Based on: Playing with Fire - Thomas Rhett
Warnings: drinking, angst, cursing, implied smut
Dean was on his way home from a hunt, Sam riding shotgun and already trying to find another case for them. The younger Winchester didn’t notice when Dean took a slight detour, passing by the house he’d spent many a night in, tangled in sheets, sweaty and grinding against her.
They pulled up to the bunker and climbed out of the car, Sam heading straight for bed while Dean popped open the liquor cabinet and poured himself a glass. Pulling out his phone, he began looking for a distraction, anything to get his mind off of her.
Scrolling through his phone, he found her name again, his finger hovering over the highlighted words.
“Fuck it.” He muttered, the pad of his thumb gently tapping the contact, phone dialing her number.
When she answered, the conversation was short. Two words from him, in the form of a question, followed by a single, simple word answer from her. The he was on his way to her place. Again.
As his headlights bounced off her house, he caught a glimpse of her shadow through the curtains upstairs. Shutting down the Impala, he ripped the keys from the ignition and headed for the door. He didn’t need to be let in, he knew where the key was - hiding under the mat.
“Not safe.” He mumbled, making a mental note to tell her to move it later.
Another week rolled by, and he found himself at the little dive bar where they’d met. He knew she’d be there. She always was.
“Hey there.” Her voice came from behind him.
Spinning, he saw her grinning at him, hair pulled half up and the rest billowing down over the cut shoulders of one of his shirts.
“How much longer are you planning on staying?” She sank onto the stool beside him.
“Finish this drink, then I’m heading out.” He lifted his bottle.
“My house?” She smirked, sipping her own drink.
“I… I don’t think so. Not tonight.” He shook his head, licking his lips and waiting for the worst.
“Did I do something wrong?” She leaned back and looked him over, furrowing her brow.
“No, no. Not at all. I just… Maybe we should stop?” He winced at his own words.
He didn’t want to stop. Of course he didn’t. But he was afraid of what was happening. He was falling for her, and that terrified him.
“Stop? Stop. Okay…” She fished in her pocket and dropped a few bills on the counter, enough to cover her only drink, and then strutted toward the door, catching the eye of a few men on her way out.
One of them followed her before Dean had the chance to go after her. Then he heard her yelling through the open doors. He sprinted for the parking lot, running to her and catching her as the ugly son of a bitch who went after her shoved her to the ground.
“You better get the hell out of here, buddy. If you know what’s good for you.” Dean glared up at the man.
He scoffed and spun on his heel, heading back into the bar to go after some other poor girl.
“Didn’t have to follow me.” She mumbled, pushing herself up off and away from him, then brushing the gravel from her hands and backside.
“I heard you yelling. I wasn’t just going to leave you out here on your own.” He explained.
“Well… you should have. I thought we were stopping.” She mocked his tone.
Dean crashed his lips into hers and pushed her back against the trunk of his car. Between kisses, he murmured against her lips, “Does this seem like I want to stop?”
She reached around and fumbled for the handle of the back door, opening it and climbing inside, pulling Dean with her. As she arched up into him, he rolled his hips against her, the two of them knowing exactly what the other needed.
Waking up next to her, Dean leaned over and kissed her forehead before leaving the bed.
“Stay for breakfast.” She groaned sleepily.
Dean flinched, his whole body jumping when she spoke. He knew he shouldn’t, knew that if he stayed, he would only come to love her more. When he turned back to look at her, the tiny smile on her face was enough to pull him back. So what if he got burned? So what if this could end at any second and he’d be crushed? Right now, this was what he wanted, and he’d be damned if he was going to let one more good thing get out of his grasp. He’d fucked up enough times to know that playing with fire will get you burned, but maybe he liked the scars.
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