I'm Raven. I'm 27, and I'm married. Discord: RavenRose21 I'm a Celestial Witch. Message me if you want to Rp. The Walking Dead and Supernatural are my favorite shows Twitch Streamer: ravenrose0716 "Family don't end in blood." - Dean Winchester/ Bobby Singer My Socials and Husband's: https://ravenrose0716.carrd.co/
✧･ﾟ:you're face down in the mattress, the wet, lustful sound of Dean’s hips snapping against your ass fill the room. He’s fucking you like an animal, holding your ass in the air with rough hands, massaging your hips and thighs as his balls slap against your clit. He bends over with a groan, kissing up your spine over your shoulders, rolling his hips with every brutal, bed creaking thrust. You cry out, as he drills into that one gooey spot deep inside of you, and he groans, squeezing your waist tight.
✧･ﾟ:he pants in your ear, low moans rumbling from his chest and vibrating through your body. His fingers drift down to toy with your clit, and you clench around him with a weak, breathy whine. Dean grunts and hauls you up against him. One hand wraps around your throat, the other splayed over your stomach, pressing down and forcing you to take his cock even deeper. Your lashes flutter, your vision blurred and mouth hanging open. Dean kisses and bites over your neck, fucking you with shallow, rough thrusts. You’re caged, your back to his chest, nothing for you do but take it.
“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” Dean grabs your jaw, angling it exactly where he wants. “Prettiest girl in the fuckin’ world. My girl.”
You moan, head lolling. Dean smirks and taps your cheek.
“Look.”
It takes all the praise and coaxing in the world, but you manage. It’s the most sinful thing you’ve ever seen. You, glowing and drooling in Dean’s arms, your eyes lidded and lips swollen from his countless kisses. There isn’t a part of your body he hasn’t marked, an inch of skin that he isn’t teasing or groping. His face is twisted in concentration, his muscles flexing and bulging around you, the shaft of his massive cock slipping in and out of your pussy like a machine.
“See how fuckin’ gorgeous you are?” Dean mutters in your ear. “Prettiest fuckin’ girl in the world, makin’ a mess on my cock.”
And you are. You really are. You can’t look away from the slick, creamy mess where your bodies meet. Dean squeezes your cheeks again, your eyes meet, and it crashes into you like a storm.
He looks at you like you’re a goddess. In his arms, you feel like one.
“Watch,” he hisses, dragging your gaze back to the mirror, right as he starts to rub your clit in furious tight circles.
You can’t help it. Your transfixed by the sight of you, more beautiful that you ever thought you could be, unraveling in Dean’s arms. He’s quick behind you, slamming home and stuffing you up with hot ropes of cum, fucking you through it with shallow thrusts.
Neither of you move for a while after. You don’t want to. You’re afraid the spell will break.
“Look at you, baby,” Dean murmurs, kissing over your neck. “Never seen anythin’ fucking better.”
And it’s so easy, to believe him. You know it won’t last. But you’re sure that, if you ask him, he’ll be happy to show you over and over again. Until it really, truly sticks.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦summary: dean learns, slowly, that he's actually pretty good at being boyfriend material. it would be nice if you'd stop pining after him long enough to notice✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, friends with benefits to lovers, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love because it's the best way to be, dean's down so bad, shameless smut (facesitting, praise kink, big dick dean, fingering, pussy spanking, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, mean dean, dean has an orgasm rule and you. benefit. dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.5k✦
✦author's note: request! super normal about this one✦
You tell yourself, over and over again, that this is going to be the last time. It’s not something that’s meant to be held onto, so you can just… let go.
But then you find yourself here. Between tangled sheets with your legs spread wide, your nails digging into Dean’s bicep and his cock dragging through your wet, sensitive cunt.
“There you go,” he coos in your ear, every thrust deep and rough. “That’s my girl, takin’ me so good, so- Good-“
Dean moans, pressing up against the soft, gummy spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back in your head.
He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.
What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.
You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.
“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-
You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.
He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.
But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-
“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“
You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.
“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“
You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-
“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“
Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.
For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.
Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.
“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.
You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.
“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”
And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.
When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.
He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.
Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.
And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.
You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.
You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.
“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.
But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.
“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”
“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.
“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”
“That was unrelated.”
“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”
You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.
“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“
“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.
It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.
You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time.
You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.
Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep.
“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“
Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-
“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”
Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.
But you did it. You held the line.
And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.
Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.
And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.
And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.
“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.
“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”
You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”
“Uh huh.”
You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.
“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.
“That’s what I said.”
“Dean-“
“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.
Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.
“Uh- Hey, Dean-“
“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.
“Dude-“
“Shut your face-“
“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“
“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”
Sam sighs. “Dean-“
“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“
“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.
He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.
Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.
“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.
“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.
“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“
“Henry’s?”
“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”
“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.
“Whatever you want.”
God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.
“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.
The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.
The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.
He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.
“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”
“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”
“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”
You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”
“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“
“No, you don’t.”
He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.
It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.
“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.
“You?”
“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“
“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“
“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”
“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”
“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”
“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs had you learned to play?”
Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“
“I think we do.”
“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“
“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”
“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”
“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.
“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“
“You could teach me.”
“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”
“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.
“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”
You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“
“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”
You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.
You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.
“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”
You blink. “What?”
“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”
“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”
“Yeah. I know.”
You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.
“You alright-“
“Yep. I- I’m good-“
“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“
“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.
“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.
“You are old.”
“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”
Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-
Hold the line.
“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.
“That all I am to you? Some wine?”
“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”
“Good cheese, huh.”
“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”
Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.
When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.
“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“
“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”
“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”
You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.
Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.
His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.
But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.
It just feels different.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.
If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.
For once, you decide not to try.
The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.
He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.
“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.
“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.
“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”
You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.
The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.
Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.
Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.
You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.
Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.
“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.
“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”
“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”
“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”
Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.
“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.
“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“
“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”
You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.
“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.
You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-
“Hey.”
You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.
“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”
“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.
“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”
“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.
The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”
And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.
So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.
Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.
“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.
He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.
“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.
“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”
Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.
“Oh- Okay.”
Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.
“Get your book.”
You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“
Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”
He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.
Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.
Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.
A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”
You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.
You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.
But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.
“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”
You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.
“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”
You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.
“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“
“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“
“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”
“It doesn’t matter-“
“Yes, it does-“
“Nah.”
“Dean-“
“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”
Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.
“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“
“Would you care?”
Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.
“Would you care-“
“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”
Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.
“What-“
“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”
Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”
“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“
“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“
“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.
“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”
He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.
“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.
“You were-“
“Sweetheart-“
“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”
Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.
“Dean-“
“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”
You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-
“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.
“What’d you mean, are we dating?”
“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”
“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“
“What the fuck is necking?”
Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”
Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.
“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”
You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.
He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.
“Did you… Not think we were dating?”
You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.
“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”
“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.
“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“
“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.
“’Bout three months.”
“Three months?!”
“That’s what I said, baby-“
“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”
Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.
“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”
“How would I have known-“
“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”
“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.
“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“
“Sam was there-“
“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.
“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.
“Yes, it was-“
“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”
He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”
“Friends do that-“
“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.
“Um- Maybe?”
Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“
“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“
“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.
“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”
“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”
Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”
You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.
“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”
You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re nice to me-“
“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.
“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“
“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”
You swallow. “Help you?”
“Yeah.”
“With what-“
“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”
You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.
Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.
You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.
“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”
His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.
“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“
Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.
And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.
You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.
But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.
Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.
You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.
“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”
That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.
“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“
“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.
Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“
“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”
And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.
You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.
“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”
“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“
You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.
“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.
You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.
“Doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“
Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”
“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“
“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”
You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.
“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”
“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.
His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.
“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“
“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”
You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.
“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”
You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.
“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“
“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”
Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“
“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”
Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.
Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.
“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”
He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.
Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.
“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”
“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.
“Isn’t it?”
You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.
But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.
“De- Dean-“
“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.
“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“
You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”
That’s what does it. My girl.
The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.
Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.
“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”
“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”
“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.
“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”
He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.
You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.
“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.
“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“
“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“
“Dean-“
“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”
You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.
Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.
You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.
And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.
Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.
He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.
“I’m serious, baby-“
“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.
And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.
You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.
“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“
You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.
“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“
You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.
And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.
Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.
“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”
You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.
“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“
“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”
You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.
“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”
Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.
He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.
“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.
“’M sorry-“
“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“
He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.
“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”
You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.
Dean is going to take care of you.
He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.
“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.
“N- No.”
“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”
You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.
“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”
“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”
You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”
Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.
His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.
“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“
He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.
But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“
He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“
He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.
Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.
You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-
You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.
But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.
“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”
Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.
“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“
He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.
Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.
You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.
Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.
“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.
“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”
“It- It’s your stupid rule-“
“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”
You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.
“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.
“Dean-“
“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”
You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.
“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”
You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.
“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”
You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.
“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”
And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.
“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”
“I- I can’t-“
“Yes, you can.”
You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.
He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.
Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.
“Sorry-“
“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”
A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.
“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.
“You’re big.”
He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.
“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”
You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.
“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“
He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.
“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“
You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.
But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.
“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”
You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.
“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”
“Fu- Fuck you-“
“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”
Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.
“Please-“
The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.
“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”
You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.
You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.
Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.
“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”
Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.
The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.
It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.
“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“
You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“
Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.
“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.
You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.
“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.
Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.
“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."
✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester with a girlfriend that’s so gentle with him, he doesn’t know what to do with himself
contents ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester x reader (f), non-explicit, softhearted!reader, yearner!dean, dean winchesters in love, dean getting the treatment he deserves, 1.5k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ Every time I see this man I have the strongest urge to take care of him, so I wrote a little about it
Dean doesn’t know what he did right in the his life to get a girl like you. Your gentle touches and sweet smiles weren’t meant for a guy like him. He was a broken, bruised, used, angry man— there was no world where he’d ever deserve the privilege and responsibility of holding your heart in his rough hands.
Dean felt a smile pull at the corners of his mouth before he’d even opened his eyes. The warm morning sun filtering through the ratty old sheers, lighting up the outdated motel room with a soft glow that almost makes it look cozy.
Your lips were soft and warm as they pressed gentle kisses onto his skin. He was barely conscious, and you were hardly awake yourself, your frame curled into his side, practically draped over him.
He can feel your soft hand at his jaw as you litter affection across his features. Kissing every freckle, every scar, every curve that made up his pretty face.
“W’dya doin?” His gravely morning voice murmured, a small sleepy smile on his lips, and his hand moving to settle on your waist, fingers flexing against your skin.
“G’morning, handsome” is all you reply with, your own features mirroring his smile, leaning in again to press a soft kiss to his lips, then another, and another. Not caring about morning breath one bit.
His smile softened, almost shyly, at the nickname and finally his eyes start to flutter open. Your hair’s a mess and you’re wearing one of his old band shirts, the stretched out collar practically hanging off your shoulder, flashing that sweet smile that makes his heart skip a beat.
His smile widens and he chases your lips, softly pulling you closer and kissing you back, sleepily but so lovingly.
He sighs in contentment, his hand moving from your waist to pull you even closer, your body comfortably settling over his. A sound leaving your lips, a sound that signifies you feel safe and happy in his arms— his arms. He still can’t believe it.
It was moments like this that Dean never wanted to see end, because if he thinks about it too long he’ll start to wonder why you choose to be here.
A frustrated sigh leaves Dean’s lips, hands scrubbing over his face as he sits back. An array of research, books, papers and Sam’s laptop scattered in front of him. He’d been at this for hours.
The door to the motel room creaked open, the key jingling in your hand. Sam was following a lead while you and Dean stayed behind to research, much to his dismay. You headed out a little bit ago to grab some brain fuel from a cafe close by.
You walked in and set down the takeout bag, the one with thank you printed repeatedly on the thin plastic, and the coffees. Pushing one towards Dean before he could even say “hi”— a black coffee with a sugar packet, and some cinnamon for a little extra pizazz, an order you’d memorized so easily.
You’d always thought he was just one of those gruff guys who drank black coffee and thought it was pansy to have anything else, until one day you stole a sip in a desperate need for caffeine, and you were shocked, but the cinnamon was all you.
A little smirk pulled at his lips, despite his brain being fried, at the sight of the pie and it widened when he took a sip of his coffee.
“You remembered,” he murmured, letting the warmth of the drink take over.
“Of course— it’s what you always get,” you shrugged, “but I did add the cinnamon” you said with one of your sweet smiles, walking closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his hair. He somehow already begins to soften at that alone.
“Figured a little pick me up was in order” you muttered, hands drifting to massage his shoulders a little, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "y’working too hard.”
Dean's shoulders relaxed, his eyes closing for a moment, hand coming up to briefly squeeze yours. Humming a soft sound of agreement.
He played it off well but something as small as you knowing his coffee order and telling him to take a break, pulled at his chest. Just the fact you’d cared enough about minuscule details enough to memorize them, for him, and taking time to take care of him did something to his insides.
Another day, another night coming back to a motel room after killing something awful. You, Sam, and Dean walk into the motel room, everyone banged up and exhausted. Sam practically beelines it to shower first, leaving you and Dean to finish peeling off your dirty bloody layers.
“Sit,“ your gentle voice broke the silence, tone syrupy sweet even now, your arms reaching for the homemade first aid kit that’s saved all of you so many times.
“m’fine, sweetheart” Dean mumbled, waving you off, his tone dripping with fatigue. He winced just a little as he pulled off his jacket— definitely not helping his case.
“Dean—” you warned, meaning it even though the kindness in your voice hadn’t wavered. You sat the, now opened, kit on the bed, motioning for him to sit again.
He complied with a little sigh of defeat, he couldn’t resist those soft pleading eyes of yours even if he tried. You got a rag damp with the spare water bottle on the nightstand, walking back over to Dean, standing between his legs and tilting up his face. His hands automatically settling themselves on your hips, like it was an inevitable gravitational pull.
The damp rag glided across his jaw, cleaning the half-dried monster blood off his face while your other hand cradled his head, your thumb absentmindedly caressing, just a little, where it rested on his skin.
The concentration on your face was so unnecessarily adorable, Dean just couldn’t look away. The tiny crease in your brow, the focus in your eyes, it made something warm grow in his chest.
“There he is,” you half-whispered under your breath once you’d finished, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His heart fluttered and a smile teased his lips at the endearment, hands flexing where they rested over your jeans.
He was quiet, suspiciously quiet, as you finished patching him up— he didn’t even make a slightly suggestive joke when you told him to take off his shirt, in order to get to his shoulder.
Unbeknownst to you, he was having a mini mental breakdown every time you touched him, every time you whispered a little “sorry” with a kiss when he’d tensed or winced, every glance or smile you threw his way.
Nobody ever took care of him, he took care of him along with everyone else. But you take care of him like it’s as easy as breathing, like it’s somehow automatic. He couldn’t let you slip away. You were the soft to his hard, the gentle to his jagged, the warmth to his emptiness, he’s never felt so affected by one person.
He’d thanked you when you were done, with the softest voice he could muster up. The smile it brought to your face made him want to speak like that forever.
“You don’t gotta thank me, Dee.” You replied with a kiss, “can’t have my guy hurt and bleeding all over the place, now can we?”
He just pulled you in again as a response, arms circling your waist, kissing you deeper than the little peck you gave him. You melted into it anyway, dropping the roll of bandage in your hands and your fingers moving to his hair.
When he pulled away you were a little breathless, cheeks dusted pink and there was a smile plastered on your face. Before you could say anything or remind him that Sam would be done showering any minute, he breaks the silence.
“I love you”
You freeze, genuinely pause— still looking in his eyes, wondering if you heard him wrong or if Dean Winchester actually just said I love you.
Before you could ask for clarification he kissed you again, and of course you followed despite your state of shock. It was a shorter kiss but nonetheless heartfelt. You blinked when he pulled away again.
Yep— that was definitely an I love you.
It wasn’t a you’re sweet, or a thanks, angel, or even a love ya, like usual. It wasn’t casual, it was a real “I love you” and he said it with the softest expression you’ve ever seen him wear. He didn’t stutter, didn’t hesitate, didn’t take it back, and wasn't drunk. He was stone cold sober.
You didn’t think you’d ever hear him actually say it— sure, you knew he cares about you, he likes having you around, and he kisses you like it’s his birthright, but— you’ve always loved or cared about people more than they loved you. Not to mention, Dean's reputation didn’t really scream commitment.
“I mean it…” he practically whispered, no doubt sensing your shock. You snapped out of it, a big shy smile growing bright on your lips despite how hard you tried to contain it.
“Yeah?…” you murmured, your smile audible. You ran your hands through his short strands, suddenly a little nervous.
He just nodded, the most lovesick expression taking over his face, your stunned state wasn’t lost on him. It felt like a physical pain to his chest that him saying I love you was so unbelievable that it would render you speechless, but the thought was interrupted by a little squeal escaping from behind your lips and many excited kisses.
SUMMARY: With darkness unleashed upon the world, they have a new battle to fight. Amara seems to have taken a liking to Dean, which sends his girlfriend’s thoughts spiraling down a road of worry, jealousy, and insecurity. When her newfound hope starts to stand on shaky ground again, Dean knows just the way to rebuild the foundation of their relationship.
SHIP: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader
GENRE: Angst, Smut (MDNI)
TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Not Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Fingering, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Cowgirl Position, Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it)
WORD COUNT: 5.8k
A/N: After 84 billion years and then some, the Epilogue is finally here! I have to thank everyone who has read, liked, and commented on this story, and of course I will forever cherish @flanneledfae for hyping me up and beta-reading this fanfic. ❤️ This sure has been a journey — the first longer multichapter project I have done in years. Thank you for joining me on this rocky ride!
CREDIT & LINKS: Header by me ──〃★ divider by me ──〃★ Series Masterlist ──〃★ Ao3
⏪PREV. CHAPTER ⏯️PLAYLIST
Bony fingers brushed over his jaw, the touch surprisingly tender. Cold skin and breath ghosted against his, almost melting together but not quite. Pale lips made promises, the words by no means hollow.
“You will understand eventually, Dean.”
Except he did not. None of this made any sense to him. Where he was, who he was talking to, and why they knew his name. It was all engulfed in a thick, dense fog — the gray, stormy clouds that used to be in his head were suddenly set free, and they were now hanging above and around him instead.
The dark tendrils infiltrated his head as though the curse was still pulsating deep beneath his veins.
The only difference now was that he was staring at the Mark of Cain on someone else — something else. On a sharp collarbone, hidden barely by the flowing fabric of a black dress and tickled by brown curls. The appearance might’ve been that of a human, but every fiber of the hunter’s instinct warned him otherwise: Whoever was standing in front of him was no ordinary woman.
He meant to ask what she was, but out came an inquiry of whom he had the pleasure of speaking with.
“Amara,” she declared, not particularly solemnly, but the three syllables carried a certain weight. “My name’s Amara.”
None of Dean’s muscles would move, no matter how much he thought he should run away. Something prevented him from doing so. At first, he thought it was her doing. But when her dainty hand trailed down his arm, stopping at the empty spot where the scar used to sit, he realized with horror that he didn’t want to escape.
The grazing left a familiar buzz in his blood, his skin prickling with a dangerous warmth — a deep, insatiable hunger.
“I have to thank you for setting me free,” said Amara, voice steady and earnest, and somehow Dean didn’t know whether it should make him angry or scared.
They should’ve known better. Hell, they did. Of course, removing the curse would lead to consequences. Even Death warned him about what would happen. But this, whatever it was, was too big of a mystery.
“Who are you?” Dean repeated.
“I’m your past,” she answered vaguely, her delicate hand brushing over the red outline sitting just below her shoulder. A scar, the shape of which would haunt Dean for years to come. “And I’m your future, Dean.”
“This,” she trailed off, tapping the Mark embedded into her skin. “This is what binds us. Even if you no longer have it, it’s our connection.”
Dean scoffed, though it lacked the heat he wished he could scream into the world: “So, what are you? The curse running loose?”
“Think of me as the manifestation of all the Mark made you crave,” Amara explained calmly.
Bloodshed? Violence? Chaos?
“Evil and destruction incarnated?” Dean gruffly guessed, his answer only half-sarcastic. “That’s reassuring.” His senses were tingling, hyper-aware of how dangerous Amara was. Just because someone wore a pretty face and was not aggressive from the get-go did not mean they weren’t capable of causing harm.
Her eyes softened, though it took him a second to realize that it was disappointment flickering across her features. It was almost like what he had accused her of upset her personally.
“No, no such thing. Nothing bad,” she muttered, brows knitted together like she needed him to really understand her. Her hand wandered lower, frigid palm pressed flat against his, with her fingers splayed out.
“I am above good versus evil,” Amara sighed. “There are beginnings and ends, shadow and light. But they aren’t opposites; they’re two sides of the same coin. One can’t exist without the other. It’s a symbiosis.”
Dean didn’t know what to make of that lecture. Nor did he know how to handle the swirl of black, ash, and dust filling his lungs and blurring his vision.
He jolted awake with a gasp, sitting upright in his bed, and a layer of sweat sticking to his forehead. It was the dim glow of their moon-shaped ceiling light that eased his state of disorientation. He lost count of how many times this strange dream interrupted his sleep.
And hers.
“Dean?”
Déjà-vu.
And at the same time, things couldn’t be more different from his last streak of nightmares. No imaginary red blood was staining his hands. He no longer felt the urge to rip something apart. But there was something about the stale air, the heavy silence, and the uncertainty that had him think they were back to square one.
He could certainly live without the full circle moment of startling in the middle of the night, alerting his concerned girlfriend like he had so many months ago. As if on instinct, his clammy hand rubbed over his lower arm, just like last time. The tension in his shoulders did not vanish until he found the spot empty now.
That’s right. They’ve successfully removed the Mark of Cain. So why could he not shake this icky feeling? What was the meaning of this reoccurring dream? He saw it flash before his eyes every night, and without failure, he’d forget most of it by the time he woke up.
“Just a weird dream, sorry,” Dean muttered, voice shakier than intended.
The bedsheets rustled softly as she sat up beside him. He couldn’t bring himself to look in her direction. After all, they’ve been through enough already. He wasn’t ready to face a new problem already. Even worse: He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening his girlfriend with yet another impending doom.
Was it even on that scale? Maybe he was overthinking things, maybe it wasn’t half as bad as he feared it might be.
“A tea-with-rum kind of dream?”
Her question was meant to lighten the mood, even if one could argue it was a little early for jokes about their last predicament. Still, his lips twitched into a weak, crooked grin while he shook his head. Even if it took him a deep breath to believe the mantra, this was no life-or-death situation. None that required any liquid courage either.
He appreciated the effort regardless. It felt good knowing she would always have his back, even now. Still, no immediate danger was afoot. Just his girlfriend, offering him a reassuring smile and an open ear. This time around, he knew to accept it without hesitation. He’s learned his lesson the hard way.
“C’mere,” Dean breathed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer, and settling back into the pillows with her. She snuggled up to his side, letting him tuck her against his chest like this was where she always belonged.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m keeping any secrets,” he murmured afterwards, voice laced with the guilt from the past couple of months. He’s fucked up quite a few times there. He did not want to repeat his mistakes. “I keep having this weird dream. Can’t really tell you what it’s about, though. It’s all a blur.”
Her fingers were splayed over his chest, absentmindedly tracing the outlines of his tattoo. The touch stirred something in him, triggering flickers of someone else’s hands ghosting over the non-existent mark on his arm and of someone else’s palm sizing up his.
Tensing ever so slightly, Dean took her wrist — his grip was both gentle and firm, neither pushing away nor pulling closer. He did stop her movement, though. He just needed something to ground himself with. To remind himself of what was real and what was fake.
“I’m back in that grey storm outside the diner, and there’s this woman. Amara, I think,” Dean continued, hesitantly so. “She’s got the Mark of Cain. But I don’t know what she wants.”
That, at the very latest, made her freeze. She blinked up at him, droopy eyes and sleepy lashes now wide and alert. When Dean’s gaze met hers, he thought the question marks in her eyes mirrored his own. He, too, was absolutely clueless.
“It’s probably nothing,” he sighed. “Aftershocks of the stress or something.”
But she wasn’t buying it. It sounded too specific to be brushed off as random. “I don’t know,” she muttered, her weak attempt at getting to the bottom of this already faltering. “Maybe we should look into it more. Can’t hurt to be careful.”
She hated to be paranoid. Hell, if anyone knew how badly they needed a break from constantly being on edge, it was her. At the same time, they couldn’t afford any more risks. Even with the Mark of Cain gone, a deep fear had settled in the pits of her stomach. What if it wasn’t over? What if the spell didn’t work, or if the curse somehow would restore itself?
Dean mulled over her words, watching the concerned crease between her brows deepen into a brooding furrow. He gently poked her forehead, drawing her attention.
“We’ll look into it,” he agreed somewhat begrudgingly. Under one condition: “Tomorrow.”
Before she could even think of a counterargument, Dean pressed a chaste kiss to her hairline, practically feeling her anxiety ease under his caress.
The wrinkles on her forehead melted, as did the bristling behind that stubborn skull of hers. Frankly, she was tired and still a bit drowsy from just waking up in the middle of the night. Whatever battle they had to fight next, it could wait until tomorrow. What better way to restore your energy than nestling into Dean’s embrace and allowing yourself to drift back into slumberland?
Dean, on the other hand, did not fall back asleep for a while.
He kept lying wide awake, his hands rubbing slow circles on the small of her back. No matter how many bad scenarios must’ve popped up in her head, double the amount swirled in his own. It was not until he forced himself to listen to her deep in- and exhales, a steady rhythm, that he was lulled back into a restless sleep.
Their concerns, as it turned out, had not been entirely unwarranted. Looking up lore on some Amara or more information about the Mark of Cain was futile. However, an unexpected ally joined their forces soon after.
From what they could gather, the dark mass of fog they unleashed upon the world proved to be highly dangerous. An entire town was wiped out by it, and people exposed to the fog for too long fell ill or died shortly after. All but one, anyway. They were in the middle of questioning this man when they realized the course of his life had changed forever.
“Professor Redfield,” she started through gritted teeth, hating to be the bearer of bad news and struggling to find the right words.
“Call me Donatello,” the man responded, a proud smile twitching at his mustached mouth. “I’m named after him.”
“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?” Dean asked, confused.
A beat. Donatello’s smile faltered, faded, then turned into an awkward one.
“The Renaissance sculptor,” he clarified.
“Right,” she nodded and awkwardly cleared her throat. “Dean, a word.”
She tugged at his sleeve, pulling him aside. Over her shoulder, she glanced back at Donatello, who sat down on the folding chair, looking as out of place as can be. The poor bastard had no idea what was coming for him. A flash of pity rushed through her.
“He’s a prophet,” she whispered to Dean.
“Didn’t he just say Donatello was a sculptor? Which one is it?”
“What– No, you idiot!” she groaned. “Not the artist Donatello, him.”
And when Dean still looked confused, she pointed towards the innocent old man with his tiny spectacles sitting on his button nose and his round cheeks. He was wearing a vest made out of soft wool, for God’s sake! The guy looked like he preferred to spend his afternoons nursing a tea and knitting in an armchair by the fireplace. The most adventurous event in this guy’s life was probably the annual mini golfing with his brother-in-law and his niece.
It was obvious this guy was not made to join their fight against demons, but such is the cruelty of fate.
“Donatello Redfield. The visions he’s describing? The sudden epiphany of clarity, or whatever? He’s a prophet.”
Scratching the stubble on his chin, Dean didn’t look too convinced. “Didn’t Crowley have them all wiped out?”
That part confused her, too. She thought the King of Hell ensured that nobody could steal and read any of the tablets anymore. But judging by everything Donatello said so far, she had no other explanation. There was the iconic moment that felt a lot like getting struck by lightning — in this case, a stormy cloud of mystic darkness — as well as the strange visions.
She shrugged, sighing: “Maybe it has something to do with the dark fog.”
Dean nodded along, eyes flickering back and forth between her and the witness. It was strange that he survived such a long span in the fog and came back with nothing but sudden, frequent migraine attacks, which were apparently accompanied by weird imagery flashing before his inner eye. Visions. Maybe she was onto something.
“Donatello, we have some more questions for you,” Dean said then, approaching the desk he sat at again.
The man, his hands folded neatly on the table’s surface, looked up at him as though he was a high school student about to get scolded. Yeah, you just had to feel bad for him.
“You’re not in trouble,” she reassured him quickly, thinking the quiet part to herself: Yet. “We just want to hear about these visions you mentioned. Is there anything in particular that you keep seeing, or anything else you remember?”
For a moment, Donatello frowned, then he took a deep breath. “Uhm, I suppose there is this woman. Brown hair, black dress. She has this… symbol on her chest. Right here. A tattoo, maybe, or a scar. I’m not sure.”
She felt Dean tense at her side without having to look at him. He stiffened, suddenly anxious.
Nervously chewing on the inside of her cheek, she fished for a small notepad and pen, handing both to the professor. “Do you think you could draw the symbol?”
Donatello scribbled the design down hastily. Something that looked like an upside-down L with two little lines emitting off to the side. Undoubtedly, the Mark of Cain. Unless this professor, who, to their knowledge, was teaching chemistry, had a special interest in religion or Christian mythology, this proved that she was right about her hunch.
The huntress glanced over to Dean, who stared at the doodle like it personally offended him. He looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Donatello,” she continued, nudging Dean’s side with her elbow. “Could you read this out loud for us, please?”
She scrolled through her photo gallery until she stopped at a picture of an Enochian spell, handing the man her phone. He took it, eyeing it with suspicion and bemusement.
“I have never seen a language like this, what even is—” Donatello chuckled nervously, before his eyes suddenly darted back to the screen. He squinted, and surely enough babbled to himself: “Combine two crushed raven skulls and a vial of angelic grace over a fire— What is this?”
And there they had it.
She gave Dean a ‘told you so’ look, but he still seemed shook by Donatello’s drawing. Which, when the professor noticed, she quickly snatched away. “I never said I am as much of an artist as the man I was named after,” Donatello muttered shyly, almost apologetically.
“You’re fine, this gave us an important hint,” she reassured him. “We might need your help at the station. Can you come with us?”
It took some convincing, but eventually the professor was sitting in the backseat of the Impala. Dean was dead silent while he drove them back to the Bunker — past the local police station. Before Donatello could voice any concerns, she shot him a telling glance. “Sorry, Prof. You’ll be safer with us. We’ll explain everything later.”
Turns out the explanation was trickier than anticipated. She couldn’t blame the guy for being a non-believer. Try kidnapping an atheist and bringing him to an underground Bunker in the middle of the woods, filled with occult artifacts and strange sigils covering most walls. To top it all off, you just had to inform him that he was a Prophet of the Lord, yes, like the ones in the Bible, and of course, he would stare at you like you were bat-shit insane.
“Sit,” she sighed, nudging Donatello into the nearest chair. The poor guy, probably more out of fear than anything, complied. Since he wanted some cold, hard proof, she had to deliver. She wanted to go about it the nice way, but Dean, ever the one without patience, laid out the cold, hard facts for him. Their quote-unquote victim didn’t stand a chance against the good-cop-bad-cop method, though.
Mercifully, fate sent an angel their way — literally. The moment Castiel entered the bunker, she practically jumped him. It was the perfect opportunity for him to show off some magic tricks, whatever it took to convince Donatello that his kidnappers might be insane, but they weren’t liars. Moreover, whatever it took for Dean to go easy on the poor bastard.
What sucked most about this was the tension and its familiarity. Watching Dean fall back into a pattern of clenched jaw, gruff tone, and short temper triggered several alarm bells within her. Suddenly, she found herself overcome by the same kind of worry she thought they had conquered weeks ago.
The fact that she couldn’t even blame him came in close second. It was the same for her, after all. Whatever was happening was clearly tied to the Mark of Cain and to their removing said curse. Everyone and everything had warned them that there would be consequences, likely of cosmic scale. It didn’t exactly bite them in the ass, since they saw it coming. But it bit them regardless, and now they realized that despite all the apocalyptic dangers they’ve dealt with so far, maybe they bit off more than they could chew.
The research won bronze in the category of shittiness. Just reading more texts about the Mark of Cain — or rather, rereading the same old songs, because she was pretty sure she already memorized most of them by heart — filled her with nausea. She thought she’d never have to look at the symbol ever again. Oh, how wrong she had been.
She could try to stay calm and collected all she wanted. Every “We can tackle this, too.” in her mind was followed by a mean, small whisper at the back of her head. Could they? What if they couldn’t? They did it before. Except they didn’t, otherwise they wouldn’t be in this mess again. In fact, they never left this mess behind at all.
Their research, reports from the angel radio, and translations done by their newly installed prophet all pointed to a solid 10/10 in how badly they were screwed. The more they found out about this brunette woman, Amara, the more worry washed over the huntress. And not just that. It filled her with jealousy. Irrational and selfish jealousy.
Amara — whatever she was, a Goddess? Darkness? Not even the lore they studied really had a term for her — she was directly connected to the Mark of Cain. And the Mark of Cain, removed or not, had been connected to Dean. Apparently, that was enough for this being to take an interest in him.
Dean didn’t choose any of this. He didn’t want any of this, she knew that. But all of a sudden, there was this almighty entity, which was ancient and powerful and greater than anything a mere huntress like her could ever hope to be. How could she not feel small in comparison? Unimportant. Disposable. Worse than that: Replaceable.
Who was she to stand in between what might’ve been destiny for Dean and that curse and Amara? Time and time again, there’s been that thought that maybe she should’ve heeded to what his demonic version wished for; to leave him be.
Slowly but surely, she fell back into old patterns as well. The schedule was tight — shower, library, if she was lucky, a little snack while she was still hunched over another book, sometimes a power nap at the desk. Her days consisted of sleep deprivation and insecurities. Not to mention the desperation, which worked wonders against the need to rest. Who needed shut-eye when you had an impending doom waiting to be fixed?
By the time she lost count of how many nights she spent at the library instead of their shared bedroom, she didn’t even flinch anymore at Dean’s voice. Every evening, he asked her to get some sleep, to which — every evening — she said she needed to finish up on research first.
Eventually, Dean had enough, though.
“Don’t make me carry your ass to bed,” he sighed.
“I’m not making you do anything,” she countered, humorlessly.
“I mean it, sweetheart,” Dean insisted. He walked up to her, reached over her shoulder, and snatched the book away. That one was new; he was switching tactics. Before she had a chance to protest, he snapped it shut and held it out of her reach. “We can save the world tomorrow.”
“What if there won’t be a tomorrow?” she snapped without meaning to. Her biggest fear just escaped her mouth like she wasn’t able to contain it anymore. But in her mind, she had a point. Who knew how much time they had left? What if this Amara was already tracking Dean down? What if she didn’t even need to do anything like that? It probably takes one snap of her fingers, and she’d steal you away, just like that. And then what could we possibly do to save you this time? Kill another cosmic entity? Cause another mayhem? Set the world ablaze? How would I even go about that? And what good would it do, since I stand no chance against Amara anyway?
In fact, the bond between you and her is divine, Dean. Divine! Like biblically set in stone, if not preceding holy scriptures and shit. How should I compare?
She didn’t even realize that she was rambling all this out aloud. Not until Dean firmly cupped her face and forced her to look at him, to which she effectively pressed her trembling lips into a fine line.
“Whoa there, easy now,” Dean cooed. “Breathe, baby.”
She tried, and though she didn’t do it very well, the attempt was what counted.
“It’s gonna take more than that for anyone to steal me away. Hell, no smiting in the world could make me pick something else over you.”
Her brows furrowed slightly. A subtle twitch of her eye made him wonder if she really didn’t believe him entirely or if the stress was starting to get to her. Good thing was that there was a remedy for both — a two birds with one stone kind of solution. In one swift motion, his calloused hands let go of her face. Instead, he hooked one arm under her knees and wrapped the other around her shoulders, pulling her out of the chair and picking her up bridal style.
Despite the yelp that escaped her, her fingers curled in his shirt. “What are you doing?”
“I told you I would carry your ass to bed if you didn’t listen,” Dean huffed.
He successfully ignored all the complaints she had and wordlessly walked down the hallway. Upon arrival, he entered their room, kicked the door shut behind them, and carefully dropped her onto the mattress. She let out a soft oomph, bouncing on top of the sheets, but looking up at him half-expectantly.
If she needed him to prove just how much he worshiped the ground she walked on — along with the legs she was doing it with; or the sweet treasure in between them — Dean would gladly comply.
He climbed on top of her, arms bracketing her shuddering frame. His eyes never left hers while he unbuttoned her shirt with one hand and used the other to unbuckle her belt. He relished the hitch of her breath like he knocked the air out of her lungs. He soaked up the shiver that went down her spine like she quenched his thirst.
The fingers of his left hand splayed over her chest, his palm flat against her warm, soft skin, and pressed right against her heartbeat — it whirred like a little hummingbird, precious and quick. Alive and kicking. Uncontrolled, because of him. The fingers of his right hand ghosted over the waistband of her jeans first, before slipping past layers of fabric and lace — she felt both like velvet and silk beneath his touch. Fluttering in tandem with her pulse. Already damp, because of him.
The sweetest of whines escaped her pretty mouth, and the most beautiful shades of pink dusted her nose. All because of him. And he would be damned if he let anything or anyone stand in between this. In between them.
Dean pressed closer, applying pressure to both the valley of her breasts as well as her core until she erupted into another one of those cute gasps. His mouth nipped at her jaw, where he paid extra attention to the sensitive spot just below her ear. His lips curled into a half-smirk when he felt her shaky fingers claw at his shoulders.
“You really think I would trade this for anything else?”
His voice was a siren’s song in her ear, the lyrics inviting her to just let go.
Once she was just there, teetering on that sweet edge of bliss that his ministrations expertly had pushed her towards, he pulled away. An involuntary whine escaped her, feeling hollow because the only physical contact left was the string of her arousal sticking to his digits. Not that she had much to fret over for long.
The next thing she knew, Dean captured her lips as though a deep kiss might make up for her denied orgasm. He slanted his mouth over hers and pawed at the plush of her hips.
It couldn’t have taken more than a couple of seconds, but then again, every touch and every piece of fabric shed was a hazy blur. Like time couldn’t go fast enough, there was also the urge to savor every second. Thus, hungry hands were both eager to undress as well as make the most of it.
Her shaky fingers unbuckled Dean’s belt, he kicked off his jeans, she yanked at the hem of his shirt, he pulled it over his head.
Her lips wandered from his down his jaw. She nipped at his neck, hard, sometimes biting with the intent to leave a mark. A claim. A signature. She wasn’t even sure who she wanted to prove her ownership to. She was, on the other hand, very much aware that it was unnecessary — pure hedonism drove her to this point.
Dean belonged to her, and she wanted everyone to know. Him. Herself. Amara. Didn’t matter, so long as he carried a piece of her brandished on his skin.
Her hands moved with the same confidence. She explored every inch of him, tracing every freckle and scar without having to look, because this was Dean. Her Dean. And she knew him inside and out in ways others could only dream of.
Apparently, great minds think alike. Judging by the way Dean’s grip on her waist tightened, at least. His fingers dug into her skin so firmly that she wouldn’t be surprised if prints were left behind the next day.
Suddenly, he lifted her. Within one yelp, they flipped around so she was on top of him. With their positions now switched, Dean sat back against the headboard and pulled her into his lap. Her thighs were already trembling as she straddled him, and her dripping folds were now pressing against his hard cock instead of gushing around his thick fingers.
Even better.
She rolled her hips; slowly at first, then ground down against him more insistently, until she found a rhythm that had Dean grunting against her mouth.
His head fell back, hitting the wall behind him with a soft thud. The green of his irises was swallowed up by a black — the kind that did not startle her, but filled her with a perverse sense of power. She was the one he was looking at like she hung the damn moon for him. She was the one earning herself that smug smirk. It was her fingers that carded through his hair until it was messily sticking out in all directions, her mouth that painted constellations on his throat, her body fitting seamlessly against his.
“You wanna claim your stake, sweetheart?” Dean rasped. Damn mind reader. Then again, it wasn’t only her knowing him too well. It went both ways. He leaned in closer, until their noses brushed together and their breaths mixed. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Take what’s already yours.”
She didn’t need to be told twice.
Lifting her hips, with a little bit of his help, she shifted to align herself perfectly with his throbbing length.
Both their breaths hitched as she sank down. His bulbous tip breached her entrance; her warm walls welcomed him in.
Dean didn’t thrust up, not yet, not until she lowered herself all the way and dropped her forehead onto his shoulder. They sat there, bodies tightly intertwined with one another, not knowing where one of them began and the other ended. Both inhaled shakily and exhaled all the same, in unison, just feeling each other.
She lifted her head, resting her forehead against his now instead. Her gaze dropped to his kiss-bitten lips, then blinked back up into his. Again, without having to ask any questions, Dean answered: “I’m yours.”
They melted together, Dean bucking his hips, she tightening around him, their lips closing the little space that was left between them. They moved together, synchronized to perfection. With heaving chests and each other’s name rolling off their tongues like prayers.
She was the first to shatter. Her peak hit her like a tidal wave, unexpectedly washing over her and consuming her mind, body, and soul. She clung to Dean like her life depended on it, collapsing against him while he drove his hips up into hers.
Thanks to her fluttering around him, he followed close behind. His arms were wrapped tightly around her, holding her impossibly close. Hot, red skin stuck to hot, red skin, flushed and sweaty. His mouth latched onto the curve between her neck and shoulder, where his teeth sank in to muffle his growl. He spilled deep into her, milked by the pulsating of her tight channel.
They held each other like that for what felt like an eternity. A blissful eternity, that is. Basking in the aftermath like it was paradise on earth. Their chests were still pressed flush together, hearts beating in a harmony that slowly but surely ebbed into a steady rhythm. The same applied to their heavy panting, which eventually softened as they caught their breath.
Dean was the first to speak up, but not the first to move. Neither of them did. Neither of them wanted to let go, let alone pull away. Not when she felt so heavenly and warm around him still. Not when he was stretching her out so nicely, even as he softened inside of her.
“Still have any doubts?” Dean huffed, only half-joking.
“Are you teasing me?” she pouted, only half-offended.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Dean chuckled in response. “Unless it always leads to good sex.”
At that, she couldn’t help but snort. She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. In fact, the smile that twitched on her face was gentle. Loving. As was the twinkle in her glossy eyes, laced with raw adoration.
“What I’m hearing is you think I’m hot when I’m jealous,” she concluded, poking fun at herself more than anything.
Now it was his turn to let out a humorless laugh. He shrugged, brushing his fingers up and down her arm tenderly. “Jealous, huh?” he echoed with a shit-eating grin.
That earned him a smack to his arm, not a hard hit, but definitely firm enough to make him chuckle and reel back. “Okay, okay!” Dean laughed, then winked. “You’re not jealous, got it. Just a little possessive, eh?”
“I’m worried, jackass,” she huffed, but the flustered pink dusting her nose gave her away. She was totally jealous, and there was no use denying it. “It’s just— all this talk about Amara being connected to you scares me.”
The silence that followed was just slightly tense, but not uncomfortable. Just earnest and vulnerable. She thought of this as an ugly wound that she was laying out for him, her heart on her sleeve, except it was battered and bruised. A sad little thing hanging on by a thread.
“Me too,” Dean hummed eventually, triggering a doe-eyed reaction.
He didn’t know what was so baffling about his anxiety. He understood perfectly well why she was so tense. It wasn’t that much different for him. If anything, he was the one with a weirdo on his ass talking about doomed fates and whatnot. The only difference between her fear and Dean’s?
He never, not even for a moment, second-guessed whether or not they belonged to each other.
After all that they’ve been through, after everything they endured together, their bond was stronger than ancient shitheads and monsters he killed for a living. In the end, that’s all that Amara was, too, right? Just another case to solve.
A stronger one, sure.
And maybe they couldn’t say that they’ve survived worse. But they’ve survived enough to know that they could conquer this, too.
“I’m not invincible, you know?” he chuckled, stopping the movement of his hand right at her wrist. Where his thumb felt the thrumming of her steady pulse. “We don’t really know what we’re up against, so yeah, that’s terrifying.”
“We know that whatever she is, she’s got her eyes on you,” she shrugged with a frown. She didn’t even mean to sound jealous on purpose. It wasn’t even just that. But clearly, Dean already knew.
“Then she can watch me pick you, always,” he replied without hesitation. Like it was some unwritten rule of the universe that she would always remain his number one choice, unconditionally and without exception.
She rolled her eyes again, in that flustered fashion, with the shy smile on her lips and the blush on her cheeks. “You’re such a sap, Winchester,” she mumbled before she leaned in to quickly peck his lips.
“I mean it, though,” Dean continued, closing his hand around hers to lift it to his mouth and press a chaste kiss to her palm. “You’re stuck with me, remember? And the rest, we can deal with tomorrow, one battle at a time.”
── content warnings: F!reader, mention of anime, Dante being needy, fluff, cute and light content and part two is here!
── word count: 653!
⭑.ᐟ Dante is always, ALWAYS, in contact with you and it doesn't matter where or when. — This is not an exaggeration, or a complaint, never. — Whether through physical touches or messages, SMS, — that man only uses his damn cell phone because of you and even though it's risky — he never lets you keep in contact.
“thinking about you right now ;)”
“Dante, you only left about 5 minutes ago…?”
“painful, isn’t it? do you believe i have an amazing joke ready? i need to tell you when i get back.”
⭑.ᐟ The demon hunter loves to snuggle up to you, to cling to you; being unable, and in his words, impossible, not to be close to you. — Well, that's his biggest weakness. — Dante always kept his hands around you, usually on your waist and caressing the region. — Like holding your hand, caressing your face and massaging your thigh.
⭑.ᐟ He loves receiving your attention, especially when he is between your boobs and receiving caresses, which make him fall asleep instantly. — you know this very well — However, there was one night, after a long and unbearable killing against beings from the underworld, Dante ended up falling asleep during one of the night conversations, which was your routine, and ended up drooling on your shirt.
⤷ The scene was…naive, also pitiful; your boyfriend was tired, he needed rest more than anything else. — And you, wanting to make him comfortable and pleasant, tried to get out of the position, which was to be underneath him, but an extremely sleepy and heavy Dante prevented your action and mumbled inaudible words — asking you to stay there, with him — and even without understanding, you obeyed.
⭑.ᐟ DDR — DanceDance Revolucion nights? This has become a routine worthy of you and Dante. — Every night, no matter what time it is, and even knowing that you have things to do the next day, this gentle game becomes a competition; Dante, without even caring who is in front, doesn't miss the chance to have fun with his girl.
"Come on, ma'am! Make me impressed, go, go!" + “It was with that swagger that you won me over, right, you smart little girl?” + “I can’t believe you beat me at my own game?”
“Shut your pretty mouth, big boy.”
⭑.ᐟ You are the only person, the only thing that can breathe, that can touch or question his necklace. — There is no discussion about that. — Dante trusts you, until his last breath, even though he has reason to distrust everyone and everything, he would never leave or abandon his loyalty and trust in you. — Out of fear, and respect and common sense, you don't dare to touch it on some occasions and Dante realizes this, he finds it funny, cute, pure; feeling loved and so cared for by you.
⤷ “There’s not a day, not a single day, that the memory of the day she gave me that necklace doesn’t cross my mind.” — Dante mentioned his mother, able to feel a small and unbearable burning in his eyes; he sighed, arranged you in his lap, directing a compassionate look in your direction as your fingers pass through the cord, without touching the amulet. — “And every day, i’m sure she would adore you.”
⭑.ᐟ Dante knows how to be a knight with you, and he really does. — Last piece of pizza in the box? He makes a point of leaving it for you, and that's a high-class knightly role in his eyes. — Even living such a complicated life, working with something so violent and filthy, he can't help but indulge his girl in a few whims.
⤷ Little writings on small pieces of old newspaper, which he left in his pants or jacket pocket, telling some joke or unfunny pick-up line and decorations are typical of Dante. — Teaching you to play pool and then beating him and your prize are moments of grabbing? Oh, Dante is a lucky boy.
summary: dante is touch-starved, and he thinks the only way for him to feel something is to get punched by you
pairing: dante x afab!reader | based on the netflix version but definitely canon divergent
warnings: dry humping, unprotected p in v, creampie, degradation kink, very light choking, lots of swearing, kind of soft dom dante and light pain kink if you squint, idiots in love, friends to lovers, bit of praise, fem bodied reader
w/c: ~3.2k
a/n: this is definitely not my best work but it's a warm up ig. lol anyway i absolutely loved the dmc netflix version, and i'm considering getting the games
"Punch me."
Not a question, but an indisputable demand coming from the demon hunter, which made you do a double take, place the barrel of your M4 carbine on the table, and flat-out refuse.
"No."
He snarled, yes, snarled at you, slamming his pistol against the table with a loud bang. You looked up from your own weapon, taken aback by Dante's reaction, concern written all over your face. Was he high??
"Come on, Y/N, just do it. Just one punch, one tiny little punch. I know you want to." His cocky grin did numbers on your nerves, but you still refrained from giving him the satisfaction of hitting him. It’s been years since you met Dante, by this point you were used to his shenanigans.
"Why, though?" You decided to focus on cleaning your weapon, the sharp smell of isopropyl alcohol filling the room.
"Because," Dante groaned, snatching the bottle of liquid from you, causing you to glare daggers at him, "I'm touch starved."
You blinked once, twice, trying your hardest to process both his honesty, and the logistics of his request.
"Why not ask for a hug, then? Or, I don't know, go to therapy?"
"Hah! I'm sure my therapist is gonna have a field day with me! So, my dad, a demon, disappeared without a trace, then my mother and twin brother died, but actually my brother is alive somewhere. My therapist is gonna need a therapist."
"Okay, okay, you made your point. Still, you could just rephrase it. Maybe leave out the demon bit." You wiped the barrel clean before setting it aside.
"I'd rather get punched. Now, please."
"Dante, a punch isn’t gonna solve it. Are you sure you don’t want a hug? I could cook you something. Or we could grab a few beers and watch a movie, or talk about your feelings." You shrugged.
Both of you had done this before — went out for drinks, danced, cooked together, fell asleep together — it was so intimate, almost like you were a couple. But the reality was that you weren’t. Not by a long shot. Unfortunately for you, Dante was protective of you in the way an older brother was. You thought that, perhaps, he missed Vergil so much that you were the closest thing he had to a sibling in years.
"A punch would be less time consuming. Cooome on, babe, just hit me!"
You hated when he called you babe. He called other girls babe, girls that were hot, pretty, girls that were his type, and it was the nickname that made you clench your jaw and purse your lips.
"Ugh, fine!" You sat up, rotated your wrist and flexed your fingers. "Are you sure this is going to help in any way?"
"Positive. Right here." Dante pointed at his cheek.
"What, in your face?"
"You're stalling."
Without a single ounce of hesitation you swung your arm, hitting the demon hunter square in his face, but it caused you more pain than it did him, and you stumbled back, holding your fist in your other hand.
"Son of a fucking bitch!" You cried out in pain, knowing damn well that would happen. Still, you couldn't say no to him. Ever.
"Are you okay?" Dante was visibly concerned — a rare sight since he was always cool and edgy, even when his own life was in danger.
"Fuck no! Feels like I punched a brick wall!" You practically growled at him, gaze quickly softening when you saw the pure look of terror in his eyes. "But hey, nothing a little ice can't fix, right?"
"Right." He nodded and got up, making a beeline for the freezer.
There was no ice in it, but there was a pack of frozen peas somewhere at the bottom of a drawer, which Dante picked up and brought to you. When you reached for it, he, instead, took your sore hand in his, gently pressing the cold legumes onto your knuckles. You winced, instinctively trying to retract your hand, but he held it in place, his fingers wrapped around your wrist to stop you from backing away.
The pain wasn't gone, but it was becoming bearable, and a relieved murmur escaped past your lips, one that sounded closer to a moan than a sigh. Dante's cheeks burned, tinted red with embarrassment and arousal because you were yet another girl in his life who just didn't want to be involved romantically with him. Not that he tried anything with you, because he always thought you deserved better. Sure, he was cocky and flirtatious, but he wasn't a dick. If no one reciprocated the flirting, he didn't push his luck. It was simple. And he wasn’t the type who did one-night stands, despite the rumours. Dante enjoyed having a connection to the people he took to bed, he became sexually attracted to those he knew on a deeper emotional level. But sometimes, when he was really, truly desperate, he would download Tinder and hook up with random girls.
And he reeked of desperation.
"Dante, you can let go of my hand now." You told him, part of you hoping he wouldn't.
Who could blame you? He was an objectively attractive man, with a charming smile and a body sculpted by the gods themselves. Why would he ever want to get involved with you? Dante was your opposite — he talked, he sang, he danced, he was obnoxious. You were quiet, most of the time, and shy. In fact, when he first met you, he thought you had some form of speech impediment, with your nose in Boccaccio’s The Decameron, a book you stole from the public library because you were much too young to read. That’s when knew you were trouble, just like him.
"Yeah, of course." Dante stepped back. "How's your hand?"
"Better. How are you feeling?"
"Me? Why are you asking?"
"Hello?" You scrunched your nose and frowned. "You wanted me to punch you because you were touch-starved. Did it help?"
"I'll be honest, it felt more like a tickle than anything." He shrugged. "Are you sure you didn't pull your punch?"
There it was, the one thing that turned you from an introvert to a bat-shit crazy bitch — his stupid little mouth that he opened without ever thinking.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You're telling me I risked breaking my bones so you could feel better, only for you to not feel anything? I swear to fucking God, Dante, this is the last time I'm doing anything nice for you."
"Nice? You punched me!" He threw his hands up in exasperation, while your blood boiled inside of you, sending you into a blind rage.
"You asked me to punch you, you maniac! You should've fucked me instead!"
Your eyes widened at the sentence that came out of your mouth without a single thought, mortified at your own stupidity.
"Hugged. I meant hugged. Shit."
"No, no, hold up, you didn't say hugged." Dante tilted his head, one hand rubbing his chin. "Isn't that called a Freudian slip?"
"I- well- how the fuck do you even know what a Freudian slip is?" You tried changing the subject but he didn't bite.
"Google." He closed the gap between the two of you, and for the first time you felt intimidated by him. "Do you want me to fuck you?"
The bluntness of his question, coupled with the sudden change in the pitch of his voice made you feel like a cornered prey. There was no possible way he was serious. But he wasn't wrong — the nature of your jobs made it impossible for either of you to have partners, and besides, you've known each other for years. It was only natural that some form of physical attraction would have developed between you two, right? But why you? Why now? And the worst of all your questions, why not?
You didn’t want to think about how this would ruin almost a decade of friendship. All you could think about was the look of pure lust in his eyes as he held your gaze, and how months upon months of sexual frustrations accumulated inside of you, bubbling and boiling and exploding when you dropped the pack of peas on the floor.
"Yes. I want you to fuck me."
Without a sliver of hesitation, you felt him pick you up with ease, hands roaming up and down his back as he slammed you down onto the table, desperately pushing away all the guns and knives. How thoughtful of him. Your hands slithered under his blood red coat while he tugged at your t-shirt, pulling it over your head to expose your bare breasts to him.
"No bra? Kinky." Dante stopped to take a better look at you.
"Stop talking." You firmly told him, but the chuckle that erupted from your throat betrayed you.
He was the one person you felt most comfortable around, so much so that you didn't feel weirded out by him pressing his lips onto your neck, or his fingertips bruising the plush of your hips, or his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. No, it felt natural, too natural, like your skin was made to be touched by him.
With his coat on the floor, you tackled his shirt, effectively tearing it off of him because you were just as desperate as he was, and Dante pulled your body closer to his, your clothed cunt accidentally rubbing against the bulge in his trousers. You were aching from the lack of sex, and you uncontrollably moaned at the tiny bit of friction before mumbling a weak 'sorry.'
"Fuck, don't be. That's actually kind of hot." He shamelessly admitted, and you rose a brow.
"Yeah? Then you wouldn't mind me doing it again?" You chewed on your lower lip, but he could see past the fake innocence when you rolled your hips, frantically and feverishly rubbing your clit through the layers of fabric. "Shit, I could come just from this."
For a split second, Dante wondered if this was all real. What happened to your shyness? How was it possible that his best friend, the quiet, nerdy girl he'd known for such a long time, was worse than any demon he'd ever encountered? Not that he was a saint. Far from it, because when you threw your head back, desperate to climax, his is eyes darkened, black seeping into his sclera. It should've made you afraid, but it had the opposite effect. The thought that he could activate his Devil Trigger and quite literally snap you like a twig turned you on.
"Do it, then." Dante's hand snaked behind the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. "Show me just how needy you are."
Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead as you fucked yourself on the half-demon, fog settling in your brain with each breath, each movement, each beating of your heart. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster.
"Oh-" Any sentence you tried to utter stopped in your throat, replaced by a string of whimpers and curses. Whatever you were trying to babble was reduced to incoherent words.
"Well shit, I didn't know you were such a filthy little slut."
"Just- oh- shut up-"
"Hmm, I don't think you really want me to shut up." Dante sneered when you picked up the pace. "I think you like it when I talk like this."
"N-not true!" You yelped as he pinched your nipple, barely doing anything and yet you were a mess already.
"So, you don't want me to call you a fucktoy, then? Bet you're dripping right now. Bet you want me balls deep inside of you."
"Fuck, I'm gonna come!" You proved his point when your entire body quivered under his, mind blank and vision blurry.
"There, there." Dante pressed his lips onto your forehead. "I got you."
The noise of his belt unbuckling made you snap your eyes open, filling you with newfound desire and guilt — poor Dante, his cock was probably aching by now while you had the time of your life. He stepped back, letting his trousers pool at his feet, and you lifted your skirt to peel your panties off. You caught him staring at you, taking the sight in, and what a sight it was — locks of hair fell out of your bun, sticking to your sweaty temples, your legs still shaking from the orgasm, and your cunt dripping wet.
"I'd love to eat you out, babe, but my balls are genuinely gonna explode." He confessed, earning a giggle from you. Even with his eyes pitch black and his Devil Trigger on the verge of activating, Dante was still Dante. And you loved that about him.
"Hurry up and fuck me, then."
"Are you that desperate that you forgot your manners?" He dug his fingertips into the plush of your hips, violently pulling you closer to him.
"Please hurry up and fuck me?" You pouted.
"Good girl, that's better." Dante pushed your leg to the side with his elbow, dragging his cock up and down your slit.
You didn't get the chance to take a look at it, but the tip felt huge, so much so that you gasped, propping yourself on your elbows to see better, and you were not disappointed. In fact, you were concerned. You could not take it.
"Dante, it's not gonna fit."
He shook his head with a half-smile, finding your concern quite cute.
"I'll make it fit."
It was both a promise and a threat, but you trusted him. God, you trusted him with your life. He slowly and gently pushed the tip, your slick more than enough to lubricate his cock, but he stopped every time you looked uncomfortable to make sure you were okay.
"Tell me if it's too much."
"No, you can- it's fine, keep going." You closed your eyes, the discomfort causing you to clench around him instead of relaxing, which made Dande forget how to breathe or think.
But the worst came to a halt when he was fully in, stopping briefly to allow you to accommodate to the size. Your breathing went back to normal soon enough, and the last ounce of pain in your body was swiftly replaced by a surge of electricity when Dante moved, slowly and softly rolling his hips, unable to abstain any longer. And you didn't want him to when his cock filled you up so good, reaching places you didn't even know existed inside of your body. Your fingernails dug into his back, clawing at his skin with desperation and impatience, like you needed more than what he was already giving you.
"See? I told you I’ll make it fit. And you take me so well." Dante said, dragging his mouth over your neck, your scent overloading his senses.
But it just wasn't enough. No matter how painful, you wanted it-
"Harder."
Assertive, demanding, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pulled back to look at you, as if not believing your request.
"A minute ago, you were wriggling in pain, now you want it harder?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation. "I want it harder, faster, please-"
You were shushed by two digits forcing open your mouth, and you instinctively wrapped your lips around them, sucking obediently.
"You talk too much." He gave you a taste of your own medicine. "Should've known you were just a dumb little cocksleeve."
The degrading words caused you to moan and drool around his fingers, tears welling up in your eyes. Each thrust had you clench tighter, the tip of his ridiculously large cock punishing your cervix. Pain and pleasure bubbled inside of you, sparking through your body as Dante practically ripped his fingers from your mouth, only to wrap them around your throat. He was a hungry man, and you were dinner — arching your back to get closer, deeper, you fucked yourself on his cock with his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, and he revelled in your worship.
"Shit, you like it when it hurts, don't you?" He whispered, squeezing harder while you nodded eagerly. "Of course you do."
Of course you did. How could you not when he fucked you so good that your dignity and modesty were long forgotten? When Dante stripped you of your decency to bring out the worst in you? You felt your second orgasm build up, causing you to twitch under him, eyes rolling back as you slipped your hands under his arms, holding on for dear life.
"Again- gonna come again, Dante! Fuck!"
"Atta girl." He held your quivering body, his own hips stuttering, brutally thrusting into you with raw, animalistic passion.
You came undone on his cock, fingers carding through his hair, pushing away white locks to look at his pretty eyes while his arm slithered under your lower back to both support you and bring you closer to him. Dante was close, his throbbing cock still stretching your sore cunt out. He bucked his hips, splitting you open while you latched your arms around his neck, tits pressed against his chest and your lips ghosting over his earlobe.
"Almost there, babe." Dante promised. "You're doing so well." He pulled back, nearly on edge, but you squeezed your legs tighter around his waist.
"Don't pull out." You demanded, and that was enough to help him reach enlightenment.
He filled you up, and when he did pull out, watching his cum slowly leak out of you, you could've sworn he whispered 'marry me' under his breath. Surely it was just the brain fog, or the post-orgasm high. Your whole body was numb, and you stumbled into Dante's arms when you tried to get down from the table, muscles sore and aching.
"You wanna get pizza?" He nonchalantly asked, as if he didn't just fuck his best friend.
"I- shouldn't we talk about this?" You avoided looking into his eyes, opting to stare at the floor instead.
"About what?"
God, he was either insufferably oblivious or remarkably good at pretending.
"Us." You sighed.
"What's there to talk about?" Dante's fingers found your chin, and he gently lifted it up, forcing you to look at him.
"Don't make this harder for me, please. You know things won’t be the same now. We’re not in a relationship and-"
"I don't follow." Confusion was written all over his face. "Do you not want to be my girlfriend?"
"Girl- I- hold up, what? Do you want me to be your girlfriend?" You tilted your head, baffled by his question, because of course you wanted to. You just never had the guts to admit that you like him. It was even more shocking that he liked you back. Wasn’t this all just a one-time thing?
"I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious when I fucked you. What, you thought I nut and dip? That I shoot a load and go back on the road? That I cum n go?"
"Wow, please never use those euphemisms ever again." You cringed at his words, trying your best to hide the smile that crept on your lips.
"Christ, babe, you know I don't do one-night stands unless I’m really desperate. And here I thought you were my best friend. Guess I was wrong." Dante gasped, dramatically feigning offence by placing a hand on his chest.
"I’m not your best friend anymore." You said, voice serious and cold, and his charade was quickly replaced by actual worry and offence. "I'm your girlfriend now. And your best friend."
"Okay, I was genuinely concerned. Fuck you." He flipped you off and you sneered.
