me that yourself.”
“Hmm,” you say, “I think I was busy being a pretty big idiot myself.” Dean looks over at you, already shaking his head.
“No, you weren’t,” he responds, looks back at the street. “Not half as big as I was.” To his surprise, he hears you chuckle.
“Glad we established that,” you say. Dean nods. You’re quiet again.
“Thought about you the other day,” you say, and Dean raises his eyebrows, indicating for you to continue, like he hasn’t been thinking about you every single day since that day. “You left a bunch of your stuff, and I was… packing it up.”
Dean swallow. Not the association the was hoping for.
“Maybe you should pick them up,” you say, and Dean tries hard to control his face, but he’s not sure he succeeds. “In case, there’s stuff in there you need.” He only nods. Nothing else to add to that.
More silence, dark miles disappearing below the two of you. Then Dean speaks up again.
“I was repeating the words from the argument when you showed up,” he says, staring straight ahead even though he’s pretty sure you turn to him. “Just… said them, without planning to. And then there was that weird earthquake when we started talking to each other. Do you think—”
“I think that was just Cas pulling us out,” you interrupt him. Dean presses his lips together. Seems your defenses are fully up. “And as for the repeating, I think we were just starting to go crazy.”
Okay, Dean thinks. Okay. He understands. None of it meant anything.
It’s over.
He pulls into the parking lot of your motel a little later. He turns off the engine, then turns to you, expecting you to already be booking it out of the car, get away from him as quickly as possible.
To his surprise, you’re sitting there, still staring ahead, deep in thought.
“You want me to walk you to your room?” Dean asks, unhelpful as all hell, because he doesn’t want to walk you anywhere. He wants you to stay right there. Preferably for eternity.
(The irony of wishing for something to remain the way it is for eternity after what he just got out of isn’t lost on him.)
You turn to him, frowning.
“I can walk to my room,” you say and Dean sighs.
“I wasn’t saying you can’t walk to your room,” he replies. If this is the argument you really end things on, it’s even more stupid than the last one. But if it means you’ll stay for a few more minutes? Dean’s totally fine with it.
“You know that’s not how it works, right?” you ask, and Dean has no idea what you’re talking about.
“You know problems don’t just go away because you’re stuck in a room with someone,” you say, and Dean wonders if you maybe have lost it a little bit. “Or in a car.”
“What?” Dean asks.
“I mean,” you continue, voice heated, “nothing’s changed. None of our… our issues,” at this you do sarcastic quotation marks, as if you’re quoting from a self-help book. “None of them have disappeared. They’re all still there.” You lower your hands and look at him.
“I know,” he says, still not entirely sure where you’re going with this.
“So nothing’s changed,” you repeat.
“Well,” Dean says. No, technically not. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that this means something.
“What happened doesn’t mean anything,” you say in that moment, and it would be annoying if it wasn’t so damn perfect.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, looking sideways at you. “Maybe nothing’s changed.” You nod, maybe confused because he is agreeing with you, but you don’t say anything else.
“But I…” Dean starts, then stops, looks out the front window. How can he say that this feels like a sign for him to get his shit together without sounding like a maniac?
“You what?” you ask, and there’s still that finality, that hardness in your voice, but also something else. Something soft and wounded.
Dean wants to find the right words. He’s not always good with them. But he really wants to find the right ones.
“I don’t want this to be over,” he lands on, because it’s what he feels. He turns to you. “I don’t want us to be over.”
He expects you to shut him down, but you don’t. Instead you just look at him.
“I want a second chance,” Dean says, and while he’s pouring his heart out, he might as well do it all the way. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Again, there’s that look on your face. The one that tells him you can see right through him. That he can maybe fool himself at times, masterfully even. But he can’t fool you.
“Do you want to come inside?” you ask. Dean’s heart does a little jig.
“Y—yes,” he says.
“To talk,” you clarify, and Dean can’t keep the grin off his face.
“Sure, I love talking, it’s my favorite thing to do,” he says. You press your lips together. He’s made you laugh, but you don’t want to admit it.
“Let’s go,” you say but neither of you moves. You stay where you are. Not for eternity, but just for a little bit.
Thank you for reading! ♡
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situationship dean winchester. like a yearning sneaky link with a baaaaaad corruption kink 🙅♀️🙅♀️🙅♀️☝️☝️
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ⌇DEAN WINCHESTER . . . ⚘ ༝༚༝༚
𓂃✍︎
content warnings 𖨂 NSFW. minors do not interact, fem!reader, sneaky!link!dean, corruption kink, deep throating, gagging, slight exhibitionism (they’re in the impala)
requests 𖨂 honey’s spring solstice
“Yeah— yeah, just like that…” Dean Winchester trails off as he pushes your head further into his crotch. Dean’s length threatens to reach the back of your throat, but he steadies your head and allows your mouth to get accustomed to the width of his girth. Spit seeps out the sides of your lips, dribbling down the rest of Dean’s uncovered shaft as you reposition yourself in the foot space of the Impala. With wide eyes, you glance up at him for some extra encouragement before even attempting to take the rest of his cock in your mouth. “Doing great, baby. Fuck, I’m ruining your innocent little brain, huh?”
You shift uncomfortably, the wetness pooling in the cotton plane of your panties is growing stickier and stickier by the second. Needing any sort of stimulation, you shift from side to side while trying to redirect your attention to the task at hand— getting the tip Dean’s cock pressed against the soft tissue of your throat until you’re gagging and sputtering around him.
With slow, calculated movements, you peer up at Dean through your eyelashes. His face is focused, watching intently as you dip further, and further, and further, until you can feel the slit in his tip pressing against the spongy part of your uvula. Your cheeks hollow, and you take pleasure in the feel of his veins brushing the pink lining of your mouth. It’s steady at first and the pace is comfortable, but once you hear a moan from Dean, your movements become sloppy as you try to expel the noise from him once more. Lurching forward, you ground yourself by gripping onto Dean’s thigh while your gag reflex is stimulated by his cock. “Fuck, sweetheart, take it easy.”
Dean grabs your jaw and forces your mouth off his shaft, a disappointed whine escaping from you as your lips turn down in a pout. “Dean! I wanted to keep going!”
His cock is still hard, dripping from a mix of his pre-cum and your saliva. With one finger, he accumulates some of the substance before spreading it across your lips like your own personal brand of lip gloss. “Why don’t you hop up on my lap, babydoll? I’m g’na ruin you.”
wordcount: 767
summary: despite having the dream life, Dean can’t help but focus on the stubborn patch of skin on his stomach– maybe that’s what his wife is for, making ‘im forget all about it with gentle words of reassurance.
warnings: cursing, fem!reader, body image issues, kissing, angst if you squint, fluff, comfort.
Dean never once thought he’d actually get a chance to have a ‘normal’ life, yet here he was, picket fence and all. The house was everything his freckled, chubby faced kid self dreamt about while napping in the back of John’s car. It was big enough to completely contrast every motel room he’s ever slept in, photos of his chosen family littering the halls, a cozy room his wife decorated (thank God he let you choose the color– red walls was not the move), wooden floors that echoed his kid’s footsteps running over them every morning…
Life was finally good to him– too good– he thinks to himself while standing in front of the bathroom mirror. Jesus Christ when did all of that get there? His roughened hands grip at the soft fat that now covered what was once abs. He has a dad stomach, I mean he is a dad but still! Him?
Dean Winchester. World famous hunter. Michael 's vessel. Savior of the World. Him?
For God’s sake how come he never noticed? Had you noticed? Well of course you did– you lived with him, saw him everyday– there’s no way you didn’t. Why hadn’t you said anything? This version was nothing like the Ken doll Dean you met back in the day, he’s always been so used to relying on his looks, now he didn’t even have that?
Unbeknownst to you, your husband was having a full blown crisis while you’re calmly putting the baby to sleep– which was much easier now that your toddlers were nowhere in sight. It isn’t until you step into the bedroom that you catch a glimpse of a very frowny Dean in front of the bathroom mirror.
“Baby?” Your soft voice snaps him out of his self-deprecating train of thought.
“Sweetheart, why didn’t y’ tell me I was getting all–” he gestures vaguely to his stomach, clearly displeased “ –round.”
“All round?” You echo with a gentle (slightly disbelieving) chuckle, stepping closer to him in the small bathroom to place a featherlight kiss on his shoulder, careful hands trailing down his back muscles.
“Yeah,” Dean nods like it was the most obvious, wildest thing in the World “I look like a middle aged man.”
“Honey, you are a middle aged man…”
The look that meets you in the mirror is nothing short of unamused. “Y’know what I mean.”
“I know, I know…” you press another soft kiss between his shoulder blades, arms snaking around his waist to grab at the ‘oh so offending’ pouch of stomach. “Guess I never really stopped to think about it, why’re ya so focused on it?”
Seeing your husband’s shrug is what finally sends alerts ringing in your mind, could this man possibly think he wasn’t attractive anymore?
“Really?” You coax him, all the patience and love you could despite wanting to slap him for ever thinking some bullshit like that.
“It’s just weird, y’know?” Dean’s gravelly voice sounded doubtful for once. “Always been this jacked, badass hunter n’ now I’m just… this” once more he gestures to his body.
“Honestly?” You catch his attention by sliding around to stand between him and the mirror. “I prefer this version of Dean” God, you should’ve taken a picture of the face he makes. “Don’t get me wrong, baby-faced Dean was amazing… but dad bod Dean is the man I made a life with.”
Despite your husband’s stubbornness to maintain a grumpy, stubborn facade– you see the crinkles by his eyes that signaled his fond smile.
“This, as you call it–” you continue, gesturing to his soft belly, “ –was what held me when the nerves of leaving The Life got to my head, when we welcomed all of our beautiful kids to this messed up World, when I go to bed every night…” Each word is punctuated by a soft rub of your thumb over his stubbled cheek. “So yeah, I didn’t mention anything cause I never cared about it, Dean. I care about seeing my smoking hot husband smile everyday in this quiet life we built together.”
He chuckles softly, a deep rumble bubbling from his ribs as his hands cradle the sides of your head. “Y’know… baby-faced Dean would call this a chick flick moment.” There it is, that stupid humor and that boyish grin you missed– even if you roll your eyes at him right now.
“But smoking hot husband Dean ‘preciates it sweetheart.” He leans down to press a tender, all too familiar kiss to your lips, smiling against it.
“Anytime.” You chuckle softly, pressing another soft, fleeting peck to his lips.
might make a smut part 2 if y'all would like that...?
Which means you've been trying to hide a hickey for a week.
Because you're a grown woman who can't walk around with some sex mark like you're a dumb teenager- which is exactly what you wish you'd told Dean when you felt his mouth on your neck.
But you didn't say that. If you asked Dean he'd tell you that you said something along the lines of 'fuck- yes Dean- want you to mark me up- please.' But that's an exaggeration- you're certain you didn't say that. Pretty sure.
You've been wearing flannel shirts, hoodies with the drawstrings pulled tight. Sam hasn't noticed- you think he hasn't noticed- or maybe he's just too awkward to mention the obvious bright purple bruise spread across your neck.
Because- it was Dean that did this after all. So of course it isn't small, it's covering half your goddamn throat. And of course it's impossible to hide. And of course it's making Dean hard as hell every time he sees it.
He gets this smirk on his face every time he catches it, before you're able to hide it away again. And you know what that smirk means- it means he's going to do it all over again.
𐙚⋆.˚ he hates to admit it, but dean winchester cries during sex.
“fuck- fuck, baby.” dean grunted against your shoulder, your fingers digging into his bare back as he buried his head into the crook of your neck. you whined needily when you felt his thick cock throb inside of you, signalling that he was close. “so fuckin’ tight around me.” deans voice was hoarse and his pace got increasingly sloppier and more desperate. feeling how his arms tightened around you, you brought your hand to his face, cupping his cheek and getting him to make eye contact with you. “so handsome, baby. wanna feel you cum inside me.” you breathed softly, kissing his cheek lightly, resting your forehead against his as his shoulders tensed up and he let out an almost pained groan. your climax ripped through you not long after dean came inside of you, fucking his load back into you as he pounded you through your orgasm.
letting your head fall back to the pillow behind you and your eyes to flutter shut as you came down from the sheer intensity of it all, it took you a few moments to hear the soft sniffles coming from beside you. you frowned in concern and turned to lie on your side, ignoring the ache between your legs and the burning in your thighs. “dean, baby? what’s wrong?” you asked quietly, wiping a stray tear from his cheek with the pad of your thumb. deans face was flushed from embarrassment or from the amazing sex you’d just had, you couldn’t tell which, but you reckoned the latter. he shook his head, turning his head to look you in the eyes, a smile gracing his lips when he saw the concern in your gaze. “‘m okay, sweetheart, i promise.” he whispered, voice still a little shaky. “i just- i love you.. a lot.” dean hated to admit it, but the mix of intense pleasure and such personal intimacy he wasn’t used to during sex made him feel vulnerable enough to let his guard down around you, letting every emotion he kept locked up to escape through the tears.
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a/n: not proofread so if there is any mistakes lmk! also first time writing/posting a drabble/imagine like this, so i hope u guys like it cause i plan on writing more !
seriously. he loves walking behind his girl and just.. letting his eyes wander south. and he’ll swear he’s looking ‘respectfully’. checking you. making sure your jeans haven’t been stained.
when walking down the street? he’s sliding his fingers into the back pocket of your pants. he gives a toothy little grin when you shoot a sideways glance at him. but his hand doesn’t move. and you don’t make him move it.
one of dean’s favorite activities is sneaking up on you in the kitchen and giving you a love tap. well.. ‘tay’ is a pretty big word. the smack rattles out through the kitchen and the force of it makes you jump.
usually, sam is in the room when it happens. his face pinches up and gives dean a sour look.
“that’s my girl.” he grins, kissing your shoulder. “sammy ain’t got any idea what you like.”
soldier girl who loooooves to stretch out her girl..
ᯓ★ note; very loose extension of this after hours thought..
you’ve never been fucked like this before. and you’ve definitely never been fucked like this– by a woman.
pinned to the bed by your thighs, slightly trembling as soldier girl inspects your wet cunt with fingers so rough and careless as they poke and prod you, that you can’t help but to shudder when she scrapes a nail against your walls.
“huh, you never been stretched out, doll?” she asks, her breath hot against your swollen folds. the smell of weed lingers in the air, making you all hazy and warm.
“just my fingers,” you reply shyly– only to then wince when she brings her hand down sharply on your drooling cunt.
“think you’re forgettin’ somethin’ at the end of that.” her nails tap against the inside of your thigh, gently ghosting bite marks that she’s left there. she squeezes your flesh roughly. “who’re you talkin’ to, doll?”
“you, mom, ‘m talking to you.”
“yeah, that’s right.” and with that, she pushes one finger into you, whilst her other hand holds you down firmly as you begin to writhe. you’ve never had this sort of attention– and never for your cunt– and just the feeling of a single finger alone is making you clench tightly. “hey, just gotta relax f’your mom, okay? gonna stretch you out before i do anythin’..”
and all you can do, as she adds a second and a third finger, sharpened nails scraping your walls, is whine and squirm; feel so uncomfortable by this sudden intrusion, and yet, grow more wet and needy as she starts to fingerfuck you.
“yeah– doin’ so well f’me, doll– aren’t you? bein’ my good girl an’ all?”
you rut your hips forward, grasp onto the sheets below, as you feel your orgasm build. she fucks you like a pro– making you all hot and bothered before you’ve even gotten to the main event. your sweat-slicked body aches, and breathy sounds spill from your mouth as she begins to circle and tease your clit.
“‘s feeling so good–” you whimper, bucking your hips with more intensity. “mom, i need you– please– mommy–”
“oh, you say somethin’?” she pauses briefly, smirking up at you before going back to basically shoving her whole fist into your gaping cunt. meanwhile, you whine and cry for her– your needy noises getting lost in the obscenely vulgar sounds that your hole makes– and tug on her hair for more.
and when she finally does fuck you? well.
she’s not the type to waste her time. immediately, she bottoms out inside of you, burying herself to the hilt with that fat strap. she stills for just a minute or so, allowing you to get used to the fullness of her; and then she’s back to stretching out your hole, in just the way you need!
every time she slams back into you, the plastic tip of the toy kisses your cervix, and the ridged sides are hugged by your warm walls like you don’t want her to go. “you feelin’ god f’me, doll? feelin’ all good for your mommy?” she coos at you, again and again. you nod absent-mindedly, only able to focus on how full you feel, writhing under her sheer brutality because your poor body cannot take it.
but both of her rough hands grip firmly onto your ass, holding you in place as she fucks you so hard that her huge strap begins to bump up and poke at your lower abdomen. when the both of you catch sight of this, she just pushes down on your stomach, fucking into you harder. “gotta let mom use what belongs to her; takin’ like the good girl i know you are.”
no thoughts except for starfishing on ben… i need to be as close as physically possible to that man
Omg yes (for a sec I thought you said starfish!Ben and I was like....I think you've lost me here lol)
He would think you're kinda fucking weird but he wouldn't complain too much.
If you just flop onto him with your arms and legs stretched out, he's cocking a brow.
"The fuck're y'doin'?"
"Starfishing" You'd mutter, not really caring about how odd it sounds.
"What?"
"I like having you close, this is pretty much the closest I can get"
"Except when I'm insi-"
"BEN!"
"What? You know it's true, Sweetheart"
"Just- shut up and hold me"
"Fine"
He'd roll his eyes, but he'd wrap his arms around you anyways, silently happy you wanted him close, the fact that you wanted him at all was a miracle in of itself.
