Crede / 26 / Australia / Slytherin 🐍 •Peaky Blinders, Vikings, The Punisher & The Marauders• Main blog: nocomhbhron Check out my things if you want: Masterlist
Charlie Shelby:
Shelby Babies In World War Two - headcanon
Finn Shelby:
Finn’s drawing - headcanon / Scratching At The Walls - drabble / Finn Finds His Drawing - drabble
Shelby Babies In World War Two - headcanon
Isaiah Jesus:
Shelby Babies In World War Two - headcanon
Finn Can Read - headcanon (kind of)
John Shelby:
Shelby Kids - headcanon
Michael Gray:
Shelby Babies In World War Two - headcanon
Tommy Shelby:
Finn’s drawing - headcanon / Scratching At The Walls - drabble / Finn Finds His Drawing - drabble
Tommy & His Deer - drabble
Shelby Babies In World War Two - headcanon
A Punk With Peaky Blades - headcanon
Shelby Kids - headcanon
Panic Nap - drabble
VIKINGS
Extra Things:
Bjorn Ironside
Home - drabble
Omen in the Raven - drabble
Ubbe Lothbrok
A Snuggle - drabble
Jealous Ubbe - drabble
Fenrir - drabble
Fish and Worries - drabble
THE PUNISHER (requests closed)
Extra Things:
Billy Russo
Not As Evil As Grandmother Said - drabble
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ when you confess you’ve never touched yourself before, dean doesn’t laugh—he leans back against the headboard and talks you through it.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 992 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ smut !!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ explicit sexual content, guided masturbation (reader touching herself under dean’s instruction), inexperienced reader, voyeurism, heavy praise kink, dirty talk, early-seasons dean in my head, orgasm control/teasing, mild embarrassment, detailed descriptions of female masturbation and arousal
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
The motel room is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the distant rumble of trucks on the highway. One lamp is on, casting warm gold across the faded bedspread.
Dean sits propped against the headboard, fully dressed—jeans and a black t-shirt that stretches across his chest—legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other like this is the most casual conversation in the world.
You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed facing him, wearing nothing but one of his old flannel shirts, the sleeves too long, the hem brushing your thighs. Your cheeks are already burning.
“I just… never really figured it out,” you admit, voice small. “It always felt weird. Or I’d get close and then chicken out.”
Dean’s expression doesn’t mock. It softens at the edges, but his eyes stay hungry. “Nothing weird about it, sweetheart. Everyone starts somewhere.” He pats the space beside him. “C’mere. Lean back against the pillows.”
You crawl over and settle in, back against the headboard, legs stretched out. The flannel rides up. You tug it down nervously.
Dean’s voice drops, low and steady. “Leave it. I want to see you.”
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t move closer. Just watches. “First rule tonight: you don’t stop until I say so. Got it?”
You nod, throat tight.
“Words, baby.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Good girl.”
The praise hits warm and low in your belly. You shift, thighs pressing together.
Dean notices. Of course he does. “Spread your legs for me. Nice and slow.”
You do—knees falling open until cool air hits wet skin. You’re already slick. Embarrassingly so. You bite your lip.
“Look at that,” Dean murmurs, voice rougher. “Already so wet and I haven’t even touched you. That’s fucking beautiful.”
Your face flames hotter.
He leans forward just a little, elbows on his knees. “Run your fingers down your thigh first. Light. Tease yourself.”
Your hand trembles as you obey. Fingertips brushing soft skin, inching higher. The anticipation makes everything feel electric.
“Up higher,” he coaches. “But don’t touch your pussy yet. Just the inside of your thighs. Feel how sensitive you are there.”
You trace slow circles. A tiny sound escapes you—half sigh, half whimper.
Dean smiles, slow and filthy. “There she is. Keep going. Tell me how it feels.”
“Warm,” you breathe. “Tingly.”
“Good. Now slide two fingers through your folds. No pressure. Just feel how wet you are.”
Your fingers dip between your legs. The slick sound is obscene in the quiet room.
You gasp.
Dean groans low. “Fuck, listen to that. You’re dripping, sweetheart. All for me?”
You nod frantically.
“Say it.”
“All for you,” you manage.
His eyes darken. “Now find your clit. Gentle circles. Real slow. Show me how you like it.”
You circle the swollen bud—light at first, then a little firmer when it sparks pleasure up your spine. Your hips twitch.
“Shit,” Dean mutters. “So pretty playing with yourself. Faster now. Little quicker circles.”
You obey. The pleasure builds sharper. Your breathing turns shallow.
“Don’t close your eyes,” he says. “Look at me.”
Your gaze snaps to his. Green. Intense. Locked on every flutter of your fingers.
“Slide one finger inside,” he orders softly. “Just one. Feel how tight you are.”
You push a finger in. Moan—quiet but real. The stretch is new, strange, good.
Dean’s jaw tightens. “Add another. Stretch yourself open for me.”
Two fingers. You pump them slowly, curling instinctively. Your other hand grips the sheets.
“Goddamn,” he breathes. “You’re doing so good. Listen to how wet you sound. Fuck yourself a little faster.”
Your wrist moves quicker. The heel of your hand grinds against your clit with every thrust. Pleasure coils tight and hot.
“Dean—” His name slips out, needy.
“Yeah, baby. Say my name while you finger that pretty pussy.”
“Dean…” Louder this time. Your thighs start to tremble.
He shifts on the bed but still doesn’t touch you. “Rub your clit again. Hard circles. Don’t stop fucking yourself.”
You switch hands—two fingers pumping deep, thumb rubbing frantic circles over your clit. The pressure builds fast.
“I’m— I think I’m close—”
“Not yet,” he says firmly. “Slow down. Edge it. I want you desperate.”
You whimper but obey, slowing your movements. The orgasm retreats just enough to ache.
“Good girl. Such a good fucking girl listening to me.”
The praise makes you clench around your fingers.
“Faster again. Give it to me. I want to watch you come.”
You chase it now—fingers thrusting, thumb rubbing slick and fast. Your back arches. Head tips back.
“Eyes on me,” Dean reminds.
You force them open. Meet his gaze.
“Come for me, sweetheart. Let me see it. Let me hear it.”
The coil snaps. Pleasure crashes through you—sharp, blinding. Your mouth falls open on a broken cry. “Dean—oh god—Dean—”
Your walls flutter hard around your fingers. Thighs shaking. Hips jerking uncontrollably as you ride it out, slick coating your hand, dripping onto the sheets.
Dean watches every second—hungry, proud, breathing hard.
You come down slow, panting, fingers still buried inside you.
“Easy,” he murmurs. “Pull them out slow. Show me.”
You do—shiny, glistening fingers sliding free. He groans at the sight.
“Bring them here.”
You hesitate, then hold your hand out. He leans in, takes your wrist gently, and sucks your fingers into his mouth—tongue swirling, eyes locked on yours the whole time.
“Fuck, you taste good,” he says when he releases them. “Sweet as hell.”
You’re still trembling, flushed everywhere.
Dean finally moves—crawling over you, careful not to crush you. He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and slow. “You did so good, baby,” he whispers against your mouth. “So fucking perfect.”
You smile—shy, sated, a little dazed.
He brushes hair off your damp forehead. “Next time, we’ll do it together. But tonight?” His grin turns wicked. “I’m just getting started teaching you everything you’ve been missing.”
You laugh—breathless, heart still racing.
And you already can’t wait to learn more.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
hi!!! i loved the last request you did for me and i hope it’s okay that i’m sending in another one :))
i was wondering if you could write a f!reader x dean fic where the reader always sits oddly. no matter where i am, i’m always sitting like folded up or with my leg resting on someone‘s knee.
i think this could work for a research scene or even in the impala with dean usually minding it when someone puts their shoes on his seats but with his gf, it’s alright
lots of love xx
⋆｡ ˚ wherever you fit
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean hates feet on his seats—just not yours
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 663 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ light teasing, physical closeness
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
Dean Winchester is a man of rules.
Not many. Not written down. But they exist, stubborn and unmovable, etched into him over years of habit and something close to reverence.
One of them? No feet on the seats.
Not in the bunker. Not in motel rooms. And especially not in the Impala.
So really, the fact that you’re currently folded into the passenger seat of Baby like a human origami project, one leg tucked under you and the other thrown lazily over his thigh, your boot resting against the edge of his seat—it should be a problem.
It isn’t.
Dean glances down at your leg when you shift, the movement absentminded, like you don’t even realize you’ve done it. You rarely do. Sitting normally has never been your thing; chairs are suggestions at best, and any flat surface turns into something you reshape until it fits you.
The first time he noticed it, you were in the library, perched sideways on a chair with one knee hooked over the armrest and the other foot tucked beneath you, completely engrossed in a book while Sam tried—and failed, mind you—to focus across from you.
Dean had walked in, taken one look, and gone, “You comfortable there, or do you need a ladder too?”
You hadn’t even looked up. “I am comfortable. This is efficient.”
Sam had snorted. Dean had rolled his eyes.
And then… he’d kept noticing.
The way you’d sit half-curled against the back of the couch, legs draped over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. The way you’d climb onto chairs sideways, upside down, diagonally—anything but normal. The way, in the Impala, you’d slowly migrate closer without thinking, until some part of you was always touching him.
Like this.
Your boot taps lightly against his thigh as you adjust, your knee pressing a little more firmly into his leg.
Dean exhales through his nose, one hand steady on the wheel, the other shifting just enough to rest against your calf—not pushing you away, no. Never that.
“Y’know,” he says, voice casual, but there’s something softer underneath it, “anyone else did that, I’d kick ’em outta the car.”
You hum, barely reacting, fingers still flipping through the pages of the lore book in your lap. “Mm. Tragic.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” You finally glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re very scary about your car rules.”
“Damn right I am.”
Your foot nudges him lightly, teasing. “And yet.”
Dean shoots you a look, but it lacks any real bite. “Yeah, well. You’re—” He cuts himself off, jaw shifting slightly like he doesn’t love where that sentence was going.
You tilt your head. “I’m what?”
He scoffs, eyes back on the road. “You’re you.”
You grin, settling more comfortably against the seat, your leg still draped over his without a second thought. “Wow. Poetry.”
“Shut up.”
But his hand slides a little higher along your leg, fingers curling just enough to keep you there, like he’s making a point without saying it out loud.
You go back to your book, comfortable, folded into your usual shape, the steady rumble of the engine beneath you and Dean’s quiet presence anchoring everything in place.
After a while, you shift again, this time tucking your other leg under you more fully, leaning just slightly into his side without even thinking about it.
Dean notices. “Seriously,” he mutters after a minute, glancing down at the way you’ve practically claimed half his space. “How do you even sit like that for this long?”
You shrug lightly, not looking up. “I fit where I fit.”
There’s a pause.
Dean’s grip on the wheel loosens just slightly, something in his expression softening in a way he doesn’t bother to hide this time. His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your leg, a small, unconscious motion.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost to himself. Then, a little firmer, like he means it. “Yeah, you do.”
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
could you write something where dean and reader have been in a situationship for a while where they won't talk about what they are but keep hooking up. then one night after hooking up again, in the post bliss they finally have a conversation about it and reveal their feelings for each other and get together with smut n fluff pretty please!
⋆｡ ˚ what we aren’t saying
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after another night of pretending it’s just sex, you finally crack open the door on everything you’ve been too scared to name.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1264 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ soft smut !!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ brief explicit content, emotional vulnerability, light angst
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ check out my new writing schedule
You’re still catching your breath when the room settles back into itself. The motel lamp throws a weak orange glow over the rumpled sheets, and Dean’s chest rises and falls under your cheek. Sweat cools on your skin. His come is sticky between your thighs. You don’t move yet. Neither does he.
His fingers trace lazy circles on your bare shoulder, the same way they always do afterward, like he’s memorizing the shape of you before the world barges back in.
You hate how much you love it.
Hate how your body still hums from the way he fucked you ten minutes ago—hard, focused, the kind that makes your toes curl and your throat go raw from moaning his name.
You shift, thigh sliding over his hip, and feel him twitch against you even though he’s soft now.
A small, helpless sound slips out of him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a groan. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice gravel from the way he’d buried his face in your neck earlier. “You trying to kill me?”
You smile against his collarbone, press a kiss there just to feel him shiver. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”
Silence stretches.
Comfortable.
Dangerous.
The kind you’ve both gotten too good at letting sit between you for months now.
Weeks?
God, you lost count somewhere after the third hunt, the fourth motel, the night he showed up at your door with a split lip and a six-pack and the look in his eyes that said he needed to forget everything except you.
You trace the scar under his ribs, the one you know by heart now. Your throat tightens. The words have been sitting there for so long they feel like they’ve grown roots.
“Dean.”
“Hm?” His hand stills on your back.
You swallow. Push up on one elbow so you can see his face. Green eyes, sleepy and guarded at the same time. The faint stubble you felt scraping the inside of your thighs not that long ago. Your heart does this stupid lurching thing.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
There. Out.
He blinks once. Slow. “Doing what?”
You give him a look. The one that says don’t bullshit me. “This. The showing up. The fucking like the world’s ending. The leaving before the coffee even finishes brewing. The never talking about it.”
His jaw works. You watch the muscle jump. He’s quiet for a beat, then another. You feel the old panic rise—maybe he’ll laugh it off, maybe he’ll kiss you quiet, maybe he’ll pull that hunter mask back on and pretend he doesn’t feel the same ache you do every single time he walks away.
Instead he lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years. “Yeah,” he says, rough. “I know.”
You wait. The ceiling fan clicks overhead. One. Two. Three times.
“I don’t want to stop,” you admit. The words feel too big for your mouth. Too honest. “I keep telling myself it’s just sex and then you look at me the way you did tonight and I—I can’t breathe, Dean. I can’t.”
He shifts, rolls you gently so you’re on your back and he’s half over you, weight braced on one forearm. Close enough that you feel the heat rolling off his skin. His thumb brushes your lower lip like he’s checking it’s still real.
“I’m shit at this,” he says. Plain. No flourish. “You know that. I’ve got a list of people I’ve lost longer than my damn arm, and every time I let myself want something it ends bloody. But you…” His voice cracks, just a little. “You’re the one thing I keep coming back to even when I swear I won’t. Every damn time.”
Your eyes sting. You hate it.
You reach up and push a strand of hair off his forehead, fingers lingering because you can’t not touch him right now.
“I’m scared too,” you whisper. “I keep waiting for the day you realize this was a mistake. That I’m just… convenient. Safe. Not worth the risk.”
His forehead drops to yours. Breath mingles. “You’re not convenient. You’re the opposite of safe. You make me want things I don’t know how to keep.” A short, jagged laugh. “And yeah, that terrifies the hell out of me. But walking away? That’s worse. I tried. Couple weeks ago after that vamp nest in Tulsa. Drove three hours thinking if I just put distance between us I’d stop feeling like my chest was caving in every time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes.”
You remember that night.
“I wanted you to stay,” you say. Too-honest. A little awkward. “I almost asked. I had the words ready and everything and then I chickened out because what if you said no? What if—”
His mouth cuts you off, but it’s soft this time. Not the hungry crash from earlier. Just lips and breath and the faint taste of the whiskey you’d split before clothes came off. When he pulls back his eyes are open, raw in a way you’ve never seen.
“I’m saying yes,” he tells you. Voice low, steady. “Whatever the hell this is. I’m in. I want the mornings. The coffee. The fights about whose turn it is to do laundry. I want you yelling at me for leaving my boots in the middle of the floor and I want you under me like this every night until one of us is too old to do it anymore. I want… you. All the messy parts.”
Your heart stutters. You feel it—hope and terror braided so tight you can’t tell which is which. You tug him down until his weight presses you into the mattress, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. He’s already half-hard again against your hip. You smile, small and shaky.
“Say it again,” you murmur against his mouth.
He huffs a laugh that ghosts over your lips. “I want you. Stupidly. Completely. Even when you steal the blankets and call my music garbage.”
You kiss him then, slow and deep, the kind that turns the heat back on low and steady. His hand slides down your side, palm rough. You arch into it, legs parting without thinking, and he slips inside you easy this time—still slick from before, still sensitive enough that you both groan at the same time.
It’s different now. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just… real. The drag of him, the way he watches your face like he’s memorizing every flutter of your lashes. You rock up to meet him, nails digging into his back, and whisper his name like a prayer.
After, when you’re both boneless and the lamp is still buzzing, he pulls the sheet over your shoulders and tucks you against his chest. His fingers find your hair, combing through it slow.
“We’re gonna suck at this sometimes,” he says quietly. Not a question.
“Yeah.” You press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over the tattoo. “Probably a lot.”
He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter.
The ache is still there, faint and familiar, curled somewhere behind your ribs. The fear that tomorrow a hunt could go wrong, that one of you could pull away again, that love this big might still not be enough to keep the darkness out.
You feel it settle in your bones worse than an old bruise that never quite heals.
But his heartbeat under your ear is steady. Real. Yours.
You close your eyes and let the silence wrap around both of you, warm and unfinished.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
could you write something where dean and reader have been in a situationship for a while where they won't talk about what they are but keep hooking up. then one night after hooking up again, in the post bliss they finally have a conversation about it and reveal their feelings for each other and get together with smut n fluff pretty please!
⋆｡ ˚ what we aren’t saying
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after another night of pretending it’s just sex, you finally crack open the door on everything you’ve been too scared to name.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1264 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ soft smut !!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ brief explicit content, emotional vulnerability, light angst
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ check out my new writing schedule
You’re still catching your breath when the room settles back into itself. The motel lamp throws a weak orange glow over the rumpled sheets, and Dean’s chest rises and falls under your cheek. Sweat cools on your skin. His come is sticky between your thighs. You don’t move yet. Neither does he.
His fingers trace lazy circles on your bare shoulder, the same way they always do afterward, like he’s memorizing the shape of you before the world barges back in.
You hate how much you love it.
Hate how your body still hums from the way he fucked you ten minutes ago—hard, focused, the kind that makes your toes curl and your throat go raw from moaning his name.
You shift, thigh sliding over his hip, and feel him twitch against you even though he’s soft now.
A small, helpless sound slips out of him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a groan. “Jesus, sweetheart,” he mutters, voice gravel from the way he’d buried his face in your neck earlier. “You trying to kill me?”
You smile against his collarbone, press a kiss there just to feel him shiver. “Wouldn’t be the worst way to go.”
Silence stretches.
Comfortable.
Dangerous.
The kind you’ve both gotten too good at letting sit between you for months now.
Weeks?
God, you lost count somewhere after the third hunt, the fourth motel, the night he showed up at your door with a split lip and a six-pack and the look in his eyes that said he needed to forget everything except you.
You trace the scar under his ribs, the one you know by heart now. Your throat tightens. The words have been sitting there for so long they feel like they’ve grown roots.
“Dean.”
“Hm?” His hand stills on your back.
You swallow. Push up on one elbow so you can see his face. Green eyes, sleepy and guarded at the same time. The faint stubble you felt scraping the inside of your thighs not that long ago. Your heart does this stupid lurching thing.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
There. Out.
He blinks once. Slow. “Doing what?”
You give him a look. The one that says don’t bullshit me. “This. The showing up. The fucking like the world’s ending. The leaving before the coffee even finishes brewing. The never talking about it.”
His jaw works. You watch the muscle jump. He’s quiet for a beat, then another. You feel the old panic rise—maybe he’ll laugh it off, maybe he’ll kiss you quiet, maybe he’ll pull that hunter mask back on and pretend he doesn’t feel the same ache you do every single time he walks away.
Instead he lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his chest for years. “Yeah,” he says, rough. “I know.”
You wait. The ceiling fan clicks overhead. One. Two. Three times.
“I don’t want to stop,” you admit. The words feel too big for your mouth. Too honest. “I keep telling myself it’s just sex and then you look at me the way you did tonight and I—I can’t breathe, Dean. I can’t.”
He shifts, rolls you gently so you’re on your back and he’s half over you, weight braced on one forearm. Close enough that you feel the heat rolling off his skin. His thumb brushes your lower lip like he’s checking it’s still real.
“I’m shit at this,” he says. Plain. No flourish. “You know that. I’ve got a list of people I’ve lost longer than my damn arm, and every time I let myself want something it ends bloody. But you…” His voice cracks, just a little. “You’re the one thing I keep coming back to even when I swear I won’t. Every damn time.”
Your eyes sting. You hate it.
You reach up and push a strand of hair off his forehead, fingers lingering because you can’t not touch him right now.
“I’m scared too,” you whisper. “I keep waiting for the day you realize this was a mistake. That I’m just… convenient. Safe. Not worth the risk.”
His forehead drops to yours. Breath mingles. “You’re not convenient. You’re the opposite of safe. You make me want things I don’t know how to keep.” A short, jagged laugh. “And yeah, that terrifies the hell out of me. But walking away? That’s worse. I tried. Couple weeks ago after that vamp nest in Tulsa. Drove three hours thinking if I just put distance between us I’d stop feeling like my chest was caving in every time you laughed at one of my stupid jokes.”
You remember that night.
“I wanted you to stay,” you say. Too-honest. A little awkward. “I almost asked. I had the words ready and everything and then I chickened out because what if you said no? What if—”
His mouth cuts you off, but it’s soft this time. Not the hungry crash from earlier. Just lips and breath and the faint taste of the whiskey you’d split before clothes came off. When he pulls back his eyes are open, raw in a way you’ve never seen.
“I’m saying yes,” he tells you. Voice low, steady. “Whatever the hell this is. I’m in. I want the mornings. The coffee. The fights about whose turn it is to do laundry. I want you yelling at me for leaving my boots in the middle of the floor and I want you under me like this every night until one of us is too old to do it anymore. I want… you. All the messy parts.”
Your heart stutters. You feel it—hope and terror braided so tight you can’t tell which is which. You tug him down until his weight presses you into the mattress, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat. He’s already half-hard again against your hip. You smile, small and shaky.
“Say it again,” you murmur against his mouth.
He huffs a laugh that ghosts over your lips. “I want you. Stupidly. Completely. Even when you steal the blankets and call my music garbage.”
You kiss him then, slow and deep, the kind that turns the heat back on low and steady. His hand slides down your side, palm rough. You arch into it, legs parting without thinking, and he slips inside you easy this time—still slick from before, still sensitive enough that you both groan at the same time.
It’s different now. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just… real. The drag of him, the way he watches your face like he’s memorizing every flutter of your lashes. You rock up to meet him, nails digging into his back, and whisper his name like a prayer.
After, when you’re both boneless and the lamp is still buzzing, he pulls the sheet over your shoulders and tucks you against his chest. His fingers find your hair, combing through it slow.
“We’re gonna suck at this sometimes,” he says quietly. Not a question.
“Yeah.” You press a kiss to the center of his chest, right over the tattoo. “Probably a lot.”
He doesn’t answer. Just holds you tighter.
The ache is still there, faint and familiar, curled somewhere behind your ribs. The fear that tomorrow a hunt could go wrong, that one of you could pull away again, that love this big might still not be enough to keep the darkness out.
You feel it settle in your bones worse than an old bruise that never quite heals.
But his heartbeat under your ear is steady. Real. Yours.
You close your eyes and let the silence wrap around both of you, warm and unfinished.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Could you maybe write Castiel x reader but like the reader smells really good due to their lotion (no specific scent just a lotion that smells really good) and like cas is just constantly smelling them maybe pawsibly could just be fluff but maybe some smut PAWSIBLY.
⋆｡ ˚ close enough to notice
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ castiel keeps finding excuses to stand near you, and it takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize it’s because of your lotion.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ castiel x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 546 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ castiel being unintentionally intense, scent-related affection, mild teasing
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the first time castiel does it, you think it’s an accident.
you’re in the bunker kitchen, half-asleep and waiting for your coffee to become strong enough to fix your mood, when he steps beside you and pauses. just like that. in that same typical castiel-weirdness of his.
you glance at him over your mug. “cas?”
his eyes flick to yours, very serious. “yes?”
“you okay?”
“yes.”
you wait for him to say something else. he says nothing else.
then he leans, just slightly, closer to your shoulder.
you blink. “are you smelling me?”
castiel straightens so fast it would be funny if his face weren’t completely sincere. “no.” a beat. “yes.”
you stare at him.
he looks back, unashamed and somehow a little embarrassed, which is a complicated thing to manage with one face. “you smell pleasant,” he explains.
your brain goes wonderfully blank. “oh.”
“not in an alarming way.”
“great,” you say, trying not to laugh. “love that clarification.”
after that, you start noticing it: he sits beside you during research even when there are six empty chairs. he appears in doorways when you pass, head tilting faintly as if he’s caught some invisible thread of you in the air. once, while you were reaching for a book on a high shelf, he stepped behind you to get it first, and when his sleeve brushed your arm, he went very still.
you turned slowly, then. “cas.”
“i was assisting.”
“you were inhaling.”
his mouth parts. closes. “both things can be true.”
that gets you. you laugh, soft and helpless, and his expression gentles in response, like the sound is something he wants to keep but doesn’t know where to put.
one night, you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, rubbing lotion into your hands because the bunker air dries your skin out terribly. castiel stands near the doorway, watching with that quiet intensity that used to unsettle you before you learned it usually just means he’s curious. or worried. or both.
“it’s this, isn’t it?” you ask, holding up the bottle.
he steps closer. “yes.”
“you could’ve just said you liked it.”
“i did.”
“you said i smelled pleasant and not alarming.”
“that was accurate.”
you bite your lip to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work.
he notices. of course he does. and his gaze drops to your hands, then returns to your face, softer now. “may i?”
your chest gives a tiny, traitorous flip. “smell my hands?”
“yes.”
you should tease him. really, you should. instead, you offer him one.
castiel takes it carefully, his fingers cool at first, then warmer where they settle around yours. he bends over your hand, not kissing it—-just close enough that his breath brushes your knuckles, slow and reverent in a way that makes your stomach twist.
oh. that’s unfair. “cas,” you say, quieter.
he lifts his eyes. “is this uncomfortable?”
you swallow. “no,” you admit. too honest. “that’s kind of the problem.”
something shifts in his face, small but visible, like he’s filing that away with great care.
he doesn’t let go immediately. neither do you. and when his thumb moves once across the back of your hand, barely there, you realize he isn’t there just to smell the lotion anymore. maybe he never was.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ you can survive hunting beside dean winchester; what’s harder is surviving the slow, unbearable heartbreak of almost being loved by him.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x chubby!oc ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 3580 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ mutual pining, friends to lovers, body-image insecurity, slight age gap, jealousy, mention of dean’s casual flirting and past hookups, emotional avoidance, roadside argument, dean winchester’s spectacularly poor self-worth, crying, comfort, kissing, soft ending!!
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ this is my very first commission for the lovely @croatcan and god damn is it special! 🥹 i think it turned out lovely, so i hope you enjoy reading this 🩷
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ request your fanfic ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the problem is that dean winchester touches you almost as if he’s forgotten you’re not his.
it’s never enough to call him out on. that’s the clever part, whether he intends it to or not. his palm settles against the small of your back when he guides you through a crowded bar, warm and broad through the thin fabric of your shirt, but it’s gone before you can turn the moment into anything more dangerous. his knee presses against yours beneath diner tables because he always takes up too much room. he drapes his arm around your shoulders when the three of you are walking back to the impala after a hunt, pulling you close enough that your hip bumps against his side whenever you take a step. and he calls you kid when you elbow him for it.
none of it means anything. that’s what you tell yourself.
dean is dean. he flirts when he’s bored, when he’s nervous, when the waitress is pretty, when the bartender has long legs and a low-cut shirt. the women he notices are always beautiful in that uncomplicated, glossy sort of way. slim waists. narrow hips. the effortless confidence of somebody who knows exactly what happens when a guy like him looks across a room and smiles at them.
you know what happens, too. you’ve been hunting with the brothers long enough to see the pattern.
and the harsh truth is that it shouldn’t bother you. you know the softness of your stomach doesn’t make you less capable of putting a bullet through a moving target. you know your thighs are strong enough to carry you through a graveyard at a sprint, your arms steady enough to haul sam upright when something throws him into a wall. you love your tattoos. you like the curve of your waist and the way your brown hair falls around your face when you stop trying to tame it. you don’t need to become smaller to deserve anything.
it would be easier if he stopped touching you. it would be easier if you wanted him less.
“it’s gonna open up again if you keep glaring at it that hard.” dean’s voice brings you back to the motel room.
rain taps steadily against the window, turning the parking lot outside into a blur of wet pavement and neon. the room smells faintly of bleach, damp denim, and the pizza sam has abandoned on the small table beside an open laptop. sam is in the shower, washing graveyard dirt out of his hair while you sit on the floor between dean’s knees at the edge of one bed.
his flannel is open. the black t-shirt underneath is pushed up far enough to expose the shallow gash along his ribs, angry and red but no longer bleeding. you’ve cleaned it carefully. all that remains is the bandage, which would be easier to apply if dean would stop watching your face.
“i’m not glaring,” you mutter.
“you’ve got the murder eyes.”
“these are my regular eyes.”
his mouth twitches. “nah. regular ones are bigger. cuter.”
you press the adhesive strip down harder than necessary.
dean sucks air through his teeth. “jesus, annie.”
“sorry.” you are not. still, the brief sting of guilt settles uncomfortably beneath your ribs when he lifts one hand and curls his fingers loosely around your wrist.
his thumb brushes your pulse once, absent and affectionate, as if this is not slowly hollowing you out from the inside. his expression changes when you pull away. not dramatically, though. dean is too practiced for that. he drops his hand and reaches for the hem of his shirt, tugging it back into place with a shrug that is almost convincing.
“all fixed,” you say, standing before he can find another reason to keep you close.
his gaze follows you. “you okay?”
“fine.”
“you’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
you busy yourself with the first-aid kit. the gauze packet refuses to slide into the side compartment properly. you try again, jaw tight. “probably because i’m fine a lot lately.”
“right.” the answer is dry enough to scrape.
you’ve been trying to put space between you for three weeks. it’s not working particularly well because hunting doesn’t offer much room for distance. there are still hours folded into the impala beside him, cramped motel rooms, diner booths.
but you’ve stopped curling against his side on the couch when sam puts on documentaries none of you are truly watching. you sit in the back seat more often. you avoid the kitchen when dean cooks breakfast in his robe, bare-legged and half-awake, because he always presses a kiss to the crown of your head when he reaches over you for the coffee grounds.
it’s embarrassing how badly you miss something you never had.
“we should get a drink,” dean says.
you glance at him. “we should sleep.”
“we killed a nest of vamps in a barn that smelled worse than the trunk after that rugaru in ohio. we earned a drink.”
the bathroom door opens before you can argue. sam steps out with damp hair and a towel draped around his shoulders, his eyes moving between you and dean with the cautious awareness of somebody who knows exactly what you’re both feeling and keeping bottled down.
“drink?” dean asks him.
sam looks at you for half a second too long. “i’m going to finish the research.”
“nerd.”
“somebody has to make sure there isn’t a second nest.”
“annie?”
you should say no. you’re tired, and your nerves feel worn thin beneath your skin. sitting in a bar with dean is an exercise in pretending you don’t watch him without meaning to.
instead, you sigh. “one drink.”
his smile comes too easily, bright enough to make your chest hurt. “that’s my girl.”
it’s a thoughtless phrase. dean is already grabbing his jacket when he says it. he doesn’t even notice how still you become.
but sam does. his gaze catches yours over dean’s shoulder, sympathetic in a way you cannot bear to acknowledge, so you look down and zip the first-aid kit closed.
the bar is attached to the motel, a narrow room with battered tables, a glowing jukebox, and the sort of carpet that has survived several decades through sheer stubbornness. a baseball game plays silently on the television above the liquor shelves. dean orders whiskey. you ask for a beer and slide onto a stool with one empty seat between you, a small act of self-preservation that lasts approximately two minutes before dean moves closer when somebody needs to squeeze past. he doesn’t move away again.
you talk about nothing. that’s one of the worst parts. it’s easy with him. even now. you make dean laugh so abruptly he nearly chokes on his whiskey, and the warm, pleased feeling in your chest arrives before you can stop it.
“you’re trouble,” he says.
“i’m delightful.”
“you’re a pain in my ass.”
“and yet you keep me around.”
“somebody’s gotta supervise you, kid.”
the nickname comes softer than it should be, threaded through with fondness. dean shifts closer and drops his arm around your shoulders, drawing you against his side with an ease that feels practiced. his fingers rest against your upper arm. his thumb moves once over the fabric of your shirt.
you know you should push him away. instead, you let yourself have it. just for a minute.
the bartender appears in front of you with dean’s second whiskey. she’s pretty, with sleek blonde hair and a smile that lingers when she places the glass down. her eyes move toward dean’s arm around your shoulders before returning to his face.
“anything else for you two?” she asks.
“think we’re good,” dean says.
she smiles. “your girlfriend keeping you out of trouble tonight?”
it should be nothing. a stranger making an easy assumption. a moment dean could laugh off in a dozen harmless ways. he could remove his arm. he could change the subject.
instead, his body tenses beside yours.
“annie?” his laugh comes out uneven. “nah. she knows better than to make that mistake.”
the bartender gives him a smile, already turning away.
dean’s arm remains around you.
that’s what breaks something open. the weight of his hand still resting comfortably against your arm, the warmth of him wrapped around you while he says it. it’s the easy, careless expectation that you’ll sit here and take whatever scraps he gives you because you always have.
you move before you think better of it, shoving his arm off your shoulders as you stand.
his expression changes immediately. “hey—”
“i’m going back to the room.”
“what? hang on.”
you walk out before your face can betray you. rain catches in your hair as soon as you step beyond the awning. the motel sign flickers overhead, buzzing pink and blue against the dark.
“annabella.” the use of your full name follows you into the parking lot.
you don’t stop.
“come on,” dean calls, closer now. “would you slow down for a second?”
you should go to the motel room. sam is there. the door is less than thirty feet away, warm light visible behind the curtains. but the thought of walking in and seeing the pity on sam’s face makes your stomach turn, so you keep moving, passing the impala and reaching the edge of the lot.
“where the hell are you going?”
“for a walk.”
“in the rain? it’s already dark!”
“i need air.”
“annie, get back here.”
you turn then, rain sliding down your cheeks, anger burning hot enough to overpower the ache lodged beneath it. “stop telling me what to do.”
dean freezes, even if for a second. then, his jaw tightens, his fear disguising itself as irritation so quickly you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know him this well.
“fine,” he says. “you want air? take a minute. but you’re not walking down some dark road alone in the middle of nowhere.”
“just leave me the hell alone, dean.”
dean’s face closes in that familiar, infuriating way. the wall comes up. he stands beneath the motel lights with rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket.
you walk away.
the road is nearly empty, slick with rain and edged by wet grass. you fold your arms across your chest and keep moving, breathing through the pressure building behind your eyes, furious with him and with yourself and with every stupid little moment you have held too close.
you make it less than half a mile.
the roar of the impala reaches you first. headlights sweep across the road before the car pulls sharply onto the shoulder ahead of you, tires spitting water across the gravel. the driver’s door opens almost before the engine cuts.
“get in the car.”
you stop walking. “no.”
“annabella.”
“i said no.”
his hands flex uselessly at his sides. “then talk to me.”
“there’s nothing to talk about.”
“bullshit.”
“go away, dean.”
“not happening.”
“you can’t order me into the car because you feel guilty.”
“guilty? this isn’t—” he breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. his eyes are wide and bright beneath the passing sweep of another car’s headlights. “i don’t know what the hell just happened back there.”
a laugh catches painfully in your throat. “of course you don’t.”
“so tell me.”
you stare at him. dean has always been able to do this, somehow. he digs and digs until the truth is bleeding between your teeth, then acts surprised that it has a shape. you are exhausted. too tired to make it prettier for him. too tired to protect him from a feeling he has been carelessly feeding for months.
“i’m in love with you.”
you hate how much it hurts that he stills. you hate that some small, humiliating part of you has waited for this exact second anyway, always searching for proof that you might have misunderstood him. but he says nothing, and the silence is unbearable.
you nod once, swallowing hard. “yeah. that’s what happened back there.”
“annie—”
“i know.” your voice cracks. you look away, blinking against the rain. “i know you don’t feel the same way. i am not asking you to. i thought i could handle it. i thought it would pass if i stopped being stupid about every little thing you do, but you keep—”
you press the heel of your hand against your chest, frustrated by the tears slipping free despite your best efforts.
“you keep touching me as if i’m yours. you keep looking at me as if there is something here. you pull me into you, and you call me your girl, and then you flirt with women who look nothing like me because that’s what you actually want. that’s fine. it is. you’re allowed to want whatever you want. but i can’t keep standing beside you while you remind me that i’m not it.”
“no.” the word comes out rough.
you shake your head. “i’m tired, dean.”
“listen—”
“i’m tired of trying to be grateful for whatever version of you i get. i’m tired of feeling pathetic every time you put your hand on me and i let myself think about what it would feel like if you meant it. i never wanted to make this your problem, but i can’t do it anymore.” your breath shudders. “i can’t keep hunting with you. i can’t keep living like this. i don’t want to see you again.”
panic strips every trace of irritation from his face. “don’t say that.”
“dean—”
“don’t.” he moves toward you, then stops himself so abruptly it looks painful. his voice drops, ragged at the edges. “don’t say you’re leaving.”
you wrap your arms tighter around yourself. “what else am i supposed to do?”
for one awful second, he only stares at you. then, dean winchester sinks to his knees on the wet roadside.
gravel crunches beneath his jeans. rain beads in his hair. he reaches for you carefully, both hands settling against your hips as if he needs something solid to hold on to, his fingers curving around the softness of your body without hesitation.
“dean, get up.”
“no. listen to me.” his voice breaks. “please.”
you look at him and his eyes are wet. maybe it is only the rain.
“you’ve got this wrong,” he says, each word unsteady. “god, annie, you’ve got it so so wrong.” his thumbs press lightly into your sides, grounding himself more than you. “i meant it every time i touched you. i mean it right now. you think you’re not what i want because you don’t look like some woman at a bar? sweetheart, i know exactly what you look like. i know how you fit against me. i know i’ve spent months trying not to stare at your mouth whenever you smile. i know i think about putting my hands right here so often it makes me feel sixteen and stupid.”
the softness of it nearly ruins you.
“then why?” you whisper. “why would you say that?”
his expression folds inward. “because i’m a coward.”
you shake your head automatically, but dean doesn’t let you rescue him from it.
“i know how to lose people,” he says. “i’m good at that. i know how to want something for one night and walk away before i screw it up. but you love people with your whole damn body, annabella. you hold on. you make space. you keep showing up.” his grip turns gentler. “and i wanted all of it. i wanted you so bad i convinced myself the decent thing was leaving it alone, because you deserve better than getting stuck with me.”
there it is—the ugliest, most familiar part of him. the piece that believes love is another weapon he might mishandle if he lets himself hold it too tightly.
“dean,” you whisper.
“but i feel it too.”
the words stop you cold.
his hands tighten around your hips, enough to keep you there while his voice turns rougher with every breath. he looks terrified. not of the rain, or the roadside, or the possibility of something lurking beyond the dark line of trees. of you. of what he’s saying and what happens after he can’t take it back.
“i love you too, annabella.” his throat works around the words. “so damn much it scares the hell outta me.”
you stare down at him, unable to move.
“you think i don’t know what i’m doing when i touch you? you think i don’t notice every time you lean into me, or when you fall asleep on my shoulder, or when you wrap your arms around me after a hunt and hold on a little tighter because you know i need it?” his eyes search your face desperately. “i notice everything. i remember everything. that’s the problem.”
rain slides down the sharp line of his cheek. his voice lowers.
“people close to me get hurt.”
“dean—”
“they do.” he shakes his head before you can soften it for him. “and i can’t—annie, i can’t be the reason something happens to you. i can’t get you killed because i got greedy and wanted something good for myself. i can’t watch you bleed because some monster figures out exactly where to stick the knife.” his breath catches, and for a second, he has to look away. “i’d die if something happened to you. i would lose my damn mind.”
your chest aches so fiercely that breathing feels strange.
“something could happen to me anyway,” you say quietly. “i’m a hunter.”
“yeah, well, i hate that too.”
a wet, startled laugh slips out before you can stop it. dean’s gaze snaps back to your face. something fragile loosens in his expression when he hears it, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth despite the fear still sitting plainly in his eyes.
“there she is,” he murmurs.
your fingers find his wrists. his pulse beats hard beneath your touch.
“you don’t get to decide what risks i’m allowed to take,” you tell him. “not for me. and you don’t get to love me halfway because you’re scared of what happens if you let yourself have it.”
his face crumples for half a second before he catches himself. “i know,” he says. “i’m sorry.”
you believe him. that’s the dangerous thing. you believe every messy, frightened word of it.
dean rises slowly from the gravel, his hands sliding around your waist as he stands. he stays close when he reaches his full height, close enough that the warmth of his body cuts through the rain, close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours.
“i’m probably gonna screw this up,” he whispers.
“probably.”
his mouth twitches. “little harsh.”
“you earned that.”
“yeah.” his thumb brushes your side. “fair.”
then his gaze drops to your mouth, and all the teasing drains out of him.
“annie,” he says softly.
dean cups your face with one hand and draws you against him with the other, his mouth warm and careful for all of two seconds before months of restraint crack open between you. the kiss turns deeper, needier, rain cold against your cheeks while his body presses solidly into yours. there’s nothing uncertain in the way he holds you. nothing apologetic. his palm spans the curve of your waist as if he has wanted to know the shape of you beneath his hands for far too long.
when he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. both of you are breathing too hard.
“you’re freezing,” he murmurs.
“whose fault is that?”
“yours, obviously. walking dramatically into the rain. real chick-flick behavior.”
you stare at him.
“what?” he gives you a toothy smile. “too soon?”
a laugh breaks out of you, shaky and helpless, and dean smiles properly this time.
“say you won’t leave.” the words leave his lips carefully. there’s no demand in his tone. no typical dean winchester stubbornness. just a little more vulnerability that he’s willing himself to show because he cannot physically move without making sure.
you nod once. “i’m staying.”
relief softens his entire face. he kisses the corner of your mouth before bending suddenly and sliding one arm behind your knees.
“dean!”
he lifts you easily against his chest.
you grab his shoulders, startled laughter spilling out of you. “what the hell are you doing?!”
“saving you from pneumonia.”
“put me down.”
“nope.”
“dean!”
he carries you back toward the impala, holding you securely against him while your arms circle his neck. by the time he reaches the passenger side, your anger has softened into something tender and sore. not gone. not forgotten. but no longer yours to carry alone.
dean lowers you carefully onto your feet and opens the door.
“seat,” he says, pointing inside with a stern expression that lasts less than a second. “now.”
you roll your eyes as you climb in. “bossy.”
“yeah, yeah.”
he rounds the hood and slides behind the wheel, rainwater dripping from his hair onto his jacket. the engine rumbles to life. for a moment, neither of you speaks.
then dean reaches across the space between you and leaves his hand resting palm-up beside the gearshift. an offering. you look at it, then lace your fingers through his. his grip closes around yours gently.
dean pulls back onto the road with one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours between you, as if he’s still afraid you might disappear the second he lets go.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
𝜗𝜚 SUMMARY - You're nervous to lose your virginity, Dean shows you everything that you've been missing out on.
𝜗𝜚 WARNINGS - smut, dom!dean, sub!reader, nervous/shy!reader, unprotected sex, creampie, p!v, teasing, loss of virginity, fingering, hickeys (r.recieving), size kink, praise kink, dean is experienced, reader is inexperienced, (1) thigh slap, big dick!dean, boob fondling, boob sucking, reader is smaller than dean, illusions to past masturbation, reader blushes, petnames, intended lower case, nothing i write is ever proofread 🩷
dean liked having you sat in his lap.
this wasn't the first time, your legs stretched around his waist while your hands scrunched idly at the black shirt he'd been wearing, your lips against his own. making out with you had to be possibly the best thing he'd ever done. it was like getting sent to heaven and back, between each breath he damned the gods that disallowed him to press his lips against yours for forever.
but you were new to all this.
he had to be gentle.
dean was the first real relationship you'd ever had. and if he was being honest, you were sort of the first real relationship he'd ever had too.
he used to hop from girl to girl, bed to bed and not think twice about it. you were the absolute opposite. you were the type of girl that didn't speak unless spoken to, you kept your head down and got through everything without so much as letting your imagination wander with what it would feel like to be with a man.
then you met him.
his hands were pinching at the fat of your thighs, he found it hard to keep his hands to himself when you were like this. between kisses, he could hear the shakiness in your breaths, it drove him unbelievably mad.
you felt almost sorry for dean, knowing it'd taken this long to get comfortable enough to even make out with the man. you knew his history and how he wouldn't go longer than a week without someone in his bed. now he'd went more than three months with you like this, aching for more.
and it wasn't like you didn't want more, believe me, you'd been aching just as horribly.
you were just... scared?
deans hands moved harshly against your skin, right hand coming down to gently slap your thigh before gripping it once again. the feeling prompted a low whimper to leave your lips.
dean almost groaned. he could get used to hearing noises like those.
when the man pulled away from your lips, heavy breaths still leaving his own, you swore you could have whimpered again just from the loss of contact.
he looked down at you, eyes all blown wide, lips slick and swollen, it was a sight he hoped was never erased from his memory. he wanted to remember this forever. "y'so needy." he had that cocky grin on his lips, cocking his head to the side as he viewed you as a whole, all his, right in his lap for the taking.
you felt your cheeks get hot at the sentence, eyes immediately darting anywhere other than his face. "don' be mean." was the mumble you let out, eyes adverting and voice lowering. you weren't able to talk to him, not when he got like this, all 'bigger' than you, it made you feel small, it made you feel wet.
"'m not, 'm not." he spoke with a low chuckle, one of his hands raising to meet your face, you felt the padding of his thumb wipe across your hot cheeks, he could tell you were nervous. then again, you were always so nervous. "i think it's cute."
again, your face got increasingly hotter but dean didn't leave you any room for words, dipping his head so his lips could meet your neck.
there was something so surreal about being like this, your hands gripping at his shirt, top lip clamped down on your bottom as he kissed against the skin of your neck.
again, this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this. makeouts and hickey-leaving was getting more and more natural in your relationship, common, even.
he'd come home from his hunts with sam and all he'd want was you either below or on top of him, his lips against anything they could reach.
you felt his lips part, sucking against your neck as one hand ran up your back, the other cupping the back of your hair. once he sucked, his tongue would smooth over the skin, pleasure to ease the pain. and he'd go again, gradually moving to different places on your neck. marking you.
your own lips were strewn shut, you were hoping and praying on every star that you didn't let a noise slip from you. you were too nervous, too embarrassed but the whole point of this was to feel good, wasn't it? so why did you feel so embarrassed to show him how good it felt?
your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling suddenly overwhelming.
you didn't register the move of your hips until his lips left your neck and his hands clamped down on your waist, low grunt leaving his mouth.
you stared at him with those big eyes and he swore he was gone. "y'can't do that, sweetheart." despite his words, his tone was gentle. "can't start something if you don't want to finish it."
he knew how inexperienced you were, he thought you wanted to hold off on losing your virginity which is why he'd never made such a move but by the way you were looking at him now, he swore you wanted nothing more than for him to take you.
and he'd gladly do so upon your command.
"i do..." you uttered. ".. want to." the words made your insides twinge, made your nose scrunch and your lips purse.
you were too nervous, shaking like a leaf on top of him. even so, with so much anxiety bottled into a human, dean made no movements of caution.
you sort of liked that dean wasn't as awkward or nervous as you were. dean was confident, that much was for sure. but being so confident also gave him this openness, seeping comfort into your veins as his large, warm hands trailed up and down your thighs.
"yeah?" his voice was breathy and his smile had left his features. he didn't need to be so teasing now, he knew you would simply burst of shyness. and he didn't want you in a position of uncertainty. "what d'you want?"
he wasn't trying to tease you, though he knew his fingers that began to dance against your skin were doing nothing to calm your nerves.
he just needed to hear you say it.
you planted your face into his chest with an incoherent mumble, cheeks alight as flames.
dean could have laughed at you but he didn't want you thinking you'd done something wrong. on the contrary, he found it downright adorable how shy you'd been getting. but you couldn't help it, this was such an unfamiliar feeling bubbling in your stomach.
"can't hear you, sweetheart." his head came down to sit atop yours, his voice a gentle whisper. "i need you to tell me what you want, okay?" his free hand tipped your chin upwards to look at him, those pretty green eyes held so much sincerity. "use your words f'me, baby."
words felt stuck in your throat, you couldn't seem to get them out. but dean didn't want to let this get away from him, he steadied your chin between his fingers.
"i want..." your voice was all breathy, all needy. it had dean reeling. "i want you to touch me."
and as the words passed your lips, you swear all the air was knocked from your lungs. listening to yourself talk had made your head feel fuzzy. before dean, you couldn't have even imagined such words leaving your lips.
dean was struggling to compose himself but nonetheless, he did. his lips quirked into this proud yet sly smirk as his fingers ran up and down your thighs. "where, angel? here?" he practically mocked, fingers against your knee.
at this point, dean had never seen an angel, he didn't believe in them. but he was sure that if angels did exist, you had to be one of them.
you could have corrected him verbally, told him to stop teasing or even scolded him for mocking you while you were all worked up like this. but instead, you chose to grasp his bigger hand in your own and trail it towards your core.
as your hand cupped his own, he could feel them shake, he almost cooed at you but he didn't want to make you more nervous than you already were.
but when his hand finally reached your clothed core, he couldn't help but let out a groan.
it didn't take longer than a second for dean to have you flipped over with your back against the mattress of the bed. a noise left your lips as he towered over you, that infamous smirk etched to his lips.
but a type of seriousness washed over him. "are you sure you want this?"
you knew he wasn't asking you to tease you or make you wait, he was being sincere and you couldn't have been more sincere back by bucking your hips with a low whine of the word, "yes." quickly followed by a "please."
"so needy." he mumbled back, lips moving to your neck while his fingers fumbled at the cotton material of your baby blue sleep shorts. he hooked his fingers around the waistband and tore it off skilfully.
he supposed his experience was paying off.
you didn't have any time to counter what he'd said, too focused on the feeling building in your stomach. much of it was worry, anxiety even but the majority of it was this foreign, amazing feeling.
"fuck." his ring clad fingers circled against your panties. you were suddenly hyper aware of how worked up you'd gotten while making out with him, a blush creeping in on your face as you turned away from him.
dean all but tutted, dragging your face back.
"don't get shy on me now, sweetheart. This wet for me, the least you can do is look at me." he had that empowering stare that told you he was in charge here, it had you shrinking further into the mattress.
but dean wasn't demanding, sure he was dominating but he didn't make you uncomfortable. truthfully, you'd been rather scared of getting this far with anybody but you were sure that if there was anybody you wanted it to be with, it was him.
his hands toyed at waistbands of your panties. "this okay?" his eyes were glued to your face, trying to watch every way your face contorted, making sure you were okay.
believe it or not, there was a lot one could tell from just looking at someone.
you nodded your head briskly, darkened and bitten lips parted slightly, covered in the slick left behind from your tongue. your cheeks had turned a darkened colour too, blush spreading across your face.
there was something so surreal about looking at you like this, knowing nobody else ever had. he pulled the panties down your legs, watching you steadily with his own lips parting open. his eyes moved from yours to trail down your body, landing on your sopping core. he couldn't help but breathe in a breath.
"you're so pretty, angel." he moved his hand upwards again, closed fingers gently toying with your clit, which earned a soft gasp from you. his lips quirked as he brought his hand away, using the other to slip off his ring. he took your wrist, holding it up gently. "take care of this for me, yeah?" you nodded as he slipped the ring onto your thumb, seeing as your other fingers wouldn't fit it. "good girl." he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
he was suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you were a virgin.
now, dean wasn't necessarily put off by the fact that you were a virgin. dean couldn't have cared less what you were. but he needed to make sure he was gentle, more so than any other time.
because he was the first, the one you'd remember forever.
though, he intended to be your very last, too.
his fingers trailed across your pretty tank top, down to your hips and finally edging between your legs. he peppered kisses against your face and down across your jaw, finally landing on your neck, fingers pushing your legs apart with ease.
as shy as you were, you didn't hide from him, you allowed him to part your legs, his hand was against your inner thigh, softly soothing up and down against your skin.
but he had to make sure, before he touched you. "sure this is okay? not having second thoughts?"
of course dean wanted to but he only wanted to if you wanted to. but you nodded anyway, swallowing though your mouth was dry anyway. "'m just nervous." you admitted softly.
it was no secret to dean that you were a nervous creature already. he knew this was all new to you but he didn't want you to feel shy around him. "you don't need to be." he pressed a kiss against the supple of your cheek, hand moving further as you let out a shaky breath. "not with me." as the whisper left his mouth, his hand came up to touch your hot core.
the noise that left your mouth should have embarrassed you but right now, you couldn't think of anything other than the feeling of his hand right where you needed him.
he collected your wetness onto his fingers, spreading it up and down your folds, two fingers parting from the rest as he gently eased them into your hole.
heavy breaths suddenly left you, chest rising and falling while dean's face was practically hidden in your neck, peppering kisses, sucking and licking against the soft skin while his fingers settled inside of you.
he gave you hardly any time to adjust to the feeling, pulling them out and then thrusting them right back into you. "you're so warm, sweetheart." he mumbled in slight awe. suddenly, the image took over his mind, the image of him inside of you. he couldn't seem to wipe it away.
he knew that giving yourself to him even just like this was a lot for you, he didn't want to push you any further than he already had tonight.
however, the image still tainted his memory.
as the speed of his fingers increased, so did the volume of your noises.
a sticky, wet sound bounced from wall to wall, causing your cheeks to warm incredibly further. you flushed, your own hand coming up to cover your mouth, suddenly aware of how loud you'd been.
a coo left his lips, free hand coming to drag your wrist away from your mouth. "wanna hear every noise you can make, angel."
and his words alone made you whimper.
the palm of his hand bounced against your clit with every thrust of his hand, emitting these noises from you that you'd never been able to draw from yourself.
"y'sound so pretty, you know that, baby?" you made a noise to show you were listening, though all it told dean was that you felt good. "look so pretty too. so beautiful. all mine."
dean couldn't keep his hands to himself.
his free hand dragged against your skin, pushing at it as if trying to get closer to you in any way possible.
against his fingers formed a creamy ring. he looked down at his digits sliding in and out of you, wetness surrounding you both, keeping you together by a wet string.
he let his thoughts wander.
as evil as it was, he simply couldn't think of anything else, he imagined it was his dick sliding in and out of your hot, wet hole, the noises you'd make would be so much louder, you'd be so much fuller.
then he was suddenly aware of your experience once again.
you were tight, incredibly tight which only made him scissor his fingers. if you were going to take his dick, he needed to stretch you out first.
"dean!" you spluttered out as he scissored his fingers inside of you. "c-cant."
your hips bucked backwards, as if you were trying to tell yourself to stop, but it felt too good to stop.
and dean knew your body well, more than you knew it apparently for he only tutted, holding your wrist in his free hand. "you can take it baby, there you go." and he must have known what was happening because your insides were turning to mush.
you'd orgasmed by yourself before but this? this was true bliss.
he held your waist down to the mattress as your body squirmed, head falling back into the pillows as his name fell on your lips, moans and whines blissfully leaving your slick lips.
"good girl." he mumbled, pressing kisses anywhere his lips could reach. "you're so good, there you go. atta girl."
his words of praise fell on your lips, only making you squirm impossibly more. but nonetheless, he kept up his pace, fingers moving to help you ride out your high.
dean swore he'd never seen something so beautiful.
he watched in awe, staring at the way your face scrunched up, pretty lips parted and your eyes screwed closed, though he could only imagine you were seeing stars behind your lids, not that he was being cocky or anything.
the sight was pure bliss, angelic, even.
he swore he'd been to heaven and back, just watching your face contort.
and he'd watch it forever, if he could.
he was suddenly aware of how tight his jeans felt.
"i need to fuck you." he was mumbling with a slight neediness in his tone, kissing up and down your throat, his hand only coming to a halt when your own practically pushed it away, the overstimulation becoming too much. "can i?" a beat passed. "please?"
his face rose to meet yours and you stared at him, all blissed out. you swore that his fingers were the most skilled, pleasurable feeling you'd ever felt, much better than to how it felt when you'd done it by yourself. your lips were glossed over, heavy pants leaving your chest. huge eyes and flushed cheeks.
almost a whine of the phrase, "uh-huh." passed your lips.
and it was enough for him.
his lips crashed into your own, kissing you ever so softly, though there was passion hidden somewhere between your heavy breaths.
needy hands pawed at the end of his black shirt, his own hands reached down to cup yours, helping you tear it off of his body. his amulet dangled downwards, just below your face and he was suddenly very aware of the fact that your top was still on. he supposed he'd been too focused on making you feel good to realise.
his hands reached the end of your own top, helping you push it over your head.
no words left his lips but they parted, tongue passing over the bottom one as he stared.
your pink bra was so pretty on you he almost had to think to decide whether or not he wanted to keep it on. but he decided with the latter, hands unhooking your bra skillfully, as if he'd done it a thousand times before.
he hardly got to see your boobs, for his hands cupped them as soon as they were let out of the bra. he cursed out a grunt under his breath, one hand leaving your breast so his mouth could replace it.
against the mattress, your back arched, stomach against his own while you bit back the pretty whimpers which he yearned to hear. his mouth worked against you, rolling his tongue back and forth, practically flicking your nipple in his mouth making you unable to contain the sounds you so desperately tried to keep back.
"d―dean!" you spluttered, eyes fluttering shut. his own eyes looked up at you, watching your face contort once again.
he had to have you.
as his face left your chest, a string of spit connected your boobs to his lips.
he wiped it away, though nothing could wipe away that smut smirk he held. nonetheless, he helped himself to shimmying out of his jeans, taking his boxers off with it.
it wasn't until he took everything off that reality set in. you stared, eyes blown wide, he was, well... big. and it was sort of hard not to get nervous, even with the fact that his fingers had just been stuffed inside of you, you weren't so sure it was going to fit.
"you okay?" he leaned down, towering over you. he realised your eyes hadn't moved from his dick, pulling your chin up with his two fingers. "are you sure you want this?"
you nodded your head, thoughts a mere muddle of clouds. "i just... 'm nervous." you admitted, feeling your stomach fill with this fuzzy feeling that you only got when you talked to dean.
"you don't have to be nervous, sweetheart, not with me, okay?" the palm of his hand rested on your face. "do you want this?"
"yes." you answered without a beat.
"promise?" you could have melted right then and there. dean winchester was of many things but above all, he was gentle.
"promise." you mumbled, finding yourself relaxing just at the mere sound of his voice. his hand trailed up to find your own, fingers interlocking yours. his free hand moved down to his dick, pressing it in his hand.
you watched with curiosity yet also nervousness. you'd never seen this done in real life, so the shyness was creeping in as you watched him move his hand up and down his shaft, dragging it towards your wet hole. instantly, a sound left your lips, blush instantly creeping in as your eyes snapped up to him. he only smiled gently at you, finding your shyness rather adorable.
the head of his dick slowly pushed inside of you and that alone had you feeling awfully stretched. he wasn't just long, he was thick too meaning he stretched you out completely. "okay?" you nodded at the sound of his question, the feeling of his lips on your cheek moments after. "'s gonna hurt a little, alright?"
you nodded your head, eyes shutting closed as you braced yourself.
you weren't an idiot either, you knew first times were supposed to hurt but luckily for you, you had dean right there, holding one of your hands tight in his own, soft whispers and kisses against your skin.
what more could you really ask for.
he slowly eased himself inside of you, worried he was hurting you. then again, there wasn't really any other way to get inside without hurting you. he watched as your face contorted, a gentle whimper leaving your lips but he knew it wasn't one of pleasure, more of pain, actually.
he mumbled gentle apologies and left a trail of them in kisses from your neck to your cheeks.
finally, he was in completely and he couldn't help the string of curses that he mumbled under his breath.
dean stayed as still as he could. worry set in, he didn't want to hurt you, not when you'd been so nervous in the first place. he'd been with many girls but you were a tight fit around him, swallowing his dick whole. he couldn't help but almost coo at the way your hole clenched around him.
he felt your hips shift, and he knew you were ready. "can i―fuck, sweetheart, can i move?"
again, you nodded with a subtle whine that told him in other words, yes, he absolutely could move. and that was exactly what he did.
he slowly pulled his dick out from inside you then suddenly slammed his hips back in, his dick hitting the spot deep inside your walls. instantly, he was met with a mewl.
"shit." he uttered, wanting to draw as many sounds like that out of you as he could. his two hands now rested on yours tightening his grip as he placed them over your head so he could gain better access. "oh, fuck, sweetheart, you're so fucking pretty."
it seemed as though dean had the mouth similar to a sailor when put in a position like this.
but he couldn't help it, you were staring at him with those doe eyes, pretty noises falling from you. his hips moved with ease, slamming in and out of you, it didn't take him long to pick up the pace either.
your legs lifted to surround his waist, moans leaving the two of you as his hips slammed inside of you.
"shit, you're so good for me." he was a mumbling mess, he meant every word of what he said, though he wasn't too sure what was leaving his lips as of now. "oh, my sweet girl, thaaat's it."
he tipped his head forward, connecting his forehead to your own. your whimpers and whines were swallowed by a kiss, gentle yet so full of neediness, it was exactly what you wanted.
"feels..." you mumbled once your lips had parted, though you were sort of dazed, not all the way there. "feels so good."
"good girl, 's it, take it all." you felt his hand suddenly trail down, fingers soft against your clit while his dick still hot between your gummy walls. "'s okay, you're okay."
you shook your head, swallowing thickly as your hips bucked. "'s―'s too much!" you panted out, moans leaving you as if you couldn't keep them inside.
"you can take it, baby, know you can." but he could tell by the way your face twisted again, you were close.
and so was he.
"you gonna let go f'me? huh?"
at this point, your eyes had fluttered shut and you lips were parted as you nodded, brows strewn together. "gonna... 'm gonna cum, dean."
"that's my girl." he answered, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "cum all over my dick f'me, sweetheart."
you supposed you were more obedient than you thought.
dean watched as you squirmed and moaned, eyes screwed shut as you finally let go around him. he could feel your gummy walls squeezing him tighter, a ring of slick had formed at the base of his dick. the mere sight, his dick still stuffed inside your cunt and you, cumming all over him.
well, it was enough to have any man weak.
which was why he'd finished so quickly, too.
after all, he'd been holding on since you were sat on his lap.
and that one feeling, cumming in your wet, hot walls and watching you with that pretty, stricken and worn out face as you came on him too... he swore he had really been to heaven and back.
when you both rode out your highs, he laid himself on the bed next to you, watching as you reached your hand up, playing with his silver ring that sat on your thumb.
summary dean yells and apologizes three days later.
content gn!reader, quiet, odd!reader. younger dean (nineteen, early twenties). hurt/comfort, dean has screwed up :( but only momentarily. friends with big big crushes, per usual! use of sweet thing, angel, sweetheart.
odd!reader masterlist .ೃ࿔*:･ requested
It's all welled up frustration, Dean yelling at you. Combined with Bobby's insistence that he isn't ready to go after this damn monster yet, there isn't enough information to hunt it safely, and the fact that nobody is offering him any reasonable input, it's easy to snap. At you especially, because he knows you won't fight back. It makes him feel like shit.
"All you do is fuckin'… prance around the woods all day! You're supposed to handle the research, yeah? So get out of your head and find me something to work with."
You blink rapid and tip your face away to hide the hurt. Stepping back on your heels to hurry out of the room, you miss the fall of his expression and the regret in the downturn of his mouth. It's all wrong and askew, he never gets so angry at you. Never raises his voice, never firms it. You're out the door fast, heart full of aches.
It proves to be hard, ignoring Dean the next morning, when he knocks at your bedroom door to say goodbye before he leaves. Too stubborn to take either Bobby or Sam's advice, he's going out to gut the sonovabitch himself. You stay curled in bed, thumbing at the frayed hem of a blanket with drooped eyes, and listen as he sighs.
His footfall picks up, fades. Gone.
You'd like to follow him down the hall, loop your arms around his middle and meld against his chest. Whisper goodbye, tell him to be safe, make him promise that he'll come back like you always do. But the hurt has puffed up through the night, it stings.
Unhelpful. Can't even flip through some books.
All you do is prance around all day.
Get out of your head.
Is he just like everybody else? It makes you nearly cry to think about. Pretty Dean, who softens himself around you and lets you stick flowers through his hair, holds your hand with such tender care, smiles when you speak about the things that everyone else thinks you're weird for, couldn't be like them.
Could he?
He's gone three days and calls every night. You don't answer the first, but you know how worried he gets for you, despite how difficult it is to feel truly appreciated right now. And so you answer the two others with soft, quiet hums that barely reach him through the static.
He doesn't bring up what he said, which only works to form a bleary, wet stick over your eyes. You're called sweet thing and angel on the third phone call, and you're sure it's because he could tell you were upset. He cares, but he hurt you, and you never thought he would.
That's foolish, you realize.
You don't hear the Impala rumble up the road on the night he returns. Only the soothing bubble of water, and the small drips your fingers make as you strain the water through your fingers. A little cold, sitting on the pebbled creek bed. Peaceful and serene and alone, you've barely spoken at all today.
You've not even been prancing. Walking, idly, aimlessly. You saw a speckled dragonfly earlier and find yourself wanting to tell Dean.
It's strange, how that works. Often enough, he's already around the bend when you think up his face, his voice, his freckles. Your name is murmured soft from behind, but you don't turn. His boots crunch on the smooth rocks and he lowers himself to sit beside you.
"Sweetheart," he breathes. "Hey."
He looks tired, when you turn your head to see him. A smudge over his cheekbone, blooming blue shadows pressed into the dip of his under eye. Illuminated by silver moonlight and watching you carefully. His throat works. You blink at him.
"Hi," you offer. "Hurt?"
The relief he feels hearing your voice again is quick, it makes his stomach quiver. He shakes his head.
"You do okay while I was gone?"
You nod. It's all he's given, and he'd like more though he knows he doesn't deserve it. He sighs, a long, bleeding sound that billows white air out into the darkness. Bright stars ripple atop the creek, and you watch for several quiet moments while he gathers his thoughts. Always jumbled, he's not sure how to make things right again.
He decides to say only what he's been thinking. Fancy has never been his strong suit.
"I didn't mean it," he tells you. "I don't mean it. What I said."
You're quiet. His knee bumps yours. He goes on.
"You're… I love, uh… I love how you are. I don't want you to be any different."
"I'm unhelpful," you whisper. His chest pangs.
"No," he hurries to say. "You're not. You've helped me so much, in- in so many ways. I'm better because of you, you help me."
"I'm no good with all the hunting stuff."
"That's not true. Even if it was, you don't need to be. I don't care if you're good with it or not, okay? Will you look at me?"
You do. His eyes, shining with the universe, search your gaze frantically. It's so obvious, the easiest thing to understand now. He's sorry, he didn't mean it, he's feeling guilty and wants to make everything better. He isn't like the others, he could never be.
He loves the way you are. You feel a a dull throbbing all over.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of it."
Your fingers poke at the denim of your jeans, as you take in his apologies. His hand finds yours and stills it. Careful and sweet.
"I know you are," you say. "I'm… I was being sensitive."
"You weren't," he protests, staring at you intently. "I was an asshole."
He was. Big time, you think, but nothing hurts anymore. Your lips quirk just subtly at his language and he relaxes, shoulders lowering along with his widened eyes. He breathes, chest rising and falling steady now.
"I love yo- how you are. Don't ever change. Got it?"
You squeeze his hand. Warm now, despite the chill.
⋰˚☆ dean x reader | fluff | 1.5k
⋰˚☆ where you’d worked a case with a few fellow hunters who suggested getting drinks. slightly out of your comfort zone, dean was always the first to notice and check you were okay.
⋰˚☆ content: fem!reader, established relationship, alcohol consumed, bar setting, dean caring about reader <3
hunts always ended in different ways.
sometimes going back to the motel or bunker to shower and relax, going to the closest diner to eat, share some pie. other times you’d go out for drinks, spend a little time at the local bar.
every time, it would be you, dean and sam. just the three of you. often just you and dean at times when you wanted to be alone together.
it wasn’t often that you’d work a case with other hunters. maybe some old friends that sam or dean knew, people they’d worked with before, some that john knew before he passed.
while working the case, you’d stick with dean, pair off with him, do research and questioning with him. you weren’t all that fond of being around people you didn’t know, especially other guys. dean always understood that, made sure you were comfortable the whole time.
the hunt was fine, you didn’t mind that much. it didn’t even bother you when you had some lengthy discussions with one of the other hunters.
when it did start bothering you? one of the guys suggesting going out for drinks. knowing a bar that hunters often went to was close by. of course you’d all said yes, even though you knew it might not be your favourite way to settle down after a hunt.
it started off with everyone getting drinks, sat together to talk over the hunt, some teasing here and there for different techniques. until slowly a few would break off, have smaller talks.
first, was a few of the other hunters, then sam got up, going to talk to the guy he’d worked with on research for part of today. you thought you’d get some time with dean finally, until one of the guys called him over from across the bar.
“will you be alright for a couple minutes, sweetheart?” dean looked to you, saw you glancing over to the hunter. “or you can come over too.”
a shake of your head, “you go ahead,” you smile. “i’ll stay here. just me and my cocktail will be just fine.”
dean chuckled softly as he stood, leaning to kiss your cheek before heading to the bar. he’d been sipping on a beer, taking it with him as you saw him sitting down, already getting to chatting.
the lead hunter of the group went over shortly, starting a longer conversation. you were okay on your own, thinking you’d have some peace for a while. until one of the girls you’d worked with earlier in the day plopped onto the seat opposite you.
“nice work today,” she began, then motioning over to dean at the bar. “you two make a good team.”
“thanks,” a short but friendly reply. “big group you got going on.”
you looked around, feeling like half the bar was taken up just with them. it was different to you, dean and sam. with the addition of castiel being around sometimes. you functioned better in a small group.
“it works,” she shrugged. “we all have our place, what we do best, you know?”
you brought your drink up to your lips again, taking a bigger gulp as another joined you, this time sitting beside you. you sucked in a long breath, eyeing dean still talking. thinking you should’ve opted to go back to your motel room.
it wasn’t long before the conversations got flowing, starting off with you talking a little, and it got less and less as the night went on. maybe feeling a little drained, battery run out, too many people when usually you’d be curled up in dean’s arms by now.
instinctively, you reached for your necklace. something you often did without thinking, any time you were uncomfortable in a situation. moved the pendant back and forth, fiddled with it in your palm, it helped you to calm down.
the necklace being a gift from dean helped a lot. he got it a while back, something he thought you might like. a little heart on a silver chain, one you almost never took off now.
you would’ve stayed distracted, calming down, if your phone hadn’t buzzed in your pocket.
unsure of who would be texting you, since you could see sam across the room, dean was at the bar…
you pulled your phone from your pocket, switching on the front screen to see a notification from none other than dean. your brows furrowed, clicking his name to check the text.
dean: do you wanna leave?
oblivious, you didn’t know why he was asking. you glanced to him, saw he was talking again. under the bar, his phone was resting on his thigh, his hand over it as if waiting to feel the vibration of a notification.
you replied back,
no we can stay longer if you want
watching as he placed his beer down, turned his attention to his phone screen for a minute. you looked away again, sipping on your drink once more while zoning in and out of the conversation at your table.
dean: you’re sure?
you cleared your throat, smiling at sam as he walked past to head to the bathroom, one of the girls asking you a quick question. something about what bullets you’d used on the hunt today, to which you gave a fast answer.
then you quickly replied to dean again,
yea, why wouldn’t i be
turning off your phone this time, you expected him to carry on, probably get another drink, engage further into these lore conversations that seemed to be going on.
when, again, another vibration from your pocket.
dean: you’re fiddling with your necklace
you lifted your gaze to him again, he gave a quick look, small wave. then you sent an immediate reply with a slight frown.
how on earth could you have noticed that from over there
not that you saw, but a small smile grew on dean’s face as he read your reply. you’d been together for long enough that he knew your tells, knew what you did when you were uncomfortable. knew when he needed to get you out of there even if you didn’t say it yourself.
dean: you’re the only thing i notice sweetheart
before you had time to reply, you felt a hand on your shoulder, causing you to look up. right there, dean stood behind your chair, squeezing your shoulders gently as he leaned forwards.
“i don’t mean to interrupt, ladies,” he gave a nod towards them. “it’s getting a little late, think we should head out.”
nobody minding at all, dean took your hand, helping you to get up and out of your chair, seeing sam waiting at the door once you were standing.
leading the way, dean’s hand your back as you waked towards the impala, he unlocked it, sam getting in first. leaving time for you and dean to stand back for a moment.
“how you feeling?” dean asked, gentle palm cupping your cheek as if to check you over. “anything you need?”
a head shake, “i’m fine, dean, really.”
he grumbled slightly, “you’re stubborn, you know that?” your brow furrowed. “you’re overwhelmed, you’re still fiddling.”
that’s when your hand stopped, realising you had reached for your necklace again without even knowing it. not until dean pointed it out. you closed your eyes, sighing.
“it’s okay if you are, baby, this was a little out of your comfort zone, huh?” he stepped closer, taking your hand in his instead. “we can go back to the motel, or drop sammy off and get pie. just the two of us, like it usually is.”
you thought for a minute, looking to the ground first, to where you could see sam in the car, then back to dean. seeing his eyes shining in the light, how he just wanted to make sure you were okay before going anywhere.
how he always knew how you were feeling was beyond you. he seemed to notice it before you did yourself these days.
“maybe pie,” you mumbled.
“yea?” dean’s lips ever so gently curved into a smile. “we can get pie.”
you nodded, smiling softly as you let yourself fall against him. his arms wrapping around you in an instant. he felt as your fingers gripped onto his shirt, letting you release just a touch of the tension you were feeling.
“it’s okay, sweetheart, i’ve got you,” he kissed the top of your hair, rocking you back and forth to add to the comfort he knew you needed.
“love you, de,” you mumbled into his chest, blushing softly. something you still always did.
dean moved back just an inch, holding your chin between thumb and index finger to press a chaste kiss to your lips.
“love you too, sweetheart,” he moved back after, opening up the passenger side door for you. “now let’s go get some pie, hm?”
a slow nod, you climbed into the car, smiling back at sam, where he often was since dean wanted you to be up front. dean got in right after, starting up the impala to leave the busy bar, ready to end the night on a calm and quiet note with pie.
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SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.
The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.
But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.
He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.
The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.
He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.
“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”
“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”
“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”
“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”
“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”
“No, you may not.”
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.
“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”
You’re such a fucking idiot.
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.
“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, it’s killing me.
Please.
“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.
“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”
“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”
“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”
“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.
“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
He didn’t get it the second time either.
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.
Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.
Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.
Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.
All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.
Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.
“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”
“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”
“You do? Woah, news to me.”
“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.
“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
“What?”
“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”
A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.
“You think I’m pretty?”
Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”
No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.
“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.
All of his defenses started to crack.
“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.
“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”
“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”
He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.
“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”
Well, he knows now.
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.
You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
“I wish you’d put them out on me.”
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.
You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.
He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.
“You’re the prettiest, De.”
Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.
He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.
“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”
“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.
“What are you working on, anyway?”
He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.
“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.
If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.
Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.
“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.
“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.
“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”
For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.
There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.
“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”
You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.
“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.
"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.
“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”
“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.
He’s doomed, even more than before.
Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.
He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.
Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.
Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.
Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.
If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.
But then, incident four happened.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Dean was struggling with his necktie.
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.
But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.
“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.
“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.
“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.
“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.
“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”
He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.
Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.
“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.
“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.
“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.
If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.
“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.
“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to.”
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.
He whispered your name, pained.
“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.
Dean was just as lost.
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.
“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.
If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.
He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.
“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”
“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”
“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.
“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.
“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”
“Why are you doing this to me?”
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.
“Why do you think?”
He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.
“Because you want me dead?”
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.
“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.
“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”
He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.
But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“How do you love me?”
He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”
“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”
Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.
“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.
“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.
“What changed your mind?”
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.
“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”
“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”
“How?”
It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.
“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.
So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”
“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.
“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”
“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”
“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.
“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”
“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”
“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”
“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”
“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”
“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”
“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.
“You’re really obsessed with that.”
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”
Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.
“That’s it.”
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.
Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.
Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.
The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
all the nights (and the days too) ⭒ dean winchester
pairing: dean winchester x f!reader
summary: You got the wrong end of the stick with Dean. He clearly wants sex from you and nothing more. (Except that's not actually true, is it?)
warnings: 18+ mdni! smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, dumbification, hella dirty talk from dean), miscommunication final boss, kinda fwb but they are very in love, jealousy on both sides, hurt / comfort, cursing, sad dean, no use of y/n, light mentions of alcohol, gonna be honest with u guys this is angsty as hell but i kiss it better i promise <3
word count: 11.8k words
a/n: i love the spn fandom. you guys were so nice about my first dean fic. here's another. i hope you like this one just as much :)
You didn’t think you would ever see this again. Maybe that was naive of you - you know about Dean’s reputation and his history. But things had been so steady for the last few months. He seemed ready.
Obviously not, though, because Dean is flirting.
And not with you.
He’s got one arm leaned up against the bar, that cheeky lopsided grin plastered across his face. When he first approached the busty blonde in the leopard print, you had thought - hoped - that maybe he was just asking around to see if anyone knew anything about the killings that had been taking place for the last week in this stupid town. The town you are hating more every second you have to watch your not-boyfriend flirt and laugh with someone else.
But they’ve been chatting for too long. He hasn’t approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And he’s got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. He’s never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.
She’s a bit more out-there than Dean’s usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there aren’t many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that he’s not in the mood for tonight.
You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure there’s about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. You’re just going to have to stick it out until then.
You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.
You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.
Dean is still talking to the woman. She’s laughing now and it’s high and girlish. She’s slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risqué compliment that she’s pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows he’s got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. You’d rather not witness this next part.
“Get you a drink?”
You blink, looking over to your right. It’s the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.
“I got one,” you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.
“One you actually like.”
You shrug, vaguely aware he’s probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.
He doesn’t ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because he’s served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.
When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadn’t. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals.
“Never seen you here before,” he says, not really looking at you. He’s looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.
“Just passing through.”
“Where you headed?”
“Road trip. I’m with my two friends.”
He points the neck of his beer over in Dean’s direction. “That one of them?”
“Yeah.”
He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. You’re not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.
“Where’s the other one?”
Sam is working late at a library nearby. “Fuck knows.”
He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if it’s exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.
“You came to visit at a weird time, y’know,” he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. “Got some weird shit going on.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. “What kinda weird shit?”
“Bunch of murders. Real nasty ones.”
You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that he’s pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.
“Do they know who did it?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think it’s someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.” When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.
“Well you don’t have to worry about Dean over there,” you say. “We just got here today. I can vouch for him.”
He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. “Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”
You can’t help a laugh and it’s almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but you’ll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, that’s when you’ll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. You’ll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, it’s enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean.
And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You don’t even know his name and he doesn’t ask yours, but he’s funny and decent enough to talk to and doesn’t try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.
“Buy you another?”
You’re almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadn’t even fully realised you had been drinking it.
“Isn’t this my round?” You have no intention of buying him a beer, but you’re curious to see what he says. You’re playing with him a bit and you don’t feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.
Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. “Made out good tonight. I can afford it.”
You’re about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.
You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.
“We’re going,” he says, voice flat.
You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. There’s a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. She’s probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.
A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you can’t say you’re any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.
“You come back here tomorrow,” he says, smiling while you grab your coat. “That drink is yours.”
You don’t answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.
You didn’t drive to the bar since it’s less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but you’re starting to really wish you did. Silence doesn’t feel as sharp when you’re in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. You’re used to long stretches of silence in the car - it’s where you spend most of your time.
There’s nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Dean’s boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but he’s trying to be sly about it so you’re giving no indication that you notice him.
You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that you’re distracted and that’s why you’re not talking. You’ve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know you’re not quite playing this off right.
“Hear anything from Sam?” you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like you’re about to explode or crumble apart in the silence.
“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. “He’s gonna be there another while. Says he’s onto somethin’.”
Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse.
“It’s still open at this time?” you ask instead.
He huffs a laugh. “Don’t think so.”
“Oh.”
The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you don’t want to hear that from him right now. You’re not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.
You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time you’re back in the corner of your motel room. It’s like this night never even existed.
The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he can’t decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.
The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesn’t happen. It’s like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didn’t pick up on the first time. One time, it’s the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, it’s a slow wink. You’re not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.
Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that he’s not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you don’t even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams.
You can’t say that you’re not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. It’s Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.
The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isn’t really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about ‘exclusivity’ or ‘feelings’ or ‘what does this mean?’. And it’s not like that wasn’t something you were aware of but- fuck.
You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldn’t tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking.
Because Dean doesn't act like it’s nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then he’ll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he can’t think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart can’t be blamed for turning this into something it’s not.
No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.
You say ‘mostly’ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he won’t say, even to you. And you know that he’s touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.
You’re not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.
Right now, you’re staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.
When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.
When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like he’s working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. He’s not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight.
You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Sam’s bed and getting under the covers.
You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.
You wake up with Sam’s large body crammed against yours. He’s snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up.
Dean isn’t in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didn’t put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.
Whatever. Not your problem anymore.
The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face.
“You need some help gettin’ out from under Goliath?”
His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know it’s just because it’s early, you haven’t fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head.
Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.
“I was trying not to wake him up,” you say sternly.
“I didn’t,” he protests. “Look at him.”
Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. He’s already drooling a bit onto the pillow. You’re fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower.
“Y’know, he’s out cold,” he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.
“I can see that.”
“Probably wouldn’t even notice if I joined you in there.”
You’re battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He can’t be serious. He’s propositioning you? After last night?
Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldn’t be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things.
What you hadn’t realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.
The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he can’t be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when it’s convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.
You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.
“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling your smile waver. “You know Sam hates when we do that with him around.”
Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. “Never stopped you before. We can be quiet. Don’t even need to do nothin’.”
“You look like you need your own shower,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. “I’ll be quick.”
You step past him before he has time to react.
The whole time you’re in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you can’t make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell he’s talking slower.
He clearly has no idea what’s wrong with you or why you’re acting different. He doesn’t even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because you’re no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And it’s usually fine because he never usually asks for something you’re not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but he’s asking you to sign yourself away this time. And that’s not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.
Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Sam’s notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.
“Where were you this morning?” you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.
“Went down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.”
You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but don’t comment on it.
“What now?”
“We gotta go across state. To another churchyard.”
“Why? You didn’t burn the bones already?”
He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. “I burned someone’s bones, yeah.”
Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. “You burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?”
“Not my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,” he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Sam’s bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.
“He gave you the details of some randomer’s grave?”
“Not some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isn’t the one whacking people. It’s his wife. And she’s buried across state.”
You’re fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Sam’s. “How did you work that one out so fast?”
He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. It’s not fatal but it looks damn painful. “Crazy bitch tried to gank me.”
“What the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.”
He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. “You worry too much.”
You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.
You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesn’t look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin.
He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.
The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.
“Why are you so sleepy?” you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. “You have sepsis or something?”
His laugh is tired. “What’d I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?”
“Dean, you’re literally passing out on a ten minute drive. It’s not even six o’clock.”
“Spending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.”
You frown. “You stayed up all night?”
“Sure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.”
You’re not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You don’t ask.
“Why? Why not wait?” you ask instead.
“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.
Dean didn't sleep again last night.
He doesn’t tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like he’s trying to stop himself from nodding off.
You sit quietly in the back seat and don’t complain that he is playing some Blue Öyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you don’t. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.
Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.
“We getting a place here?” you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.
“Nah,” Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. “If it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. I’m gonna sleep in the backseat.”
Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.
You look at Dean for just a moment. He’s looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.
“I’ll join you in the front,” you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll do enough talking to keep us both awake.”
Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You can’t look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.
You don’t talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and there’s a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You can’t seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that he’s trying to work out what’s going on with you.
“So,” Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice is dull. You’re almost just saying it to say it - you know there’s no real point in pretending.
“We’re not doing this,” he says. “You guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.”
“Your sleep? I’m the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that you’re a behemoth?”
Sam abruptly laughs. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like you’re just one person anyway.”
Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though it’s too dark to see anything.
“Did he fuck up?” Sam asks eventually.
No - not really. It’s you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you can’t say that. You just shrug.
Sam sighs. “He doesn’t know what he did. You gotta talk to him.”
“I know,” you say.
“No you don’t. You’re just trying to get me off your back.”
“I have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.”
He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat.
Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. He’s never known anyone to not feel regret once they’re through with him.
But it seems to him most of the time that you don’t see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that he’s not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of… caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when you’re lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that don’t block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadn’t worked out just because it wasn’t with you.
You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.
You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that it’s just because he wants your attention.
“Don’t you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?” he asks you and you smile and joke that you’re doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit you’ve seen together.
But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if you’re stopping yourself from mouthing the words.
It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you don’t really have ‘your own bed’ - you’re on the road too much - but that doesn’t matter. It’s his daydream and he says it doesn’t need to be burdened by reality.
You’ll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so he’ll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 o’clock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping.
He won’t admit that he’s only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what they’re learning in school and you’ll never say it either but you’ll both know.
He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like.
He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because he’s a man and he doesn’t need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldn’t join him for showers anymore, and he wouldn’t get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to ‘let it soak in’.
He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like you’re giving him a facial. You both know it’s a charade when he grumbles about how it’s a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he can’t accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. You’re always happy to pretend you’re making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this.
In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because “you’re going to look like a leather purse in five years if you don’t moisturise, Dean”. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. He’s been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.
He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how it’s your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him he’s gross.
But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.
There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.
This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time it’s working against him. He can’t seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe he’s just scared of how you’d answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that you’re being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and you’re being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesn’t know why. But he has a few guesses.
Because Dean is the first person to admit he’s a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammy’s outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though you’re just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that you’re running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. He’ll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.
He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldn’t understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husband’s neck was slit in bed.
Because if that was you - Dean wouldn’t make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about ‘getting back out there’ and ‘she’d want you to be happy’ after Jess, but it’s true. He wouldn’t make it and he wouldn’t want to.
But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didn’t care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.
He’s not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable.
Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like.
So it’s best not to know.
You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and don’t answer. The question is cruel and confusing.
He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesn’t. You’re not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesn’t happen. And you can recognise that it’s probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldn’t have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.
But, having forgiven him, you’re not sure it’s something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. You’re not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.
So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When there’s a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.
Most of the time, you’re just exhausted. Even Sam’s annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people can’t stop you from sleeping well into the day.
Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.
But when you look at Sam, he’s seated on the other bed. And he’s taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that you’ll be sharing a bed with Dean.
The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you don’t move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You can’t wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. You’ll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply he’s hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.
“Coming for a drink?” Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like he’s talking to a kid.
“Not feeling it tonight,” you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. “You guys go ahead, though.”
“Sweetheart, come out for one drink. It’s just across the road.” There’s a thin edge of irritation in Dean’s voice, despite the pet-name.
“I’m not feeling it,” you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.
Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about ‘I’m just gonna-’ and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.
“That’s a loada crap,” Dean bites, hardly noticing Sam’s departure. “You’ve not been feelin’ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Don’t just sit here and mope.”
You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way he’s acknowledging what he’s done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but it’s hollow. You’re mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that ‘the conversation’ is about to happen and it’s probably overdue. But there isn’t a word in this world about this particular subject that you’d like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesn’t make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.
“I don’t know how,” is what you land on, finally.
Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.
You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You can’t decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, “You have nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.”
Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.
“What does that mean?” you ask softly.
“It means you don’t have to feel… guilty, or whatever. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t kill me ‘cause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckin’ zombie. And you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but it’s once again empty and defeated.
“You still there?” Dean probes gently.
“I’m here,” you say. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t know why I should feel guilty.”
You’re still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Dean’s voice. “Then what’s all the moping for? I thought-”
There is another stretch of silence.
“My feelings are hurt,” you say. He has won and you’ve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. “I knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you… y’know.”
Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but don’t look at them.
“Before I what? I don’t know. You’re gonna have to help me out here, angel. I’m in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.”
You don’t see how that’s possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but he’s not lying about this. You know.
“The woman, Dean.”
“What woman?”
“There’s been more than one?”
You don’t bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.
“There’s been none, if I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”
Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.
“Then I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” you say firmly. “I’m talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.”
Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.
“Jesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.”
You’re horrified that he can’t recall. You hope this doesn’t mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.
“The fuckin’-” Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. “The fuckin’ widow?”
“How the fuck would I know if she was a widow?” you snap. You’re ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like he’s suddenly enjoying this. It’s not how you saw the conversation going.
“That was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husband’s neck was slit the week before. The first case.”
You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. You’re playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You can’t remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadn’t imagined.
“What the hell are you-” you start.
“I didn’t touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.”
You frown. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.
“You don’t give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.”
“What smile?”
You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like you’re masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t even know I did that until now. But you’re right, I don’t give you that look.”
Your heart plummets. You can’t even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.
“You know why?” he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.
“‘Cause it’s phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.”
“Oh.”
There’s an apology in your tone but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He just mimics your ‘Oh’ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.
“Thought I lost you for good,” he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. “I can’t believe you thought I would-”
You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. You’re glad that you’re not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.
“Sweetheart, there’s nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. You’re mine, aren’t you?”
You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is wobbly. “Yeah, Dean, I’m yours. I’m yours. God, I’m so so sorry-”
“Slow down, angel-”
“I just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, y’know, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I should’ve just-”
“Sweetheart.”
You stop. When you look over at Dean, he’s looking at you too.
“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just- fuck. I’m so… I love you.”
You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. “I love you too.”
He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.
He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.
Dean texts Sam to let him know he’ll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.
SAM: Gross.
SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.
You’re mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.
You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesn’t tell you that he’s missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.
For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesn’t grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you don’t pretend you’re forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless it’s to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You don’t admonish him for that either just for this one time. He’s hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesn’t try anything in earnest.
Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Dean’s flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.
“Fuck, angel. You have no idea…” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d be allowed touch you like this again.”
The way he’s kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but you’re too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.
He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.
“Can’t believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckin’ messed up.” He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. “Was having wet fuckin’ dreams. Kept forgetting you weren’t-”. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. He’s trying not to kill the mood.
“Dean-” you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.
“Yeah, baby? You miss me too?” He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.
It is almost criminal how pretty he is. You’ve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks he’s pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.
He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.
“Asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at the other thigh.
You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.
“Missed you, Dean. Couldn’t do anything without you,” you say.
“Yeah?” You can’t see Dean’s mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. You’re wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. “She missed me too, huh?”
He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.
But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.
“Yes! She missed you. She missed you so much.”
Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump.
“Fuck, yeah. Bet she did,” he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. “Never gonna go cold on me again, are you?”
You shake your head wildly. You might whisper ‘Never’ a few times, or maybe it’s just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile.
“Good girl,” he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before he’s diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.
You can’t help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.
But your mind is still working overtime and you still can’t get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.
“I think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.”
He doesn’t move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether you’re serious.
“You’re- shit- fuck,” you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. “I’m the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.”
That’s when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. “You’re fuckin’ adorable. You think this is for you?” he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. “Quit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.”
If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. “Are you real?” you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesn’t do much to help your problem.
The problem being that you’re about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. He’s lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.
“So fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “Jesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?”
You’d probably make some lame joke about how he’s the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope it’s sufficient.
“You’re so cute when you’re about to give it to me,” he says, fingers pumping and curling. “Y’go so dumb and needy.”
When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well you’re doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.
You never really come down from that high - you’re horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.
He smiles, even while his eyes darken. “Another one? Already?”
“Gimme a break,” you say. “I haven’t gotten off in three weeks.” You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesn’t immediately register as an issue. Maybe you’ll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.
“Three weeks? Shit,” he laughs. “I’ve been jackin’ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.”
“Shut up,” you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so you’re rubbing against the underside of his cock. You’re soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you don’t give much away.
Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. You’re clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you.
You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and you’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the sight or the sensation.
Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.
You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.
“Fuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where you’re taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.
“Think you’re just needy,” you whisper, grinding down laxly. You’re teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.
“Damn right I’m fuckin’ needy,” he grunts. “You got any idea what it was like goin’ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?”
Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but you’ll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.
“Gonna need an answer, angel,” he says and he knows he’s being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.
“I don’t know,” you moan, hating him and loving him.
He’s fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.
“You don’t know?” He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way he’s pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. “Don’t know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistin’ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckin’ brother?”
Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information you’re being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.
“I didn’t know. Dean, fuck- I’m sorry.” You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.
“Sh sh sh,” Dean cooes, not all that kindly. “S’okay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didn’t she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And you’re never gonna keep her from me again, are you?”
“No. Never again,” you whisper, eyes rolling back.
He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. “That’s my girl,” he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin.
He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then he’s sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.
It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far he’s pressing into you but you’re always so wet when it’s Dean and right now you’re wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and that’s a trade you’ll take any day.
“Jesus-” he chokes out “Hot - wet - tight fuckin’ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one I’ll ever need.”
His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Dean’s words have you gushing.
“I missed you,” he confesses, breathless. “Missed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.”
You’re almost glad that Dean can’t seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression you’re sure you’re sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.
“I missed you too,” you babble. “Missed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, I’m gonna come.”
He twitches inside you once and then he’s leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you.
He kisses you, deep and dirty. There’s too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.
“That’s it, baby, there you go,” he gasps, shaking. “Fuck. I love you so much.”
You’re still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each other’s eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.
You’re sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Dean’s cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.
When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Dean’s confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesn’t quite believe that this won’t be taken from him again tomorrow, but you’ll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.
“Might need another shower,” he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.
a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao
— 𝜗𝜚⋆ your husband gets clingy and sappy during sex
it always starts heated, hungry, almost borderline feral when you get your hands on each other. the rough yet gentle way his voice echoes in your ear at every promise he tells you he’s gonna do to you: knows it makes your knees weak and pussy wet.
his touch always traveling around your body, knowing it like the back of his hand, knows what you like and don’t like, knows which buttons to press to have you trembling and shaking. whispers the dirtiest things in your ear while he’s got this finger stuffed in your cunt and you can’t do anything but grip his wrist tightly and moan into his mouth when he kisses you.
but there’s also times when it shifts, the entire bedroom becomes soft all of a sudden, like now; sat back on his knees, thumb rubbing the slowest circles on your clit while his can’t take his eyes off the way his cock eases in and out of you with one leg pushed off to the side and the other bent over his shoulder. “baby,” he murmurs, deep and low in his throat, his lips littering wet kisses against your leg. “you’re so pretty, baby.”
your eyes snap open at his words, dazed and confused. “huh?” through tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, you catch sight of him, but he isn’t looking at you. he’s fixated on your pussy. your lips part with another string of soft whines, hand loosely pressed against his chest when he’s slowly grinding into you; the thickness of his cock stretching you out perfectly. “what did you say?”
if he hears you, he choses not to say anything, not yet anyway, too entranced with how he fills you up, eyes hooded and breath stuttering at the warmth of you wrapped around him. doesn’t seem to register the way your nails sink into the skin of his chest each time he pulls out just enough to have you whimpering in protest before pushing right back into you. each thrust knocking your breath out of you.
it’s when his eyes flicker up and meet yours finally, lowering your leg from his shoulder, that he smiles; the lazy and giddy kind, before he’s leaning over you. his body, made up of pure muscle and strength, cages yours beneath him. “you’re pretty too, sweetheart,” his face is instantly tucked into the crook of your neck, hot breath against your skin, causing you to shiver and clench around him. “so pretty, my pretty lady,” he continues, hands running up and down your thighs before he’s wrapping them around his waist for you, body lowering more onto yours.
you gasp into his shoulder, the action of his body pressing down onto you causes his cock to sink deeper. “baby,” you whine, biting his shoulder, hands running up and down his back, moving to his sides just to feel the hotness of his skin before they’re moving back up and around his back; the muscle is hard beneath your touch.
his thrusts are slow and gentle, the thick vein on the underside of his cock throbs against your walls, rough hands slide down your legs and over your hips. his ragged breaths and groans vibrate against your neck and the sharpness of your nails sink into his back. “my pretty baby, so sweet and soft,” he murmurs once more, teeth nipping at your neck. “you’re so perfect, so mine.”
he’s gone, that much you realise, and you also realise he’s not even phased by the way your nails continue to rake up and down his back each time he grinds into you, his mind and body focused on how good you feel wrapped around his cock, how you feel so pliable beneath him. those same hands that make you feel safe no matter what, grip your hips tighter once his pace gets more faster.
“m’yours,” you choked out, the sound a mixture between a moan and a sob; either way it goes straight to his head, panting into your now sweaty neck. “all yours, honey please.”
“you’re so perfect, m’so lucky to have you,” he can’t stop, his fingers sinking deeper into your hips and nose sliding up and down your neck.
the plap plap plap of skin slapping echo the room, your ankles locked tightly around him, heels pressing into his lower back each time he drags his cock out, enough to make you whine, before sliding right back in, the tip of his cock catching onto the spot inside you that has stars behind your ears and toes curling. “feels ‘shoo good,” you moan, hips moving on their own accord to meet his thrusts.
your arm wraps around his neck, holding him close to you and you moan, gasp and whine into his ear softly. his sweaty body sticks to yourself like glue, if anything his grip on your hips tighten, lips attaching to your neck hungrily. “so warm, holy shit” his voice slurs slightly, one hand quickly moving between your bodies where he finds your throbbing clit. “so wet,” his fingers work slowly, drawing figure eights on the bud, groaning each time you clench around his cock. “you’re so fucking perfect, fuck honey.”
his words melt your heart, makes your eyelids flutter closed just for a second; or longer, you can’t tell anymore, basking in his love and affection. “mmm love you,” you gasp, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulder.
“love you more,” he pants, lifting his head from your neck and pressing his forehead to yours, eyes hooded. “love you so much, my best girl, pretty wife.”
you cry out against his cheek, walls fluttering around his cock once again at his words, never fails to make you shy and happy no matter how many times he says it. “more, need more, please, honey—”
“wanna feel you, need to feel you, just for a little linger—ohmygod,” another particular thrust of his hips has your legs tightening around him and a deep rumble from his throat causes his pace to falter for just a split second. “pussy was made for me, you were made for me, baby, hm? yeah? lemme feel you for longer, need to, mmmm, that’s it.”
“can’t, need you to move faster.”
his lips curl up into a smirk and you cling to his shoulder tighter when he moves his head towards your neck again, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “lemme play with you a little longer, baby, yeah?”
✦Read on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦summary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end✦
✦wc: 10k✦
✦author's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoy✦
This room is going to suffocate you.
Outside, there’s a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. You’re wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, they’re developing a purplish tint under the nails, and you’d think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.
But you’re burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal you’re not allowed to indulge. It’s wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat that’s hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.
Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.
Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like you’re not even in the room.
He’s apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when you’d been walking inside, and he’d doubled over in pain on the side walk. He’d grabbed your hip for support, and while you’d been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some ice—he’d said he was warm, you’ d been worrying about a fever—and you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.
At least he hadn’t been touching himself. He’s managed not to do that at all, which you’d be impressed by if you weren’t so worried.
Sam says it’s a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.
“We’ve seen these before.” Sam had said. “It’s run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.”
Run of the mill.
Simple.
Sam had said it like you’d be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.
Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyone’s good.
And it might’ve been simple. You might’ve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You would’ve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how he’d look.
Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as he’d hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didn’t get to experience.
Your heart would’ve silently ached, a wound you’ve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands would’ve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever he’d left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.
The brain that won’t stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. You’ve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.
He’s about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. He’s not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. He’s got anger issues. He’s stubborn, he’s reserved. You have issues too, and you’re more stubborn. He’s fucked up- You’re fucked up, and he’s also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where he’s a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. He’d probably be possessive. You’d like to be possessed. There’s no future there. Yet.
You’ve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasn’t even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust would’ve been manageable. You would’ve recovered.
Instead, it’s love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.
The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that he’s being a bit of a pussy. It’s not a fair thought. He’s cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that he’s not on board with.
But you live like that every day, and you don’t whine about it. You’ve felt like if he didn’t touch you now you’d die, you’ve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what you’d let him do to you, you’ve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that you’re staring again. Maybe the mold should’ve crawled into you, or however this works.
You wouldn’t have been such a massive bitch about it.
You would’ve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.
You wouldn’t have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.
You would’ve been home by now.
But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.
“You’re being a bitch.” You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.
Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. “Ouch, sweetheart- Shit-“
The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now he’s back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and what’s wrong with you that he’s never looked so hot-
“You’d be a bitch too.” He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. “I feel like I’m dying-“
“You’d stop feeling like that, if you’d just pick someone to fuck.”
“I’m tryin’-“
“Not hard enough.”
“Trust me, I’m plenty hard enough- Fuck-“
You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.
“You’re gonna attack a dying man-“
“I can do whatever I want, when I’m helping you find a fuck buddy.” You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. “How about Miranda? She’s thirty-six, she’s got really nice hair, and- Oo-“ You scroll a little further down the page. “She likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.”
Dean laughs again, shaking his head. “Boats aren’t water cars.”
“They are. Think about it.“
“They don’t have a big engineering overlap, I don’t know shit about boats-“
“Then you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Dean’s stupid, cursed sake.
“She looks nice.” You mumble, praying he doesn’t hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. “I think you’d like her.”
Dean grunts. “No. Next name.”
You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.
It’s been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. He’s been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.
The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. You’d call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you weren’t terrified of the answer being no. There’s no way it’s not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. It’s wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.
But it’s your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.
You’ll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.
Later. When he’s not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.
“Hannah.” You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. “She’s got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like she’s a nail artist. That could be nice.”
Dean snorts. “What, you think I’m gonna have her get me a manicure after?”
“No, I just-“ You take a long breath. You’d rather have a living Dean that doesn’t love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesn’t love you.
Dean starts to twist—he’s going to try and look at you again—and you clear your throat.
“It might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.”
He mutters your name, but you push on.
“For a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-“
Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-
“Sorry-“
“Stop talking.” He snaps, and you nod.
Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.
It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like he’s having a nightmare.
You see the head of his cock again. It’s thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-
“Emma!” You shout to the room. You need this to be done. “She’s a nurse, that can be a kink thing-“
“Stop.”
You sigh, turning down the phone screen. “Dean-“
“No. Don’t want Ella-“
“Emma-“
“Don’t fuckin’ care. We’re not doing more of this- Shit.”
“Are you just swearing, or is that an adjective-“
“Sweetheart.” He’s almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. “Stop. Talking.”
You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. You’re trying to help. You’ve given your whole night just to help the man you’re hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and you’re tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly he’s got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like it’s not killing you and tired of watching him like this.
He’s in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. You’re not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how he’s looking, how he’s muttering to himself under his breath, you’re willing to bet it’s gone up another handful of degrees.
Dean’s going to die, if he doesn’t deal with this. And if he dies, you’re not going to deal with it.
You don’t want to think about what you’ll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.
Dean wants to be done with this.
You’re not done with him.
You swipe right on Emma.
For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because you’re the best friend in the world, and pretend you can’t see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.
“Dean.” You say softly, and he grunts.
“Baby, I need you not to talk-“
“You can take it out.” You mutter, keeping your focus on Emma’s texts. “If you need that. I’m a big girl, I- I won’t mind.”
That’s a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you won’t be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light you’ll float away, your need for him will become so consuming you’ll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.
But if it helps him. You’ll do anything to help him, even if it’s searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.
Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-
“No.” He grunts, and you blink.
“It’s okay-“
“No. I‘m not doin’ that to you.”
You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. “I- I could leave the room-“
“No, don’t-“ He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.
Looking at you.
His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hisses—the movement likely too much—but still reaches out a shaking hand, like he’s going to try and grab you.
“Don’t go, just- Fuckin’-“ His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.
You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. “Dean-“
“’m fine-“
“You’re not fine-“
“I’m- Son of a bitch-“ His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and that’s enough.
“Fine. Don’t masturbate, see if I care.”
He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head.
“You’re not fine, you fucking idiot. You’re dying.” You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.
Emma’s very nice. Nice in the kind of way that’s going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.
But she’s going to help. She’s going to save Dean, and you’ll offer her grace for that.
Dean’s eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. He’s looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.
Whatever protests he has, you won’t hear them. He’s not allowed to die.
“Get up.” You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. “Get dressed. I’m starting the car in ten minutes, and if you’re not there, I’m coming back and you’re having sex with me.”
You don’t look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.
It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. You’re good at sex. You’ve gotten raving reviews, you’re batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you don’t really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with don’t manage to make you cum, and when they do it’s a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.
Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. You’d worship him. You’d get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. You’d let him fuck himself back into you, you’d let him throw you around, you’d do anything-
It’s probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.
You never would’ve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. It’s better like this, no matter how much it hurts.
You smile when he gets into the car. “Nice fashion statement-“
“Shut up.” He grumbles, glaring out at the road. “Where’re we goin’.”
“A bar.”
He makes a sour expression. “Why.”
“Because you have a date. With Emma the nurse.”
Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to you—your elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxins—works his jaw, then shakes his head.
You sigh. ‘Dean-“
“No. I told you, I’m not doin’ that.“
“Yes, you are.”
“No-“
“Yes!” You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.
You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.
And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.
He mutters your name, and it’s the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.
You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.
“You’re going into that bar. You’re going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and you’d just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.” You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You’re going to tell her she’s pretty. You’re going to call a fake uber, and I’m going to drive you to the motel. You’re going to fuck Emma until you’re cured, and then we can go home. Understand?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like he’s going to argue. You don’t give him the chance.
“No. You’re doing this. If you don’t, you’ll-“ You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You won’t cry. You won’t.
Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. It’s too gentle. Too close to something real.
“You’re not allowed to- To go.” You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. “I can’t- I won’t- You’re not allowed to.”
You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Baby’s engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.
“Okay?” You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.
Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. “Okay.” Then, under his breath. “For you.”
You pretend you don’t hear. There’s too much weight in those words, and you don’t have the time to pick them apart, don’t have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.
Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. You’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s doing it for you because you’re the one demanding he go have sex.
What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesn’t die.
You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. He’s supposed to give you a thumbs up, when he’s about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that you’re worried he’s going to forget.
Emma’s pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and you’d felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.
Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like you’re happy. You know him. He’s the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know you’re going to be safe. Because he’s going to smile and the world is going to be alright, you’re going to talk and he’ll listen and look at you like there’s no one else in the world, he’s going to make jokes and you’re going to laugh.
But he’s making Emma laugh right now. She’s got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and you’re being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and you’ve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.
It doesn’t really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.
Emma’s the one going home with him. You’re being left here.
You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You can’t drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-
Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.
He’s standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emma’s not with him. Or at the bar.
“Where-“
“She left.”
Your mouth falls open. “She left? I- What the fuck happened-“
“I told her to. Wasn’t gonna work out.”
“Dean, you-“ Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. He’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying. “You promised-“
“Couldn’t what? Couldn’t fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesn’t meet Dean Winchester’s if it’s got a hole standards?”
Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you don’t care. He’s going to die. Why doesn’t he fucking care that he’s going to die and leave you.
“Come on.” You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. “We’re chasing her. You’re apologizing.”
He frowns. “No, I’m not-“
“Then we’re going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.”
“I don’t want someone else.”
You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emma’s number. You’ll do the apology yourself if you have to.
Dean’s stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you can’t stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasn’t hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.
“I’m not doin’ this.” He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. “You can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, I’m not fucking that girl.”
“I’m bitching and whining?” You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. “I’m not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. You’re the one acting like a fucking child here-“
“I’m not acting like a child-“
“Then you’re acting like an idiot!” You scream, taking a large step forward.
Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like you’re poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that he’s putting you through this with almost no remorse.
“It’s not like you have to marry her!” You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. “It’s just sex! Fuck, you don’t even have to look at her, it’s- I don’t understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, it’s not like you’re some virgin fucking pussy-“
He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.
“I’ve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I haven’t been complaining, but you can’t do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?”
You take another step forward, and this time he isn’t fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” You shriek, shoving him again. “Do you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?”
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
“I’ve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I can’t- If you-“ Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. “You’re not allowed to go! I told you, I won’t let you, but you- You fucking hate me-“
You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Dean’s ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but he’s got more strength left than you thought.
He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You don’t know how you expected him to react, but it wasn’t this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.
You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk that’s just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how it’s making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you don’t push.
He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and there’s nowhere for you to hide from him.
Dean’s tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.
“Don’t do that.” He grunts, and you just nod.
Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and it’s hot, so hot-
“I don’t hate you.”
You blink at him. You’d forgotten about that. “Dean-“
“I don’t.” He snaps. “Don’t fuckin’- Never think that, alright? I don’t hate you.”
“Then why are you doing this to me?” You whisper desperately. “Why couldn’t you just go have sex with Emma-“
He shakes his head. “I don’t want Emma.”
“Then let me find you someone you want, please-“
“No.”
“Why-“
“Cause I don’t want any of them.” He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. “I don’t want some random fuckin’ chick you pull for me, I don’t want to fuck her, don’t wanna touch her, hell, I don’t even want to goddamn look at her.”
You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. “Dean, you need someone-“
“You think I don’t know that?” He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.
His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. It’s not fair for him to do this to you. He doesn’t understand, this is all you’ve ever wanted and he’s just taunting you with it-
“I can feel it, sweetheart.” He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. “I feel myself dyin’. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, I’m sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didn’t even notice ‘till you started getting all worried. You know why?”
It takes you a second to realize you’re supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before he’s squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
“’Cause of you.” He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. “I always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didn’t think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckin’ idea.”
You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. They’re hooded, almost feral on yours. You’re so dizzy, you’re worried you might be walking through a dream.
“De- Dean-“
“You can keep looking for some random girl for me, if it’s gonna make you feel better. But I won’t fuck ‘em. I can’t.” His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.
“Dean-“
“Sex barely even works for me anymore, baby.” He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. “Nothin’ does. I get kicked out of bed ‘cause I call your name. So just fuckin’-“ He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. “Stop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.”
You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.
Dying wish.
He still thinks he’s allowed to die.
“What- What if you fuck me?” You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.
Dean’s head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. “No. I’m not askin’ you to do that just because I’m some perv who can’t get it up-“
“You’ve got it up.” You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.
He groans, doubling back down so you’re caged against the Impala again. “Baby, don’t fuckin’- I’m not bending on this shit, alright. I’m not gonna be some pity fuck-“
“It’s not a pity fuck, I’m saving your life-“
“I told you, no-“
“Do you not want to have sex with me?” You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.
“Don’t ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-“ He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. “Yeah. Yeah I want to. But- I won’t ask you to. So no.”
You swallow. It’s probably the fever making his tongue so loose. He’s so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.
It’s always just Dean. And he has to know that.
“What if I want to have sex with you?”
Dean grunts, shaking his head. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it-“
“I mean it.” You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. “Do you?”
He stares at you again. Scans over your face like he’s looking for one clue that you’re just indulging him, that there’s a single doubt running through your head.
There isn’t. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. You’re flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.
Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.
His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.
Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than they’ve been all night, shining with something like awe.
You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.
Dean mouth hangs slack.
“Jesus fuckin’-“
He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.
You’ve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.
Dean’s not taking his time. He’s kissing you like you’re the last thing he knows, the only thing he’s ever wanted. Like a man who’s been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. It’s urgent and forceful, words he can’t say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean can’t seem to double.
You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.
A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.
Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.
He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.
“You’re sure-“
“Yes.”
He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. “Get in the car.”
It’s a short, curt order. You don’t think twice before you obey.
You scramble into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like you’re about to enter a car chase. Dean’s barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and you’re reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. It’s happening. It’s happening.
“Easy, baby.” He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. “You that eager-“
“Yes.” You snap, and Dean hums.
A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. It’s an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.
His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Dean’s chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and that’s just through the jeans.
“Dean.” You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. “I- I’m driving-“
“So look at the road.” He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.
You bite your lower lip, and nod. It’s not worth arguing with him, and if you don’t think you can focus, you’ll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, you’d be happy.
You just didn’t expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.
This is different.
Dean scoots further, and you’re about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.
He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and you’re starting to get a little dizzy.
“De, be- Be careful-“
You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.
“I- Fuck-” You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but there’s no one on the road.
And with how he’s barely even speaking—just touching—you’re a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isn’t you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.
He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. “Sensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?”
You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.
“Answer me-“
“Maybe.” You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. “You- You know I don’t do that-“
“Do what?” He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. “Don’t fuck?”
“Dean-“
“How long’s it been.” His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. “Who touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-“
“I- I don’t remember-“
“That’s fuckin’ right.” He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. “’Cause they don’t’ fuckin’ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. I’m gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and it’s gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,” he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. “That’s always fucking teasing me, it ain’t gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckin’ slut?”
Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dream—because you’ve had them like this before—you never want to wake up.
He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.
“Oh my- Dean-“
“I told you, answer-“
“Yes, I- Yes, please-“ Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. “Dean-“
“That’s right.” He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. “That’s my girl, you’re so fuckin’ wet- This all for me?”
“Mmm- Mhm-“
“Fuck yeah it is.” He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. “So damn tight, know you’re gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-“
His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think he’s just out of dirty talk, but he’s still mumbling incoherently against your skin.
Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isn’t in your pants has pulled out his cock.
And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.
You don’t know why you’re surprised. Dean’s a specimen himself.
He’s somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.
“Oh- Oh-“ You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal he’s pulling out of you, more and more every second. “Dean-“
“Shh.” He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. “Just feel it. Sweet fuckin’ pussy, gushing around my fingers-“
You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.
It’s a miracle you make it to the motel. It’s a shit parking job—you’re definitely over the lines—but you’re both alive.
You barely shift the gears before Dean’s pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that you’re safe, all bets are off.
A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until you’re slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breath—Dean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concern—and you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.
Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. He’s a good kisser. And you knew that, but it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. It’s like you’re trading souls, like he’s trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.
When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.
You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You don’t get a chance to adjust before he’s shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.
“Dean- Shit-“ Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. “We- We’re supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-“
It’s so hard to argue with him when he’s between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where you’re aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.
You almost fly out of your skin. He’s making out with the sensitive nerve like they’re your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.
Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He can’t just do that, it’s not fair-
“No doin’ that.” He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. “Wanna hear it.”
You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. “Dean, it- it’s supposed to be stuff that’s good for you-“
“This is good for me.” He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. “Look at you.” He mutters with pure awe. “Responsive, wet little pussy. Bet you’d like it when I do this.”
He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.
“Yeah, you do. How about,” he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.
“Dean, Dean, please-“
He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.
“Dean-“
Another deep sound, another flick, and you’re seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.
Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.
The curse seems to have it’s full hold on him. He’s borderline feral. You’ve never had a man who eats pussy like he’s having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.
“Oh- Oh fuck-“ You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. “Dean- God, just like that-“
He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. It’s somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.
“Dean, please- Please, fuck- please-“
You’re already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight it’s almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Dean’s working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. You’re kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.
Then he finally lets you over the edge.
Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.
You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Dean’s lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.
“Fuck, yes- Yes-“ You moan, legs locking around Dean’s head, and he groans against your pussy.
When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.
It’s not certain you’re going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.
But there’s a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think it’s really not going to matter.
Dean’s a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you he’s not close to working off the curse.
“Oh, you’re gonna be so mad about that when you’re better.” You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.
“I’ll get over it.”
You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that he’s gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch that’s really only working you up more.
“Love that sound.” He mutters, and you frown against his lips.
“Wha-“
“Your laugh.” He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Love it so much. Don’t think I’ve told you that before.”
He hasn’t. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things he’d been hissing in your ear before.
“You’re telling me a lot of new things.” You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.
“Blame it on the curse.”
You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.
“Son of a bitch,” his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. “I love you, you know that?”
You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought he said. “What?”
“You heard me.” He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. “I love you.”
He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.
“Dean, if it’s just the curse-“
“It’s not. It’s-“
He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.
“You know it, right?” His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. He’s going back under. He can probably feel it. “That I mean it?”
He’s still asking—almost begging—you to tell him that you know.
“I know.” You mumble. “I- I love you too.”
Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, you’ve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.
Instead you’re lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Dean’s hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lips—shining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under him—and your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.
He doesn’t fall to his knees. He just looks at you like he’s not sure it’s a dream either.
At least he still sweeps you off your feet.
Dean moves like a machine. You’re not even sure what’s happening until you’re being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pants—the fly still fucking down—and you’re about to tell him you’d at least like your underwear before he’s picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.
“Dean!” You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.
“Mine.” He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like he’s still trying to orient himself. “I- I gotta, fuck-“
Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. “Over there, De.” You mumble, and he nods tightly.
He’s fully back under. You don’t bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because you’re not even sure you could. It’s not worth distressing Dean over anyway.
Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room you’re tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that he’s rising over your body, ripping clothing like it’s a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.
Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.
You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. You’re his to take, if he wants it.
He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.
“Patience.” He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. “Gonna take care of you. Fuck- You’re so beautiful, so fuckin’-“
Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.
But there’s no rushing him. He plays with your tits until he’s had his fill—when they’re swollen and you’re arching into every touch—then works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.
He doesn’t seem to mind it at all though.
“Messy girl.” He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. “Think you’re ready for some cock, aren’t you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?”
You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesn’t let you cum again soon. When you nod it’s like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.
“Yes.” You gasp. “Yes, Dean, please-“
Again, he moves.
You’re almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like you’re threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard you’ll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.
“Good girl.” He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. “Good fuckin’ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, aren’t you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-“
You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything he’ll offer.
He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.
Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.
He’s thick. So think you almost don’t think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You don’t know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.
Probably because it’s Dean. That feels like explanation enough.
It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does you’re sure you’ve never been this full. He’s hitting places inside of you that you hadn’t known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.
Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell he’s experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until you’re riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.
It’s paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and you’d laugh at what he settles on if the air wasn’t being fucked from your lungs.
Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then you’re being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then you’re moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.
You’re in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.
Every time he cums, you’re thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. You’ve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.
“Dirty fuckin’ girl,” he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. “So pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckin’ baby-“
“Dean.” You whine, scraping at his chest. “Dean, feels so good, so fucking good-“
“I know.” He coos. “Made for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.”
He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.
“Good girl, fuckin’- Christ you’re so good-“ His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. “You’re mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckin’ worship you, fuck-“
He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.
You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.
There’s a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.
“You like that?” He grunts, and you hum.
“Feels good.”
“Damn right it does.” He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.
You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.
Dean groans. “Fuck, baby…”
He’s hard again, and you’re being moved into another position.
By the time he finds one he wants to keep, you’re a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.
Dean’s got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. You’ve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, there’s a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Dean’s praise is becoming more and more lucid.
“I love you.” He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.
“Dean…”
“I know.” He mutters. “I know, baby, but you’re doin’ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-“
He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.
You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.
“Love you.” Dean’s still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. “Loved you forever, never- Never thought-“
His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. He’s not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.
Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.
“Thank you.” He mutters. “Thank you for- For sayin’ it back, even if that wasn’t-“
“It was,” you breathe out. He needs to know. “I love you, Dean. Have for longer.”
He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.
You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. You’re not sure you’re going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.
But it was worth it.
Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.
✦End note: please tell me if you enjoyed it i think i started my own ovulation so. oops.✦
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summary: after being rescued by sam and dean you cant stop thinking about your green eyed savior. good thing he gave you his number, right?
warnings: phone sex, sexting, horny and emotionally available dean winchester? who knew that was possible, porn with semi plot
a/n: got inspired by the header pic and thought why the hell not? title credits go to sexting by bo burnham
☽︎︎·̩͙⋆☾·̩͙꙳ 𓂃𓈒 ☽︎︎·̩͙⋆☾·̩͙꙳ 𓂃𓈒 ☽︎︎·̩͙⋆☾·̩͙꙳
You still can’t sleep.
Two months have passed since that night, and rest remains a stranger. Every time you close your eyes, you feel the cold press of the blade against your throat and hear your best friend’s voice- soft, almost loving- as she whispered the final words of the curse that should have killed you.
You never thought the person you trusted most would be the one to mark you for death. But then again, you’d always suspected you were cursed. Turns out you were right.
If Sam and Dean hadn’t shown up when they did, you wouldn’t be lying here at all. They tore through her twisted little murder cult like a pair of avenging angels. Dean had hauled you out of that blood stained basement himself, one arm locked around your waist, muttering, “I got you, sweetheart. Just keep breathing.”
And now you’re here. Wide awake again. Phone warm in your palm, thumb hovering over his contact.
Dean 😝
He’d grinned like an idiot when he typed it in, then immediately sent himself a text from your phone just to “make sure it was real.”
Gotta be careful. Too many spam callers these days. Don’t even know how the bastards get my number.
You can still hear the low rumble of his voice, the way his green eyes had lingered on you a second too long when he handed the phone back. He’d flirted shamelessly the entire time they were in town- half cocky, half genuine- and you’d let him. Because after everything, it felt good to be looked at like you were still a person. Not just a sacrifice.
Your thumb drifts over the message bar.
What the hell are you even supposed to say?
“Hey, remember me? The girl you saved from her psychotic best friend? Can’t sleep, wanna talk?”
Pathetic.
But the silence in your room feels heavier tonight. The kind of eerie feeling that presses on your chest and makes the shadows stretch too long across the walls.
Fuck it.
You open a new message.
You: Hey Dean... it's me, the girl from the basement witch fiasco. Can't sleep. Everything's too quiet and my brain won't shut off. Need a distraction… are you still up?
You hit send before you can overthink it, then immediately regret how vulnerable it sounds. God, why did I say it like that? The phone feels like it's burning a hole in your hand as you stare at the screen.
A few seconds later, the typing bubbles appear.
Dean 😝: Well shit if it isn't my favorite almost sacrifice. 😏 Yeah im up. dont think i ever sleep either, sweetheart what's got you wired tonight? nightmares?
You let out a shaky breath, a small smile tugging at your lips despite everything. His reply is so him- casual, cocky, but there's that underlying care that makes your chest feel a little lighter.
You: Yeah. Same one. Knife, her voice, the whole cursed mess. Keeps looping. Figured texting the guy who dragged me out of there might help. Sorry if I'm bothering you mid hunt or whatever.
Dean 😝: bothering me? fuck no. sams the one snoring like a chainsaw in the motel… im out in baby, just finished cleaning some guns.. perfect timing actually you got me all to yourself
Dean 😝: and hey none of that sorry crap... you went through hell… if texting me keeps the shadows back then message me every damn night
Your thumb hovers, heart beating a little faster. The memory of his arm around you, that low voice in your ear... it’s doing things it probably shouldn’t.
You: You're too smooth for your own good, Winchester. But thanks. Really. Makes the room feel less... haunted.
Dean 😝: smooth? me? never 😉 tell you what… since i cant be there to chase the nightmares off in person how about this… close your eyes and picture me there. id tell ya some bad jokes… have some terrible music playing low probably say something stupid like “want me to sing you a lullaby?" even though we both know id suck at it.
You: God, please don't sing. I'd have new nightmares. 😂 But... yeah. That image helps more than it should.
Dean 😝: good keep that picture in your head… im right there sweetheart... no blade, no cult bullshit… just me making sure nothing touches you again.
The typing bubbles stop for a moment, then start again.
Dean 😝: you wanna talk about it more? or you want me to distract you properly? i got stories... dumb ones... the kind that make Sam roll his eyes so hard he gets a headache
You bite your lip, feeling the tension in your shoulders finally start to ease.
You: Distract me. Please. Tell me the stupidest hunt story you've got right now.
You set the phone on your chest and stare at the ceiling, waiting. The silence doesn’t feel quite as suffocating anymore.
Dean 😝: alright! you asked for it... stupidest hunt of the month.. get this we’re in this tiny town in ohio chasing what we thought was a vengeful spirit... turns out it was a fuckin cursed garden gnome… yeah... a gnome… little ceramic bastard kept coming alive at night and tripping people down stairs
You snort softly, already feeling the knot in your stomach loosen.
Dean 😝: sams over there doing all this research.. latin spells, the whole nine. meanwhile im just trying not to laugh my ass off while this thing is chucking flower pots at my head… one nearly took out babys taillight and i was this close to salt and burning the whole damn garden
You: A garden gnome?? 😂 Okay that’s actually hilarious. Did you end up smashing it with a shovel or something?
Dean 😝: shovel? nah sweetheart I went full rage mode… ended up dropkicking that evil little statue across the yard like a football.. Sam still gives me shit about it says my “technique was questionable.” but whatever it worked
A pause. The typing bubbles appear again.
Dean 😝: you know whats better than a good hunt story? knowing its making you smile right now even if i cant see it
Your cheeks warm. He’s slipping into that flirty tone so naturally, like it’s second nature.
You: It is. Thanks. I needed that. This kinda stuff always suck so bad?
Dean 😝: sometimes? been in the business way too long… seen all kinds of reactions after learning the truth about this world. sometimes people crumble and then theres the badasses that keep going. kinda like you. survived a whole cult and your best friend trying to off you. thats badass… you know that right?
You bite your lip, pulling the blanket higher around you. The compliment hits different coming from him.
You: Badass? I felt pretty helpless in that basement.
Dean 😝: nah. youre still here… breathing... texting me at 2 am thats not helpless thats a survivor... and if im being honest… I havent stopped thinking about you since we left town... that fire in your eyes? even when you were scared shitless? kinda hard to forget
You: Dean… you don’t have to say that.
Dean 😝: im not saying it cause i have to im saying it cause its true. you’ve got me out here in the impala grinning at my phone like an idiot teenager
You: You’re ridiculous.
Dean 😝: ridiculously into you maybe. 😉 but seriously… how you holding up now? the story helping or you need me to keep talking until the sun comes up?
You stare at the last message, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Your mind drifts... the low rumble of his voice from that night, the way his green eyes had locked onto yours when he pulled you out of that nightmare basement. The scent of leather, gun oil, and that stupid cologne he wore. God, he was cocky, reckless, and annoyingly charming. You can almost picture him right now- leaning back in the driver’s seat of that classic Impala, phone in hand, that half smirk on his face.
The memory sends a warm flutter through your chest. You’re so lost in it that you don’t even notice the screen light up with an incoming call.
Dean 😝 is calling...
Your heart jumps. You answer before it can ring twice.
“Hey,” you say softly, your voice a little rough from lack of sleep.
There’s a short pause on the other end, then that familiar deep voice rolls through the line like warm whiskey.
“Hey yourself, sweetheart,” Dean replies, sounding equal parts relieved and amused. “You went quiet on me. Got worried you fell asleep mid text... or that I scared you off with all that flirting.”
You let out a small laugh, pulling your knees up to your chest under the blanket. “No, I just... got distracted. Thinking about everything. About you, actually.”
Dean chuckles softly, the sound rich and genuine. “Yeah? Good kind of distracted, I hope. Not the ‘this guy’s a walking red flag’ kind.”
“The good kind,” you admit, biting your lip. “The kind where I’m remembering how you hauled me out of that basement like it was nothing. And how you looked at me like I wasn’t broken.”
His voice drops a little lower, gentler. “You’re not broken. Not even close. And trust me- I’ve been thinking about you too. More than I probably should, considering Sam’s been giving me side eye for the last two weeks every time I check my phone.”
You smile into the darkness of your room, the tension in your shoulders melting further. “So you decided to call instead of text?”
“Figured if you were up and spiraling, hearing a voice might be better than reading words on a screen,” he says. There’s the faint sound of him shifting in the car seat. “Plus... I wanted to make sure you’re really okay. Not just saying it to make me feel better.”
The line goes quiet for a beat, but it’s comfortable. Dean’s presence feels closer now, even from hundreds of miles away.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs. “I’m right here. No hunts, no rush. Just you and me.”
You settle deeper into your pillows, phone pressed to your ear, his voice already making the room feel warmer.
“Tell me more,” you say softly, almost shy. “Why have you been thinking about me? I mean... really. Not just the ‘you’re a survivor’ stuff. The real reason.”
Dean lets out a low breath, like he’s been waiting for you to ask but still caught off guard. You hear the faint creak of leather as he shifts in the Impala’s seat.
“Damn, sweetheart. Going straight for it, huh?” He chuckles, but there’s a roughness to it now. “Alright. Truth? I’ve been thinking about you every damn night since we left that town. The way you looked at me when I got you out of there- shaking, covered in blood, but still fighting. Still there. Most people would’ve shut down completely. Not you.”
His voice drops, quieter, more intimate.
“And yeah... I noticed you. Really noticed you. Even in that nightmare basement, you were beautiful. The kind of beautiful that hits you in the chest. Those eyes, the way you held yourself together when most would’ve crumbled. I kept telling myself it was just the job… get you safe, move on. But I can’t stop replaying it. The way my hands felt on your waist when I carried you out. How you leaned into me like you trusted me even though you had every reason not to. I’ve been driving around with your face stuck in my head for weeks. Wondering if you’re okay. Wondering what it’d be like to see you again... without all the blood and screaming.”
He pauses, then adds with that signature cocky edge, softened by honesty-
“I’m attracted to you. Like, can’t-focus-on-the-hunt attracted. Sam’s been calling me distracted for days and he’s not wrong. I keep thinking about your voice, your laugh, the way you looked at me when I handed you back your phone. It’s been messing with me.”
Your heart is pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it through the line. The vulnerability in his tone makes something tight in your chest finally loosen.
“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper. “A lot. More than I probably should. Every time I close my eyes, it’s not just the nightmare anymore. It’s you. Your arm around me. That stupid grin. The way you called me sweetheart like it was the most natural thing in the world. I keep remembering how safe I felt with you, even in the middle of hell. And yeah... I’m attracted to you too, Dean. The cocky attitude, the way you looked at me like I was the only person in the room. It’s been driving me crazy lying here alone every night.”
There’s a heavy, charged silence on the line for a second.
“Fuck,” Dean breathes, sounding a little stunned and a lot pleased. “You really mean that?”
“Yeah,” you say, smiling despite the flush heating your face. “I do.”
“God, sweetheart... you have no idea what that does to me.” His voice is lower now, rougher around the edges. “I’m sitting here in the middle of nowhere wishing I was there with you right now. Not just to chase away the nightmares. To see that look on your face again. To do a hell of a lot more than talk.”
You swallow hard, heat flooding your face as his words sink in. Your voice comes out smaller than you want it to.
“I… I don’t know what to say to that,” you murmur, shifting restlessly under the sheets. “I’ve never really… done this. Phone stuff. I’m not exactly good at it.”
Dean’s low chuckle sends a shiver down your spine.
“Oh sweetheart, that’s adorable. And kinda hot. Don’t worry. I’m real good at teaching people new things.” His voice drops an octave, smooth and teasing. “Start simple. Tell me what you’re wearing right now.”
You hesitate, fingers twisting in the blanket.
“Just… an old t-shirt. And panties,” you admit softly, embarrassed by how breathy you sound.
“Mmm. Good girl,” Dean praises, and the words hit you low in your stomach. “Bet you look damn cute in that. Bet those legs look even better. You thinking about me touching them?”
Your breath catches. You’re quiet for a second, shy, but the way his voice curls around you makes you brave enough to answer.
“…Yeah. I am.”
“That’s it,” he encourages, warmth and hunger bleeding into his tone. “Keep going. Tell me where you want my hands, baby.”
You bite your lip, heart racing. “I… I want them on my thighs. Sliding up slow. Like you’re teasing me.”
Dean groans softly. “Fuck, yes. I’d take my time with you. Spread those pretty legs and run my hands all the way up until I can feel how wet you’re getting just thinking about me.”
The words make you clench involuntarily. You let out a tiny, embarrassed sound, but you don’t stop him.
“Dean…” you whisper, voice shaky.
“C’mon, sweetheart. I can hear how turned on you are. Don’t hold back on me now.” His voice is rougher, coaxing. “You ever touch yourself thinking about me since that night?”
The question makes your face burn, but the growing ache between your legs wins out. You slip one hand down slowly, hesitating at the waistband of your panties.
“I… maybe once or twice,” you confess, voice barely audible.
“Atta girl. Don’t be shy. Tell me what you did. Were you thinking about my mouth on you?”
You let out a shaky breath, finally giving in as his filthy words pull your shyer side apart.
“Yeah… I was,” you admit, voice gaining a little more confidence. “I imagined you between my legs, licking me until I couldn’t think straight. Your tongue and those stupidly perfect lips…”
Dean lets out a deep, appreciative groan. “Jesus Christ. There she is. Keep talking like that and I’m gonna lose my mind over here. You touching yourself right now?”
Your fingers dip lower, brushing over your damp panties. “Mhm…”
“Tell me how wet you are for me.”
You do, gasping softly as your fingers meet slick heat. “Really wet, Dean… fuck.”
“Good girl,” he growls, clearly getting off on your growing boldness. “Now circle that pretty little clit nice and slow. Pretend it’s my tongue. I’d eat you like I was starving, sweetheart. Bury my face in you until you’re grinding against me and begging.”
A soft moan slips out of you before you can stop it. The shy hesitation is melting fast under his dirty talk.
“Dean… I want your fingers inside me,” you whisper, voice turning filthier as you give in. “While you suck on my clit. I want you to make me come on your face.”
“Fuck, that’s my girl,” he praises, breathing heavier now. “I’d give you two thick fingers right away, curling them just right while I tongue fuck you. You sound so sweet when you moan for me. Let me hear it again.”
You obey, slipping a finger inside yourself with a needy little whimper that turns into a moan.
“Fuck, that’s it, baby. Let me hear those pretty moans. God damn, you sound so needy already,” Dean growls, his voice thick with lust. “I’ve got my fat cock in my fist, stroking it slow and tight just thinking about you. You’re playing with that soaked little pussy for me, aren’t you? Tell me how wet you are, sweetheart. I want details.”
“So fucking wet, Dean…” you whimper.
“Atta girl. I knew you’d be dripping for me. Push two fingers in deep right now- that’s it. Fuck yourself harder. Imagine it’s my thick cock stretching that tight cunt open. I’d split you wide, baby. Pound you so deep you’d feel me for days.”
You obey with a broken moan, pumping your fingers faster.
“Yeah? You like that?” Dean chuckles darkly, the wet rhythmic sound of him jerking his cock getting louder. “Listen to how sloppy your pussy sounds. You’re making such a mess for me. I’d bury my face between those thighs first and eat you like a starving man. I’d suck on that swollen clit until you’re grinding on my tongue and begging. Then I’d flip you over, smack that perfect ass red, and fuck you raw from behind.”
“Dean…” you gasp, legs shaking.
“Fuck yes, say my name just like that. Louder. I want you screaming it when you come. You’d take every inch like a good little whore, wouldn’t you? I’d wrap my hand around your throat, pull your hair, and rail you stupid. You want me to breed that pretty pussy? Want me to pump you full of my cum until it’s leaking down your thighs?”
“Yes- fuck, please,” you beg, completely lost in it.
“That’s my filthy girl,” Dean groans, stroking faster. “God, I’m so fucking hard for you. My cock is throbbing, leaking all over my hand. Keep rubbing that clit, baby. Circle it nice and fast while you finger fuck yourself. I’d fuck you so good, sweetheart. Bent over the hood of the Impala, in the backseat, on every motel bed I can get you on. I’d ruin you for anyone else.”
You cry out, hips bucking wildly into your hand.
“Don’t you dare stop,” he growls. “I’m close already just listening to you. You gonna come on those fingers thinking about my cock? Gonna cream all over them like the dirty slut you are for me?”
“Dean, I’m so close- ”
“Not yet, baby. Hold it. Wait for me,” he orders, voice rough and strained. “I want us coming together. Keep fucking that soaked cunt. Rub that clit harder. Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up so deep. Shoot load after load inside you until you’re overflowing. You’d look so hot with my cum dripping out of you.”
You’re whimpering and moaning shamelessly now, right on the edge.
“Come on, sweetheart. Be a good girl and come for me now,” Dean demands, breathing ragged. “Let me hear it. Come on my cock- right fucking now. I’m stroking so hard for you, gonna blow such a big load thinking about breeding that tight pussy- ”
Your orgasm explodes through you violently. “Dean- fuck- I- fuck!” you cry out, thighs clamping around your hand as you pulse and shake.
“Fuuuuck- yes, baby!” Dean snarls, voice breaking into a deep, guttural groan. “I’m coming too- shit- taking every drop like a good whore- fuuuuck-”
You can hear him stroking through his orgasm, cursing and moaning your name until he’s spent.
“Jesus Christ…” Dean rasps after a long moment, still breathing hard. “That was so fucking hot, sweetheart. You came so hard for me. My dirty girl. I’m already thinking about the next time I get you on the phone… or better yet, in person so I can actually fuck you the way you deserve.”
You’re still trembling from the first orgasm, your body flushed and sensitive, but Dean’s filthy voice keeps pulling you right back under.
“Yes… please come fuck me,” you breathe, already sliding your hand back between your slick thighs. “I want you here so bad, Dean.”
“Fuck, that’s what I like to hear, baby,” Dean groans, voice low and hungry. “Round two. Keep those fingers on that pretty pussy and listen to exactly what I’m gonna do when I show up at your door in two days.”
You let out a soft moan as you start touching yourself again, slower this time, savoring it through your already growing overstimulation.
“First thing I do when I see you?” Dean continues, his tone dark with promise. “I’m backing you straight into the bedroom, stripping you down piece by piece, and laying you out on the bed like my own personal feast. I’m gonna spend a long fucking time between your legs- licking you slow and deep, teasing that clit with the tip of my tongue until you’re dripping down my chin and begging. Then I’m sliding three fingers inside you, curling them just right while I suck on that swollen little nub.”
You whimper, pressing two fingers into yourself as you listen.
“After I make you come all over my face the first time,” he growls, “I’m flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up, and sliding my thick cock into you from behind while you’re still shaking. I’m gonna go slow at first- grinding deep, letting you feel every inch stretching you open. Then I’m picking up the pace until the headboard’s slamming against the wall and you’re moaning like the fucking whore you are.”
“Dean…” you moan, fingers moving faster.
“Yeah, baby. Say my name while you fuck yourself,” he orders, the wet sound of his hand working his cock steady and filthy. “Next, I want you riding me. You’re gonna straddle my lap, sink down on my cock, and bounce on it while I play with your tits and pinch those nipples. I’ll slap your ass and tell you how fucking perfect you look taking every inch of me.”
You gasp, rubbing your clit harder as he keeps going.
“And when I’m close? I’m pinning you on your back, legs wrapped around my waist, and fucking you hard and deep. I’m gonna look you right in the eyes while I fill you up. No pulling out. I’m pumping you full of my cum, sweetheart- again and again. Gonna make such a creamy mess of that pussy you’ll be leaking me for hours.”
His breathing is getting rougher, voice more strained.
“I’m staying at least two full days, baby. I’m fucking you in the shower, on the kitchen counter, bent over the couch- wherever the hell I want. I’ll have you on your knees sucking my cock nice and sloppy before I bend you over and take you again. You’re gonna be sore, marked up, and stuffed full of my cum by the time I’m done with you.”
“Fuck, Dean… I want all of it,” you pant, chasing another high.
“That’s my filthy girl,” he praises with a dark chuckle. “Keep playing with that soaked cunt. I’m stroking this cock so hard thinking about wrecking you. I want you to come again for me while I tell you how I’m gonna own every inch of you when I get there.”
You moan louder, fingers plunging faster as his dirty promises push you closer to the edge.
“Come on, baby,” Dean growls, voice breaking with lust. “Rub that clit and come for me again. Let me hear how bad you need my cock. I’m gonna blow another load thinking about fucking that tight pussy- fuck- come with me, sweetheart. Right fucking now-”
Your second orgasm crashes over you hard, thighs quivering as you cry out his name.
“Fuuuuck- yes, baby!” Dean groans loudly, stroking through his own release. “Take it all- every drop- shit-”
You’re both left panting heavily, the intensity even stronger this time.
“Two days, sweetheart,” Dean rasps, voice rough but warm. “I’m coming for you. Be ready.”
You collapse back against the pillows, body spent and trembling, your fingers still lazily resting between your thighs as you try to catch your breath. Dean’s low, satisfied chuckle rumbles through the phone.
“Damn, sweetheart… two rounds and you still sound so fucking sexy when you come,” he says, voice rough but warm now. “I meant what I said. Two days. I’m heading your way as soon as I wrap up this loose end with Sam. Get some rest. You’re gonna need it.”
You smile, cheeks burning. “Okay… drive safe. And Dean?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Thank you. For distracting me… and for everything else.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Anytime. Night, sweetheart. Sweet dreams.”
The call ends with a quiet click. You lower the phone to your chest, staring up at the dark ceiling, heart still racing.
Holy shit. You can’t believe what just happened. You went from shy and hesitant to straight-up filthy in the span of one phone call. Dean Winchester had completely pulled the dirty side out of you and you loved every second of it. Your body is still buzzing, thighs sticky, pussy aching in the best way. The way he talked to you… the promises he made… it all felt so real. So intense.
You bite your lip, a shy but satisfied smile spreading across your face as you replay his growled dirty talk in your head.
Then your phone buzzes.
Dean 😝 sent a photo
You open it with slightly shaky fingers.
The picture is filthy and unapologetic.
It’s a close up from Dean’s perspective- his toned stomach and lower abs glistening with sweat, his thick cock still half-hard and resting against his thigh, absolutely coated in thick ropes of his cum. Some of it is streaked across his abs, dripping down the defined lines of muscle. His hand is still loosely wrapped around the base, shiny and messy. In the background, you can see the dark interior of the Impala.
Dean 😝: look what you did to me baby.. two loads and im still not soft... cant stop thinking about painting that pretty pussy instead… two days… be ready for me to fill you up for real
Heat floods your face instantly. You stare at the picture, biting your lip hard as a fresh wave of arousal pulses through you. He wasn’t lying when he said his cock was thick.
You: Oh my god, Dean… that’s so fucking hot. You’re covered in it…
Dean 😝: all because of you and those sexy little moans... save that pic sweetheart i want you looking at it when you touch yourself later thinking about me
You squeeze your thighs together, already feeling tempted to go for round three.
You: I’m definitely saving this 😳 It’s going to be hard to sleep after seeing that… but in a good way. Thank you for distracting me tonight. For everything. I feel… lighter. Safer. And really fucking turned on.
Dean 😝: good that was the plan sweetheart… get some sleep… ill be on the road soon. dream about me instead of the bad shit
You: I will. Drive safe, Dean. Goodnight ❤️
Dean 😝: night baby... sweet dreams… cant wait to make the real thing even better
You lock your phone and set it on the nightstand, the glow fading from the room. For the first time in two months, the silence doesn’t feel heavy. The shadows on the walls don’t stretch like reaching hands. Instead, your mind is filled with Dean’s low voice, his filthy promises, that cocky grin, and the warm safety of his arms from that night.
You curl up under the blankets, still feeling the pleasant ache between your legs and the lingering flush on your cheeks. A small, genuine smile plays on your lips as you close your eyes.
No nightmares come.
Just soft, hazy thoughts of leather jackets, green eyes, and the low rumble of an Impala pulling up outside your door in two days. For the first time in forever, you drift off peacefully, the tension in your chest finally eased.
Sleep claims you gently, wrapped in the promise of something new- something good.
Summary: Dean jerks off while you pretend to sleep.
Content warning: Reader gives Dean a massage, explicit language, male masturbation, handjobs, spitting, cum eating, she calls him good boy one time
wc: 1.8k
“That feels- fuck- that feels amazing.”
Dean bows his head, leaning back into your hands, as they knead the knotted muscles of his shoulders. The lotion you’d smeared across the expanse of his upper back and arms makes his skin look dewy. Your hands glide along the contours of his body, looking so small in comparison to his figure.
He lifts his head, letting it fall back to rest against your shoulder as your fingers dig into the lean, striated muscle of his pectorals. His eyes are closed.
“You really are an angel, sweetness.” He drawls slowly. “Y’too good to me.”
“Shh,” You coo softly, hands now caressing the slope of his neck. “Just relax,”
“‘F’I relax any more, I’m gonna pass out.”
You pretty much feel the same way. It’d been an action packed few days, allowing minimal time for rest, and now you’re both heavily fatigued. Your body feels much older than it is. After showering and brushing your teeth, giving some attention to your needy man is the last thing on your to-do list before knocking out for a good ten hours. You can hardly keep your eyelids open, but every one of Dean’s appreciative moans convinces you to continue.
“That’s okay,” You assure him gently, purposefully grazing your lips against the shell of his ear. His spine straightens at the touch of your lips, shuddering slightly. “We’ll finish here. Then we can sleep,” You press a firmer kiss just behind his ear, smiling to yourself as he stiffens at the contact, groaning deeply as your fingers continue to massage his flesh.
Truthfully, you’re tired, but the game you’re playing with him is entertaining enough to turn what was supposed to be a quick five minute massage into a twenty minute one. Since the moment you’d laid your hands on his bare skin, he’d been growing harder and harder, and now, you were having fun pretending to be oblivious to the very noticeable bulge in his sweatpants.
“Don’t wanna sleep.” He argues, the slightest bit of petulance creeping into his tone. He turns to face you, regarding you with bleary, sleepy green eyes. “Want you.”
You peck his very pretty, pouty lips, finishing your massage with a little squeeze around his waist. Standing to go wash the residual lotion from your hands, Dean turns to watch you.
“No happy ending?” He jokes halfheartedly, but his eyes glimmer as he looks at you from under his lashes, exposing that underneath the guise of humor, he really is asking.
“M’sorry, handsome,” You murmur apologetically. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“‘Least let me return the favor,” He suggests, as you’re sliding underneath the sheets, wearing only one of his shirts and your panties.
“Tomorrow,” Your cheek is already on your pillow.
He slides under the blankets behind you, molding his chest to the shape of your back, fitting snugly, like an old weathered baseball glove. Eyes closed, you sigh at the comfort of his body against you. He slings a thick, heavy arm around your hips, guiding your ass back to press securely against his crotch. You bite back a smile at his less than covert attempts to entice you, shifting his hips so that the undeniable outline of his engorged cock is nestled right against your core.
You stay still, committed to the act that you’re unaffected by any of his antics, but you’re growing hot underneath the covers. You’d already been turned on by just rubbing his body, were wet the instant you noticed his boner, and now, as he subtly creates friction between your bodies, you suddenly aren’t so tired.
“Baby,” He complains in your ear, hands sliding from your hips, to your waist, then teasing just below your breasts. “Y’gotta gimme something here. Feels like I’ve been waitin’ to get you alone for weeks-”
“-It’s only been a few days.” You say without turning to look at him.
“Exactly-”
“I think you’ll live if I make you wait until tomorrow,” You say.
You only haven’t ended his misery because you want to see how far you can push him, and it turns you on when he begs. Plus, his sweet, desperate disposition is something private, saved only for you, in moments when you’re alone. In the quiet moments with you, he’s a very different man than he pretends to be with everyone else.
“Cruel woman,” He sighs. You get the sense that he might be giving up, as his arm returns around your hips.
“Thought you said I was an angel," You tease
"That was when you were being nice to me."
You huff. "I'll be nicer after I sleep.'
You relax against him, and even though you’re doggedly tired, his erection is still probing you between your thighs, stoking heat in your lower belly that’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Still, you keep yourself still in his arms, and squeeze your eyes tightly shut any time he shifts against you. He moves occasionally, readjusting his grip on you, repositioning his body, but stays quiet.
“Baby?” Dean whispers gently, several minutes later. Or maybe it’s been an hour. “Baby, you awake?
You’d been dozing, but at the sound of his voice, you rouse. You don’t answer because you’re intrigued by the diffidence in his tone.
Dean’s arm tightens around you, using his grip on you to once again create friction between your bodies. His breathing strikingly deepens, and every so often, he groans weakly. If the movement of him sliding against you wasn’t enough to have you pulsing between your legs, his noises would do the job. He sounds almost ashamed. It’s clear he’s trying to be quiet, but he’s doing a poor job of concealing his arousal.
You feel him wedge a hand between his groin and your ass, rubbing himself through his pants. You want to look, but part of you believes he would stop if he realized you were awake. You wonder if the front of his sweats are wet yet, if he’s gritting his teeth or if he’s open mouth panting. Heat radiates from his chest, and you feel the instant he breaks out in a sweat from his ministrations.
Very carefully, as to not wake you, he lifts his arm off your body and rolls onto his back. You fight to keep your own breathing even, to keep yourself from squeezing your thighs together, as you hear him start to jerk off.
It begins quietly, with the soft, barely audible evidence of him letting saliva fall from his mouth onto his palm. Then he wraps a hand around himself, and you hear the spread of moisture as he begins pumping his fist up and down. The sound of his hand beating his cock is largely overpowered by his breathing and the moans he’s failing to swallow, until he seems to lose control of himself and really starts pumping himself hard and fast.
You picture him, holding his stiff member in one hand, playing with his balls with the other. Picture him rubbing at the head of his cock until he can’t take it, mimicking the way you always torture him with special attention to his most sensitive spots.
“Just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” You scold in a quiet voice, turning towards him.
Dean startles with a grunt, his hand flying away from his cock, as if it wasn’t obvious what he’d been doing with it resting against his lower belly. He looks away from you, then back, bowing his head shamefully.
“D-didn’t-” He clears his throat. “Didn’t mean to wake you, princess.”
You roll onto your side beside him, placing a hand on the bit of his thigh exposed from where his sweats had been hastily pushed down.
When you don’t say anything, he keeps stammering. “I’m sorry-”
“Shh,” You whisper gently, grazing his thigh with the points of your nails. You suppress a smirk at the way the muscle of his leg jumps at your teasing touch, his cock bobbing untouched. “Keep going, big boy.”
He hesitates, so you wrap one of your smaller hands around the base of his cock. He immediately gasps, his head lolling back against the headboard. He begins panting again as he watches you bring your lips just above the head of him. You let a substantial string of saliva slip from your lips, onto his aching tip, smiling as he moans above you.
His jaw falls open when you start twisting your fist around him, spreading the lubricant generously from tip to base, so that he’s nice and wet.
“Keep going, baby,” You encourage, lifting yourself enough to take his face in your hands. You peck his lips, ending the kiss with a little sharp bite to his bottom lip that has him groaning and chasing after your lips when you pull back.
“Keep going-” He repeats, as if dazed.
“Yeah,” You say with a smile, caressing his jaw. “You wanna cum, don’t you?”
“Yeah-” He agrees, letting you take his hand. You bring his hand back between his legs, and you greedily watch as he grips himself, and then starts moving.
“How bad do y’wanna come, Dean?” You whisper sensually, maintaining eye contact with him in the dark. His breath fans across your lips, his eyelids heavy from the degree of his lust.
“Bad- so fuckin’ bad-” He rasps and it sounds like a plea.
“I bet,” You purr, letting your hands roam across his neck and shoulders. “Been such a good boy, waiting so well. I know you tried, baby.”
He grits his teeth, hand moving in a blur as he jerks himself, chest heaving. “I did- Tried to ignore it. For you-”
“It’s okay, baby. Know you need it real bad.”
He nods, expression broken as he keeps going.
“Can’t even handle my hands on you without getting hard,” You muse lovingly. “S’a little bit pathetic, right?”
“Fuck-” He groans, voice strangled. “I know-”
"And jerking off while your girlfriend is right next to you...is that pathetic, baby?"
"Yes-" He chokes out.
“You sound close,” You whisper. “Are you close, baby? Gonna make yourself cum? Wishing you were inside me instead?”
“Wanna make you feel good,” He mumbles. “God-M’so close.”
“Cum for me, Dean,” You beg, sliding back down level with his lap. “Wanna see how much cum you have for me,”
He begins shuddering, groaning from deep in his chest. He tells you he’s coming and it sounds like he’s panicked. You manage to get your plump lips around the head of him, your tongue immediately flooded with the heady taste of him. You suck at him for barely a second before he begins spurting into your mouth, the jets of his cum steadily hitting the back of your throat. He’s gripping your hair harshly, and you might register the pain of it, if you weren’t concentrating on swallowing burst after burst of his spend.
You swallow it all, then lick his cockhead clean until he’s jumping at the simple touch of your hot tongue. You lick your lips clean next and then nestle yourself back under his arm, while he's still sweaty and panting.
“That should hold you off until the morning, right?” You ask playfully.
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
You both make yourselves comfortable in the bed and fall asleep within five minutes flat.
summary ﹏ a quiet moment in the impala turns into something softer and deeper, where dean guides you gently through new feelings, balancing desire with care and trust. tucked away from the world, the intimacy grows slow and steady—rooted in reassurance, sweetness, and the kind of love that feels like home.
cw ﹏ ( +18 ) fluff & soft suggestive (non-explicit). fem!reader x s1!dean. impala setting. established relationship. dean being in love!!! emotional intimacy. gentle praise. petnames (sweetheart, pretty girl & baby). lap sitting. light grinding / clothed intimacy (non-explicit). aftercare / softness.
reblog is a creator's best-friend, thank you!!
The Impala idles low and steady beneath you, that familiar rumble vibrating softly through the seats, through your legs, through the quiet space you and Dean have carved out in the dark while Sam disappears into yet another late-night research spiral.
The library lights glow dimly across the street, casting long shadows over the windshield, and inside the car it feels warmer, smaller—like something tucked away from the rest of the world. You’re curled up closer to Dean than the seat really allows, one of his flannels hanging off your shoulders; contrasting with the lighter colors of your clothing and softness of your appearance. Your knees are angled toward him, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of his sleeve like you’ve done a hundred times before.
This isn’t new, not anymore. Being close to him like this, fitting into his space, letting your body lean into his without thinking: it’s something that’s settled into you, something that feels as natural as breathing.
Dean watches you the way he always does when you get like this; quiet, soft, a little lost in your own head.
His elbow rests against the window, the fingers of his other hand are brushing slowly along your thigh, not quite teasing, not quite absent either. Just there, present and grounding like he always is with you. “You’re gonna wear a hole in that sleeve, y’know,” he murmurs, voice low and rough in the quiet, eyes flicking down to where your fingers keep twisting the fabric.
You blink, like you’ve just come back to yourself, gaze lifting to his sparkling hazel eyes. “Sorry,” you say automatically, soft and sweet like always, your hands stilling for a second before you loosen your grip. “I didn’t even realize.”
Dean huffs a quiet breath, something fond tugging at the corner of his mouth; sweet like whipped cream. “Hey,” he says, shifting just enough so his hand slides over yours, stilling it properly this time. His thumb presses lightly against your knuckles, grounding, warm. “Didn’t say you had to stop, sweetheart.” His voice softens at the end, like it always does with you, like something in him instinctively smooths out the edges when he’s talking to you. He’s all circle, square gone.
You relax immediately at that, your shoulders dropping just a little, your hand settling back into the sleeve—only now your fingers brush against his wrist too, like you’re anchoring yourself there. “Okay,” you murmur, barely louder than a breath, and Dean feels it; how easily you settle when he gives you something steady to hold onto. It does something to him, something quiet and deep that he doesn’t really have a name for.
The silence stretches for a moment, not uncomfortable, just… thick. Heavy in a way that feels familiar between you now. His hand drifts again, slow, deliberate, fingertips tracing the curve of your thigh through the soft fabric of your clothes. Even now, even with everything that’s grown between you, Dean’s learned the way you respond best: slow, steady, giving you time to feel every second of it.
You shift slightly at the touch, your breath catching just a little, and his eyes flick to your face immediately, watching for any sign that you don’t want it. But you don’t pull away, you never really do and instead, your body leans closer, your knee nudging against his thigh, your fingers tightening faintly in his sleeve. “Hey,” he murmurs again, softer now, his hand stilling for a second. “You good, baby?”
You nod, eyes dropping to where his hand rests, your voice quiet but certain. “Yeah… I’m good.” There’s a beat, and then, quieter—almost shy—“I like it.” And that does something to him, the way your voice whispers, the way you try to hide your face away from his soft glaze.
Dean exhales slowly through his nose, his gaze sharpening just a fraction as his thumb starts moving again, a little more intentional this time but still so gently. “Yeah?” he mutters, leaning just slightly closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his presence suddenly more noticeable, more solid. “You like when I touch you like this, huh?” His tone is like sugar, honey and everything sweet; he doesn’t try to tease, doesn’t try to mock. There’s a genuineness in his words.
You swallow, your head dipping a little, but you nod again, softer this time too, your voice barely there. “Mhm.”
God.
There’s something about the way you say it (so sweet, so honest) that makes his jaw tighten just slightly, and his heart skips a beat inside the cavern of his chest. He loves you so much; even though you know that already. Dean could give you the world, right here and right now. Snatch the moon off of the sky, make it into a necklace for you to wear.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, shifting his hand from your thigh to your waist, guiding you without force, just pressure, just enough that you follow. You always follow. You move easily into his space, letting him pull you closer until you’re straddling his lap, your legs on each side of his own and your hands instinctively finding his shoulders to steady yourself. It’s a bit uncomfortable due to the crampy space, but you both make it work.
“Dean—” you start softly, a little breathless, but he cuts you off gently, his hand sliding up your back, warm and firm. You can almost feel the warmth of his skin through the layer of clothes you have on. “Relax,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, softer but heavier somehow. “You’re alright. I got you, sweetheart.”
The words settle into you instantly, your body softening under his hands, your grip on his shoulders loosening just slightly as you lean into him. You trust him and that’s the thing Dean keeps circling back to, even now: you trust him so easily, so completely, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. From up close, a sniff of his nose is enough for his brain to catch up on the smell of strawberry; the sweet-sugary smell of your favorite perfume.
His hand moves slowly along your side, then back down again, deliberate, giving you time to feel every inch of it. Your breath stutters again, quieter this time, and you hide your face for a second against his shoulder, shy in that way that never quite goes away.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing gently along your jaw, coaxing your face back up. “Don’t hide from me now, baby.” You hesitate, then lift your head again, your expression soft with your eyes flicking between his beautiful hazel ones. “I’m not hiding,” you whisper, even though you kind of were. Dean huffs a quiet, amused breath, his thumb brushing just under your bottom lip, not quite touching, just close enough to make you notice. “Yeah, you are,” he says, not unkindly, his voice low. “But it’s cute, don’t worry.”
Your cheeks feel warmer at that, and you duck your head slightly again, but you don’t pull away. If anything, you lean closer, your chest brushing his, your fingers curling a little tighter into his shirt to make sure he won’t suddenly disappear into thin air. The thing is; you’re not used to being all over him—usually shyer with that type of interaction, but Dean brings something out of you that you can’t deny. It’s new and a bit scary, but beautiful at the same time.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, more approving than teasing. “Stay right there.” His hand shifts again, slower, more certain now that he knows you’re with him, that you’re not going to pull away. And you don’t. You stay exactly where he wants you, soft and pliant and warm in his lap, your breathing uneven, your body reacting in ways that still feel new enough to make you shy as your hips softly move against Dean’s.
“Look at you,” he mutters under his breath, almost like he’s talking to himself, his gaze dragging over your face, the way your lashes lower to almost rest against the top of your cheeks, the way your lips part just slightly, the way your pupils blow a bit. “All sweet like this… You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. My pretty girl.” You let out a small, breathy laugh, your forehead tipping forward until it brushes his. “Dean,” you whisper, half a protest, half something else entirely.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, his nose nudging lightly against yours, his voice quieter now, more focused on you. His eyes take the expression of your face as he gently angles your hips down again. You don’t answer right away, you just look at him, soft and open in a way that makes something in his chest twist unexpectedly. And then, quieter still—“Don’t stop.”
Dean exhales slowly, his hand tightening just a fraction where it rests against you, his forehead pressing briefly against yours before he leans in, kissing you: slow at first, deliberate, giving you time to follow, to meet him there. Your hands slide up to his shoulders, then into his hair, your body leaning fully into his now, soft and trusting and just a little needy in a way that makes his chest feel tight.
“Careful, pretty girl,” he murmurs against your lips, voice rougher now, but still soft like a cloud underneath it. “Sam’s right across the street, he could come back anytime now.”
You let out a small, breathless sound that might be a laugh, might be something else, your face turning slightly into his neck for a second as if to hide once more. “He won’t know, Dean,” you whisper, shy but honest, your fingers curling tighter in his shirt.
Dean stills for just a second at that, something flickering across his face; surprise, maybe, or something warmer, something sharper. “Yeah?” he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at you properly, the apple of his cheeks a bit more rosy than before. You tend to do that to him. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”
You nod, small but certain, your eyes soft but steady. “I just… want to be close to you.”
And that—soft, sweet, completely unguarded—hits him harder than anything else.
Dean lets out a quiet breath, his hand coming up to cup your face for a second, thumb brushing gently over your cheek, grounding himself as much as you. “You got me,” he murmurs, softer now, something steadier settling into his voice again. “Always got me, baby. I’m not leaving any time soon.”
And then he pulls you back in, slower this time, more careful, like he’s balancing something fragile between his hands. His hand angles your hips once more, down against his own in the softest and gentlest way he knows how to. Not rushing, not pushing—just letting you feel it, letting you stay soft even as you lean into something new, something that belongs just to the two of you.
The Impala hums quietly around you, the world outside distant and unimportant, and inside, it’s just you and him: warm, close, and learning each other in ways that feel a little dangerous and a lot like home.
The car is filled with the quietest of praise coming from Dean’s honey mouth, words that echo in your ears just to slide to your heart. You can feel the beat of his own heart against your chest, a telltale of the love he feels for you and he helps you on his lap, pressing kisses to the skin of your cheeks.
“I love you so much, sweetheart.” You can hear him say as you feel warmth coursing through your body, muscles gently twitching under his touch before he pulls you into a hug and you are left breathless for a second. Dean’s hand rests against your lower back, rubbing it slowly until your heart calms down. Only then, you pull your face away from his neck and look up at him.
“Feeling good, pretty girl?” He asks and you nod, smiling softly like only you know how to. It makes Dean feel all flustered to see you so happy, knowing you feel safe in his arms. He leans his face closer to yours, pressing a kiss to your lips; lingering but honey-like.
“Want to go find an open diner and get some milkshakes?”
