21. she/her. Desi. Help idk how to customise my dash and all that 😭 I only know how to reblog, like, and comment 😔🫶 Also, a lot of my reblogs are me yearning 😔
THROUGH A RAPIST’S EYES” (PLS TAKE TIME TO READ THIS. It may save a life, It may save your life.)
An Article from Neena Susan Thomas
“Through a rapist’s eyes. A group of rapists and date rapists in prison were interview…ed on what they look for in a potential victim and here are some interesting facts:
1] The first thing men look for in a potential victim is hairstyle. They are most likely to go after a woman with a ponytail, bun! , braid, or other hairstyle that can easily be grabbed. They are also likely to go after a woman with long hair. Women with short hair are not common targets.
2] The second thing men look for is clothing. They will look for women who’s clothing is easy to remove quickly. Many of them carry scissors around to cut clothing.
3] They also look for women using their cell phone, searching through their purse or doing other activities while walking because they are off guard and can be easily overpowered.
4] The number one place women are abducted from / attacked at is grocery store parking lots.
5] Number two is office parking lots/garages.
6] Number three is public restrooms.
7] The thing about these men is that they are looking to grab a woman and quickly move her to a second location where they don’t have to worry about getting caught.
8] If you put up any kind of a fight at all, they get discouraged because it only takes a minute or two for them to realize that going after you isn’t worth it because it will be time-consuming.
9] These men said they would not pick on women who have umbrellas,or other similar objects that can be used from a distance, in their hands.
10] Keys are not a deterrent because you have to get really close to the attacker to use them as a weapon. So, the idea is to convince these guys you’re not worth it.
POINTS THAT WE SHOULD REMEMBER:
1] If someone is following behind you on a street or in a garage or with you in an elevator or stairwell, look them in the face and ask them a question, like what time is it, or make general small talk: can’t believe it is so cold out here, we’re in for a bad winter. Now that you’ve seen their faces and could identify them in a line- up, you lose appeal as a target.
2] If someone is coming toward you, hold out your hands in front of you and yell Stop or Stay back! Most of the rapists this man talked to said they’d leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she would not be afraid to fight back. Again, they are looking for an EASY target.
3] If you carry pepper spray (this instructor was a huge advocate of it and carries it with him wherever he goes,) yelling I HAVE PEPPER SPRAY and holding it out will be a deterrent.
4] If someone grabs you, you can’t beat them with strength but you can do it by outsmarting them. If you are grabbed around the waist from behind, pinch the attacker either under the arm between the elbow and armpit or in the upper inner thigh – HARD. One woman in a class this guy taught told him she used the underarm pinch on a guy who was trying to date rape her and was so upset she broke through the skin and tore out muscle strands the guy needed stitches. Try pinching yourself in those places as hard as you can stand it; it really hurts.
5] After the initial hit, always go for the groin. I know from a particularly unfortunate experience that if you slap a guy’s parts it is extremely painful. You might think that you’ll anger the guy and make him want to hurt you more, but the thing these rapists told our instructor is that they want a woman who will not cause him a lot of trouble. Start causing trouble, and he’s out of there.
6] When the guy puts his hands up to you, grab his first two fingers and bend them back as far as possible with as much pressure pushing down on them as possible. The instructor did it to me without using much pressure, and I ended up on my knees and both knuckles cracked audibly.
7] Of course the things we always hear still apply. Always be aware of your surroundings, take someone with you if you can and if you see any odd behavior, don’t dismiss it, go with your instincts. You may feel little silly at the time, but you’d feel much worse if the guy really was trouble.
FINALLY, PLEASE REMEMBER THESE AS WELL ….
1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If you are close enough to use it, do it.
2. Learned this from a tourist guide to New Orleans : if a robber asks for your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from you…. chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse than you and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER DIRECTION!
3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car: Kick out the back tail lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The driver won’t see you but everybody else will. This has saved lives.
4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping,eating, working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc. DON’T DO THIS! The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side,put a gun to your head, and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU CLOSE the DOORS , LEAVE.
5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking garage:
a. Be aware: look around your car as someone may be hiding at the passenger side , peek into your car, inside the passenger side floor, and in the back seat. ( DO THIS TOO BEFORE RIDING A TAXI CAB) .
b. If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.
c. Look at the car parked on the driver’s side of your vehicle, and the passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to walk you back out. IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)
6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible places to be alone and the perfect crime spot).
7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN! The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN!
8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP IT! It may get you raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked “for help” into his vehicle or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.
Send this to any woman you know that may need to be reminded that the world we live in has a lot of crazies in it and it’s better safe than sorry.
If u have compassion reblog this post.
‘Helping hands are better than Praying Lips’ – give us your helping hand.
REBLOG THIS AND LET EVERY GIRL KNOW
AT LEAST PEOPLE WILL KNOW WHATS GOING ON IN THIS WORLD.
So please reblog this….Your one reblog can Help to spread this information.
lowdown ☆ the job is simple: flirt with the deep, get him alone, knock him out, steal his phone. all while soldier boy is watching.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 1050 ride style ☆ undercover tension, enemies banter
danger on the trail ☆ suggestive flirting, unwanted touching, drugging/knockout, soldier boy being jealous-ish but he would rather die than admit it
liv's log ☆ save the clownfish! 🪸
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist
“this is the dumbest fuckin’ charity i’ve ever seen.”
butcher doesn’t look away from the camera feed. “that so?”
soldier boy slouches lower in the passenger seat of the van, arms folded, jaw working around nothing because mm made him put out his joint ten minutes ago and he’s still bitter about it. “saving the clownfish. jesus christ. what happened to this country?”
“clownfish are important to the ecosystem,” mm says, clicking through the security cameras on his laptop.
soldier boy stares at him.
mm doesn’t blink. “they are.”
“everybody shut up,” butcher says, tapping his earpiece. “darlin’, you in?”
inside the event, crystal lights drip from the ceiling, champagne floats around on silver trays, and every rich person in the room is dressed with clothes that cost more money that you’ve ever seen. ever.
you move through them easily, smile soft, shoulders loose, dressed nice enough to belong but not expensive enough to threaten anyone. fresh face. clean record. perfect bait.
“i’m in,” you murmur, barely moving your mouth.
on the feed, soldier boy’s eyes drift up. only for a second. then, they stay there.
because you’re not bristling. not glaring. not calling anyone butcher’s commie toy or threatening to rearrange their jaws. you’re smiling. laughing lightly at something some man in a navy suit says. touching his sleeve just enough to make him feel chosen before slipping away.
soldier boy sits up a little.
butcher catches it and smirks. “interestin’, innit?”
“shut up.”
mm zooms in on the ballroom entrance. “deep’s coming in from the west side.”
and there he is.
the deep walks in wearing a blue suit that’s too tight across the shoulders, grinning with all the confidence of a man who has never once heard himself speak. there’s a little dolphin pin on his lapel. no. not dolphin.
clownfish.
you have to bite the inside of your cheek so you don’t laugh.
“i see him,” you say.
“remember,” butcher says, “make him feel special. man’s got the spine of wet cardboard and twice the insecurity.”
“mhm, i know the type.”
soldier boy leans toward the monitor. “why the hell does she have to get close?”
“because,” mm says, “his phone’s encrypted. we need him unlocked, distracted, and away from cameras.”
“and she’s the distraction?”
butcher grins. “look at you keepin’ up.”
on screen, the deep spots you. it’s almost too easy. his gaze catches, sticks, then does that horrible little full-body scan men think nobody notices. you turn before the deep can reach you, letting him follow.
“hi,” he says, sliding beside you at the bar. “i’m kevin.”
you widen your eyes just enough. “i know.”
his grin grows. “yeah?”
“of course.” you glance down at the little pin. “saving the clownfish is… really brave.”
in the van, mm mutters, “oh, that was painful.”
butcher whispers, “beautiful.”
the deep laughs, already preening. “yeah, well, somebody’s gotta speak for the little guys. people don’t realize clownfish are, honestly, kind of misunderstood. very emotionally complex.”
“i can tell.”
“can you?”
“mhm.” you lean in slightly, lowering your voice. “you seem very connected to them.”
his hand lands on your lower back. not hard. not aggressive. just entitled. too familiar. your smile doesn’t move, but your eyes flicker once.
in the van, soldier boy’s hand curls against his thigh.
butcher notices. of course he does. “steady, granddad.”
soldier boy glares at the screen. “she doesn’t need to let him put hands on her.”
“she knows what she’s doing,” mm says, and there’s warning in it.
inside, you laugh at another terrible joke. the deep keeps drifting closer, voice dropping into that awkward, bro-ish attempt at seduction.
“you know, most people here just want selfies,” he says. “but you’re different.”
“am i?”
“yeah. you listen.”
oh, that almost breaks you. poor thing. “maybe you’re worth listening to,” you say, and somewhere in your ear butcher makes a strangled sound that might be pride.
the deep swallows. “there’s, uh… a quieter place out back.”
“lead the way.”
soldier boy straightens fully now. “out back where?”
mm switches feeds. “service hallway. alley exit. no interior camera after the door.”
“no camera?” soldier boy snaps.
butcher’s voice cuts in, low. “that’s the point.”
“that’s stupid.”
you guide the deep through the side door into the alley, night air cool against your face. the city hums beyond the brick walls. distant traffic. wet pavement. trash bins. romantic, if someone has suffered enough brain damage.
the deep steps close, smiling. “so, uh… this is kind of crazy, right?”
“very crazy,” you agree.
he kisses you. it’s bad. not horrifying, not memorable, just wet and overconfident and salty like he just had his mouth deep in some seaweed. you let him have three seconds. four, because his hand slides toward his pocket and you need him distracted.
then your hand moves.
quick. clean.
the tiny syringe sinks into the side of his neck.
his eyes fly open. “what the—”
“sorry,” you whisper, patting his cheek. “for the clownfish.”
he stumbles back once, twice, then drops like a sack of morally confused potatoes.
you exhale, wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, and tap your earpiece. “seaworld is down.”
the van screeches into the alley thirty seconds later.
butcher hops out first, laughing under his breath. “that’s my girl.”
“never say that again.” you say, although you’re beaming with something close to pride.
mm crouches, grabbing the deep’s phone from his jacket while you climb into the van. soldier boy is already inside, arms crossed, expression carved out of judgment.
you hand the phone to mm. “we’ve got maybe ten minutes before fish boy wakes up.”
mm nods. “nice work.”
soldier boy looks you over, slow, mean, unreadable. “perfect little bait, huh?”
you turn to him, still tasting expensive champagne and seaweed. “funny,” you say. “my bait works on everyone but you.”
his eyes narrow.
you smile, sweet as poison. “guess you really are too old and fucked up to catch.”
butcher barks a laugh from outside.
soldier boy just stares at you. then his mouth twitches. not a smile. not yet. “keep telling yourself that,” he says.
you sit across from him as the van doors slam shut, pulse still high, lipstick slightly ruined, and the deep unconscious in the alley behind you.
✧･ﾟ:there are two versions of Ben. The one before you, and the one after. If you had just been another hookup, aftercare would’ve been nothing. Maybe an offer for a joint and a pat on the leg for a job well done, but then he’d be gone. After you, it’s different. Everything’s different. You wormed your way under his skin and made him feel things, good things, good, disgusting things like love, and he’s turned into something a little north of soft. He’s still Ben, but the sharper edges have dulled, and ice around his old heart has thawed, and his hands are learning how to do things that just for you. He won’t coddle you, but he cleans up between your thighs, gives you a rough assessment for anything dumb and soft—if you’re extra braindead, which happens a lot, he’ll carry you to the bathroom without a word—and lies at your side. The joint still gets smoked, but now you’re tucked against his chest. Safe and warm, and his.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
✧･ﾟ:his cock. He says it with smug triumph and not a second of hesitation. It’s his favorite part, your favorite part—if he’s the one in charge of deciding that—and overall just a gift to humanity all around. If you push him a little on it and demand something besides his cock, he’ll roll his eyes and say his balls. If you push a little deeper—which only you can do—you get the truth. He loves his chest. Yeah he’s got a bomb in there, but you love the warmth, and he loves covering you completely, just a sweet little ball beneath him. He’d keep you there all the time like a sex kangaroo if you let him. He tells you that, and you smack him, and he laughs. He’d say his favorite part of you is your pussy, but with a raised brow he’d admit it’s your mouth. It gets real sassy when you’re confident, and drools his name just right, when you’re stuffed up with his cock.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
✧･ﾟ:he gets possessive with it. He’ll never admit to it—he won’t admit to anything—but after he cums inside of you, he’s going to make sure it gets in there, nice and deep, and then he’ll smear it everywhere else he can. Over your thighs and on your tummy, up to your tits and down your ass, anywhere he can see himself shining on your pretty body. A lot of times he cums hard enough that he can fill you up until you’re moaning, and still have plenty left to shoot onto your back or breasts. Just how he likes.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Most of Ben’s dirty secrets aren’t exactly… secret. He’s tried to fuck you in front of the team multiple times, he always tells you to moan his name loud enough that they’ll hear, and if he can get away with it he’ll make you walk around with his cum dripping out of your cunt. He proudly declared that you gave him your panties to keep, and tell you like it’s romantic that he only jerks off to the thought of you now. If anything, the deepest secret he holds is that he does find it romantic. That he’s capable of that now, with you, and he wants nothing more than to just… be near you. Without sex. To love and touch you like some boring, normal pussy. Maybe a little sex. He’ll probably be able to talk you into it.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
Body count rivaling Genghis Khan. He got around in his day, and it’s taught him to know every body almost like he knows his own. You have to give him a rule, that he’s not allowed to say that he did this position with Princess Diana, because you don’t really want to hear it. You just want to see him do the position. He rolls his eyes and calls you a brat, and you smile and say he loves it, and damn him, he does. He loves that he got all that experience, too. Real easy for you to benefit, from all that hard work.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Ben can brag about his past and throw around your panties all he wants, you always get to know the truth. That at the end of it, he’s just a romantic old man who wants to do missionary. He likes being fully wrapped around you, likes how easy it is to manhandle you, like how your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep as you get the air fucked straight out of you. He likes that he can kiss you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and that he can push your knees to your chest and turn it into a mating press, giving him easy access to your swollen, sensitive clit. You only tease him about it a little. The sex is too good to do anything else.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
He’s more serious with you, than he ever was with anyone else. Especially at the start, when this was something that mattered, and he’d never had that, and for the first time in a hundred years there was a fist in his gut that was trying to hold onto something. That clenched hard enough to make him sick, that made him paranoid and tense, because what if he lost you. He fucked you like it was a job. Like that would prove his dedication to this, to you, without him having to say it. Over time, he relaxed. Jokes get cracked, and the teasing gets insatiable, and you can’t go a day without something suggestive that makes you laugh, then moan as his hand presses between your thighs.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Ben didn’t bother grooming until you. His actions and face and body spoke for themselves. Whatever was going on down there was what you got, and you’d better be fucking happy with it. And you were. You are. But he saw you taking care of your bush and got curious what the fuck you were doing, and you explained that it was still hair, it needed to be washed, and now he does that for you, then makes you clean him. He gets cocky, his hand in your hair as you lean down, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from getting hard while you touch him. It usually ends with you pressed against shower tiles. You never complain about that either.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
He’ll deny it to the ends of the earth and over God’s ballsack, but he’s more romantic than you would’ve ever guessed. Once he learns what that strange, warm feeling he got when he looked at you was, he’s committed to it. It’s annoying, but nice, and he really fucking loves nice things. Just like he loves you. And there’s nothing better than whispering that against your skin, or fucking you nice and slow and loving until you’re sobbing, then making you admit that you love him back.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
If it was a sport, he’d take gold. And silver, and bronze. If someone were to take a blacklight to his bedroom it would look like a crime scene, especially before you got together. He doesn’t deny himself, ever, and that meant stomping away at seemingly random points during the day, just to jerk himself off and moan your name to the walls. Once he did it in a Chili’s bathroom, just because you smiled at him. Not his best moment, but real far from his fucking worst. And you deserve to be worshipped like that, enough that he can’t even control himself. He counts it as romantic, and you never admit it, but you kind of think it is too.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Ben walks a fine line between an exhibitionist and overly possessive. He marks your neck up with hickies and parades you around like his most prized thing, but gets narrow eyed and rigid when people watch for too long. He wants you to scream his name loud enough for everyone to hear, but clenches his jaw at the idea of fucking where someone might actually walk in and see you naked. He records a video of you and puts it in a safe. Fucks you in a bathroom with the door locked, puts you in his shirt and nothing else, but barks at anyone who’s gaze lingers on your legs. You’re his to worship and adore, not some other nosy fucking pussy’s.
He’s only a fucking man. A man who wants things he won’t talk about, like kids and a simple fucking life. If he could he’d knock you up for the rest of your fucking lives, keep your tits swollen and belly round with his kid. Making them is the fun part, breeding you like you’re begging for it—and you are—and then a few times after to make sure it sticks. Then you get all glowy and gorgeous, beaming and fucking Ben’s. Everyone knows it, from that swell of your stomach, and you get so horny you give him a run for his damn money. Perfect.
Pet names are cute, but detached before you. Doll for most women, sweetheart if he’s trying to piss them off, and not much else. But you, you get kid and darling and babydoll and pretty girl falling from his lips without thought. And then there’s the shit you call him. Benjamin when he’s in trouble—which is fucking hot—and Benny when you’re extra fucking needy. If you’re desperate enough he gets sir, and if he fucks you just right, he can pull a daddy from your swollen lips. You flush and get embarrassed and deny it later, but he knows what he fucking heard. And he’s going to get you to say it again.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
As much as Ben loves the bed, or the shower, or the table or the counter or the floor or the dresser, there’s something about the wall and the couch that make him feral. If he’s got you against the wall, he can pin you with your hands over your head and his arm cradling you against him, and he gets to make your whole body bounce with every thrust. Maybe he can even drag you off the wall, and just fuck you standing in the center of the room, his arms the only thing keeping you up right. On the other side of that is the couch. Bending you over it and smacking your ass, pushing you down until you’re limp and dangling forward, stupid moans falling from your lips as he fucks you dumb and pretty. Completely at his mercy, and happy about it.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
It would be quicker to list the things that don’t get him going. Sometimes it’s the way you said a word, a look you gaze him, the way you squeezed his hands or glared at him all hot, and now he needs to be inside of you or he’s going to go fucking insane. Once you screamed about a spider, he killed it, and suddenly you were being fucked into the sofa. More times than you can count he just wants to. No foreplay or real motivation besides seeing you, and deciding you really needed a good fuck.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
He makes the list clear, when you get together. He’s tried damn near everything, and he won’t be pissing, shitting, or getting cucked. You can get on top, but he’s in control. You can try and tie him up, but he’s just going to break out of it and fuck you like you deserve. Giving up control isn’t really something he knows how to do, let alone tolerate after Russia. He spent too long in a box, and he’s not fucking letting anyone get one over on him again. You tell him that’s shell-shock. He rolls his eyes and tells you to hire a shrink about it. You do, because you’re the only one who can get away with it. You might be able to get away with anything, around him. He likes finding out.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Of course he prefers fucking receiving, he told you once. Getting a girl with nice lips and a warm mouth around him, fucking her face until she’s choking and still begging for more, nothing fucking better. Of course, your mouth is another story. Almost brings him to his fucking knees, when you get going. He’s broken the kitchen counter three times, to the point that you just leave it wrecked and tell him to grab there. And then he gets between your legs, and works out how all those men he thought were pussies could get off on just this. Tastes like fucking Heaven, gets you gushing and screaming and squirming for him, opens you up like nothing fucking else. You get caught in his beard and he refuses to wash it out. You cum on his face and he rolls on his back, pinning you down until your body gives out and you fold over him like a toy, trembling with the pleasure he’s devoured out of you.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
There aren’t many ways Ben doesn’t like it, but slow and rough is always going to take the cake. Pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, watching your eyes roll back and hearing that perfect little whine. You milk his cock whenever he drives against your g-spot and beg him to go faster, but he holds the pace. Not like there’s much you can do about it, limp and mindless under him. Eventually he’ll take mercy and start to fuck you like you’ve earned, the brutal pace turning into micro thrusts when he falls over the edge with a groan.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
You have to limit him. There are too many times where he’s pulled you into a closet or dragged you off to bed with guests over, just to pull one more out of your greedy little pussy. And you know you’re always going to let him, even when he shouldn’t. Three a day, you tell him, but that quickly becomes four, then five, then six, and then you give up all together. It’s as if he gets energy fucking you. It’s almost scientifically amazing, and it feels like fucking heaven, so there are worse quirks for a boyfriend to have.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
There isn’t something Ben hasn’t done. If risks are being taken, it’s you, trusting him when he says he’s got some shit you’ll like. You believe him—he’s good at knowing about that, and it would scare you how good he was if it wasn’t deeply helpful—and trust him, because he’s your Ben. He’d never hurt you. One time, you do try to suggest something he might not have done, and he laughs in your face and calls you cute. He’s been slinging cock like a gun before your grandparents were alive. You tell him he’s never allowed to say slinging cock again.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Once, you made a bet with him that you could take it until he was out. It was one of the best and worst choices of your life. He came about thirty times, you came so much you stopped counting—and can’t even remember what number made you give up—and it only ended because Ben started to get worried that you would go into sex hibernation. You told him that wasn’t a thing, and tried to tease him that he was just out. He’d been rock hard when he stopped. You have a feeling that he could’ve done that all over again ten times and still be ready for round one thousand, but he let you have the win. It’s the only kind you have, in the sheets.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
At first, he’s offended by the idea that a fucking robot could get you off better than he could. He still is a little offended. If you use your vibrator, he also gets a shot at it, to remind you which is better at knowing you and your body. But then you show him remote control vibrators, and he turns into a monster. He shoves it into your hand and orders you to put it in, and when you laugh you end up pinned to the mattress and kissed everywhere while he slides it in himself. Ben becomes obsessed with it. Making you glare at him while your thighs shake, smelling your arousal, knowing that you’re probably going to climb him like a fucking tree the second you’re alone. Maybe before, if he does this shit right.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Ben has a talent. A gift, even, and it’s going to ruin your fucking life. He thinks of working you up like a sport, trying to you right up to the edge of screaming before he pulls you into his lap and makes you fall apart with a single, light touch. It’s even more fun then, because you’re sensitive after you cum. And that’s just how Ben fucking likes you. Wet and needy and sensitive, all his to ruin however he likes. You thank him after, and he feels about a million feet fucking tall.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
He doesn’t see any point in trying to keep quiet. Sex is meant to be loud and raw. Skin slapping on skin, hands grabbing and moans being forced out of your throat for him to swallow. He dirty talks you loud enough for it to be heard through the walls, and groans you name loud enough to be heard from space. He’s proud of it. The way you get all turned on by his moaning, then adorably embarrassed when the team tells you they could hear .
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Ben really fucking loves cock warming. Sitting you on his lap for no reason at all, burying himself in your hot little cunt, and just keeping you there until he’s had his fill. You get so fucking whiny and gorgeous, calling him names when he won’t move and then pleading and sweet talking him when that shit doesn’t work. He gets drunk on it, how you flutter and pulse around his rock hard cock, looking at him with those glossy eyes and whimpering his name. Sometimes he shoves a book into your hands and makes you read it, because you’re always trying to get him to fucking read. When you’re gasping for air and leaking down his thighs, he’ll give in and fuck you. Then, the next week, he’ll do it all fucking over again.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Horsecock. World ending. Tree trunk thick and uncut. Next question.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Of Ben’s many experiments on your body, one of your favorite quickly grows to be somnophilia, simply because he’s a fucking dog. You know he has self control, and he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to, but he gets twitchy when he’s been pent up too long. And for Ben, too long is about twelve hours. You could give him a whole night before you went on a work trip, and he’d spam call you until you landed and picked up, demanding that you come back now. He’d spend the rest of his life fucking you, if he was allowed. Sometimes he tries to talk you into that, and you flush, because you’d be more “up for it” than you want to admit.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Ben doesn’t sleep much, after Russia. Been asleep too fucking long, he grunts, and you don’t push. But you notice—like you always do—that the rule doesn’t really apply to you. You wake up in the middle of the night, still where you passed out. Held against his chest like a child’s blanket, cradled like a baby bird, both of you bare as the day you were born and completely at peace. His lips brushing your brow and breathing steady. It’s beautiful to see. Almost sacred. You brush the hair from his eyes and kiss his nose. His eyes flutter sometimes, and you just stare at each other in the dark. You press your chin to his chest, and his mouth twitches into something like a smile. You both fall back asleep, and don’t speak of it in the morning. But—just like always—it will happen again.
✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦
✦Author's Note: i need him in a way that's concerning to feminism✦
✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦
“Have sex with me.”
Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.
“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.
Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“What?”
“Have sex with me-“
“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“
“It’s eight fifteen.”
That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.
“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“
“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”
“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”
“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”
Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”
“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.
“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”
You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”
“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“
“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.
A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.
It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.
Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about.
You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.
“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.
He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.
If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.
You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.
So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on
You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.
So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.
Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.
But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.
“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”
You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”
“You were serious?”
He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.
“Sweetheart-“
“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.
You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.
“Wait, just- Hold on-“
You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.
“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.
It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
“Why?”
“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”
“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”
You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”
“I don’t think you are.”
He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.
Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.
“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”
You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.
“Sweetheart-“
“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”
“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“
“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”
Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.
“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.
Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.
“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.
You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.
Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.
At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.
If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.
You’re learning something about yourself.
You are not good at flirting.
The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.
“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.
“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.
“Why, you forget something?”
“No.”
“Then what-“
Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.
Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.
Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.
You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.
He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.
“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“
“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.
“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“
“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”
“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“
“I do now.”
“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“
You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.
Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.
“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.
You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.
You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work.
But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.
No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.
So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.
“Sam.”
Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.
“Sam.”
“I’m listening, what’s-“
“Have sex with me.”
Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.
“Just- Listen-“
“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“
“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“
“It’s already weird-“
“You’d be doing me a favor-“
“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”
You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”
“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”
“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”
Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”
“Sam Winchester-“
“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“
“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“
“That’s not healthy-“
“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“
“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”
You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”
You nod, and Sam blinks.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Maybe.”
“You- You’re-“
“Don’t be an asshole-“
“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”
That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”
Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.
“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”
“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.
“Does Dean-“
“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.
“I think you should-“
“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”
“I- Okay.”
You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”
Sam snorts, and you scowl.
“I’m serious-“
“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”
You stand a little taller. “Really?”
“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”
“I do not annoy you-“
“You’re annoying me right now.”
You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”
You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”
“You need to sleep with her.”
Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.
“Sammy, what the fuck-“
Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.
Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.
He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.
Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.
And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.
So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.
He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good. He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.
Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.
But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.
“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“
“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“
“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“
“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.
Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”
Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“
“To take her virginity.”
He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”
Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”
“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”
“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”
Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.
But you’d asked him.
You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-
Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“How the fuck do you know that.”
Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”
“Sam-“
“She might’ve… Asked me.”
“She what-“
“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”
Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.
“No.”
“Dean, just-“
“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“
“It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”
“She doesn’t want it-“
Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”
Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.
“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”
Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“
“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”
Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.
He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.
“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.
Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.
“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.
“Uh- Hey.”
“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.
Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”
You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.
“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”
“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“What-“
“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”
Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t?”
“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“
“Hey- It’s- Woah-“
Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.
“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.
You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”
He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.
Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.
Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.
“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.
“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.
“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”
Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“
“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”
You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now.
Dean says your name, and you shake your head.
“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“
“What if it’s not.”
Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.
“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.
“What if I wanted to. Help you.”
“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”
Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“
“You said you didn’t-“
“I lied.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.
“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”
You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.
Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“
He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.
High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.
Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.
You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.
“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”
You whine again. “Dean-“
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.
“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.
This might be real.
“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.
“Yes.”
“I’m old, sweetheart-“
“I like it.”
Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.
“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“
Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his you can’t shy away.
“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“
He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.
“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”
You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”
Dean grins back. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”
You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”
Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“
“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”
Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”
You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.
“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”
“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.
“Demanding, aren’t we?”
You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.
“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”
You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.
“You like that, huh.”
“Dean-“
“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”
You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.
“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"
You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.
“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”
He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.
“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.
It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.
“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt. “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”
You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.
“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”
Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.
“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“
Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.
Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.
“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”
You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.
“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
“Dean-“
“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”
“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”
“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”
His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.
“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.
Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.
“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.
“Everything?”
“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-
“Hey,” Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”
“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.
Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.
Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”
“Shut up-“
“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”
Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.
“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.
“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”
He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.
“You want a little more?”
You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.
“Say please-“
“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“
Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.
He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.
When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.
“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"
He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.
Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.
“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”
“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”
Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”
“Mh- Mhm.”
You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.
“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”
“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“
You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.
“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”
His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.
Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.
You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.
He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.
Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.
“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.
“You’re cute.”
“I- I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”
“Deeeean-“
“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”
You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.
“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”
You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.
“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.
Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.
“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.
You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.
“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”
Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.
“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”
“No, I mean like- It can’t-“
“It can.”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.
“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”
You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.
Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.
“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”
You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.
“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”
You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.
“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“
His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.
“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“
“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“
Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.
“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“
Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.
“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“
Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.
His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.
You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.
“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.
“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”
You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.
He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.
Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.
He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.
“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.
“I like you too-“
“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“
He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.
“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“
You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”
Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”
Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.
“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.
“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.
“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”
✦End note: drooling for him ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
☺️ The wing prints left by a hunting owl looked so incredibly beautiful that they immediately gave me Destiel vibes🤩
Sadly, burnout meant I didn't get around to drawing it until summer, lol. But I think I needed that time, because I finally managed to bring it to life exactly the way I imagined🥰
✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦
“Have sex with me.”
Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.
“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.
Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“What?”
“Have sex with me-“
“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“
“It’s eight fifteen.”
That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.
“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“
“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”
“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”
“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”
Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”
“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.
“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”
You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”
“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“
“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.
A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.
It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.
Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about.
You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.
“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.
He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.
If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.
You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.
So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on
You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.
So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.
Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.
But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.
“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”
You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”
“You were serious?”
He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.
“Sweetheart-“
“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.
You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.
“Wait, just- Hold on-“
You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.
“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.
It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
“Why?”
“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”
“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”
You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”
“I don’t think you are.”
He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.
Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.
“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”
You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.
“Sweetheart-“
“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”
“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“
“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”
Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.
“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.
Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.
“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.
You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.
Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.
At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.
If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.
You’re learning something about yourself.
You are not good at flirting.
The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.
“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.
“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.
“Why, you forget something?”
“No.”
“Then what-“
Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.
Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.
Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.
You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.
He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.
“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“
“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.
“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“
“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”
“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“
“I do now.”
“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“
You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.
Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.
“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.
You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.
You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work.
But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.
No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.
So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.
“Sam.”
Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.
“Sam.”
“I’m listening, what’s-“
“Have sex with me.”
Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.
“Just- Listen-“
“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“
“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“
“It’s already weird-“
“You’d be doing me a favor-“
“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”
You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”
“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”
“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”
Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”
“Sam Winchester-“
“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“
“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“
“That’s not healthy-“
“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“
“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”
You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”
You nod, and Sam blinks.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Maybe.”
“You- You’re-“
“Don’t be an asshole-“
“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”
That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”
Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.
“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”
“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.
“Does Dean-“
“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.
“I think you should-“
“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”
“I- Okay.”
You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”
Sam snorts, and you scowl.
“I’m serious-“
“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”
You stand a little taller. “Really?”
“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”
“I do not annoy you-“
“You’re annoying me right now.”
You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”
You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”
“You need to sleep with her.”
Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.
“Sammy, what the fuck-“
Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.
Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.
He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.
Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.
And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.
So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.
He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good. He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.
Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.
But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.
“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“
“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“
“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“
“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.
Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”
Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“
“To take her virginity.”
He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”
Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”
“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”
“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”
Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.
But you’d asked him.
You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-
Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“How the fuck do you know that.”
Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”
“Sam-“
“She might’ve… Asked me.”
“She what-“
“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”
Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.
“No.”
“Dean, just-“
“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“
“It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”
“She doesn’t want it-“
Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”
Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.
“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”
Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“
“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”
Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.
He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.
“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.
Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.
“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.
“Uh- Hey.”
“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.
Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”
You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.
“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”
“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“What-“
“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”
Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t?”
“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“
“Hey- It’s- Woah-“
Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.
“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.
You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”
He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.
Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.
Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.
“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.
“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.
“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”
Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“
“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”
You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now.
Dean says your name, and you shake your head.
“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“
“What if it’s not.”
Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.
“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.
“What if I wanted to. Help you.”
“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”
Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“
“You said you didn’t-“
“I lied.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.
“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”
You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.
Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“
He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.
High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.
Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.
You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.
“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”
You whine again. “Dean-“
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.
“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.
This might be real.
“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.
“Yes.”
“I’m old, sweetheart-“
“I like it.”
Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.
“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“
Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his you can’t shy away.
“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“
He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.
“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”
You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”
Dean grins back. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”
You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”
Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“
“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”
Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”
You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.
“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”
“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.
“Demanding, aren’t we?”
You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.
“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”
You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.
“You like that, huh.”
“Dean-“
“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”
You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.
“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"
You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.
“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”
He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.
“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.
It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.
“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt. “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”
You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.
“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”
Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.
“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“
Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.
Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.
“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”
You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.
“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
“Dean-“
“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”
“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”
“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”
His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.
“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.
Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.
“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.
“Everything?”
“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-
“Hey,” Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”
“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.
Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.
Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”
“Shut up-“
“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”
Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.
“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.
“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”
He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.
“You want a little more?”
You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.
“Say please-“
“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“
Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.
He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.
When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.
“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"
He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.
Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.
“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”
“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”
Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”
“Mh- Mhm.”
You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.
“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”
“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“
You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.
“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”
His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.
Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.
You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.
He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.
Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.
“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.
“You’re cute.”
“I- I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”
“Deeeean-“
“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”
You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.
“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”
You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.
“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.
Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.
“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.
You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.
“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”
Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.
“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”
“No, I mean like- It can’t-“
“It can.”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.
“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”
You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.
Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.
“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”
You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.
“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”
You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.
“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“
His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.
“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“
“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“
Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.
“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“
Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.
“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“
Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.
His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.
You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.
“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.
“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”
You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.
He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.
Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.
He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.
“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.
“I like you too-“
“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“
He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.
“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“
You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”
Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”
Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.
“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.
“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.
“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”
✦End note: drooling for him ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
thinking about how dean winchester manhandles you… 🤤
he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it mostly. we’ve all seen how he’s always having to do something with his hands, tapping the steering wheel and the like so it’s only natural he does it with you!
he’s just very tactile and it’s his responsibility to take care of you. you’re drunk and he needs to get you home? he’s slinging you over his shoulder. there’s an attack of something? he’s immediately roughly grabbing you by the waist and pushing you behind him. but even little things too.
if he wants you attention and your back is to him he’s tugging on whatever style your hair is in. he needs to get past you he’s gonna rest his hands on your hips to move you out of the way. if he wants to kiss you he’s pushing your cheeks together with his hand till your lips are pursed in an exaggerated pout.
sometimes you bemoan it! you’ve got finger marks all over your body because your boyfriend apparently never grew out of the pull the plaits of the girl he likes phase but he just shrugs and says “what you can’t handle a little lovetap sweetheart?”
maybe i’ll turn this into a proper fic someday idk
tags; not proofread whatsoever, fem!reader, maybe ooc (oops), mdni, probably not time accurate, car sex, oral (giving&receiving), #bushrepresentation, fluff, established relationship, fingering
i was literally just thinking about pornstaches and decided to write this so this is extremely self indulgent 👌👌
: ̗̀➛ ben & you at some drive-in movie theatre, watching some movie that he has absolutely zero care for whatsoever. sat in his 1965 ford mustang, roof down, holding hands over the centre console. a small moment of softness he’d never openly admit to, domesticity he never believed he truly deserved. especially not with you, bright-eyed and a sweet smile, too heavenly for someone like him
: ̗̀➛ washing his car in your driveway with some led zeppelin song playing from the radio, sunglasses on & soapy sponge in hand. he had set up a garden chair next to you to watch, beer in hand. you called him a perv, to which he just laughed, and said he was watching his two favourite girls
: ̗̀➛ sitting on the edge of the bathtub, watching him shave in the mirror through his reflection. his eyes darting over to you every once in a while, watching your eyes light up once he finished off and wiped his face with a towel. having shaved his pornstache back just for you, you pressed your lips to his, feeling that delicious scratch against your upper lip. he had smiled too, another moment of softness he would never let anyone but you see
: ̗̀➛ it being late at night, still hot outside from the overwhelming summer temperatures. he lays awake, too hot to sleep. your head on his chest, body practically covering his. you were making the situation worse. he was sweating in places he didn’t even know he could sweat, but he’d rather die than to move you off of him. your soft cheek pressed to his skin, gentle hands resting on him. he’d lay awake the whole night if he had to, he wasn’t weak. soldier boy didn’t get tired. truthfully, he was afraid to wake you, feel the guilt of your soft whines and glossy eyes peering up at him as you woke up.
NSFW;
: ̗̀➛ everytime ben went down on you, he’d have a hand wrapped around a leg of yours to keep you spread open for him. the other hand on your pelvis, just resting atop of the bush that he refused to let you shave. two of his girthy fingers pumping in and out of your cunt, lips attached to your clit as he groaned into you, the vibrations only adding to the immense pleasure. your thighs wrapped around his head, his nose buried in your hair. he loved it, the friction of the soft hair against his skin. he wouldn’t look up, completely lost in the sweetness of your pussy. your dreamy, breathy moans and whines from above with your fingers tangled in his hair told him he was doing a good job
: ̗̀➛ ben loved it when you would go down on him in the car. empty parking lots of motels late at night, roof down if you guys really wanted to risk it. your mouth around him, hand wrapped around the rest of his length that you couldn’t take. he’d groan from above you, a hand on your hair so he’d still have some semblance of control. he was soldier boy, he wouldn’t be caught dead being weak… besides when it came to you. he’d do all that stupid lovey-dovey shit that you loved, so long as you kept smiling at him, kept letting him go down on you whenever, wherever
summary: You know Dean and you know he's not exactly boyfriend material. But maybe he could be good for you, if you'd only give him a chance.
cw: mutual pining, miscommunication, idiots in love, hurt / comfort, jealousy, smut (unprotected p in v, mentions of oral - f receiving, dirty talk), cursing, reader is a hunter and had the same kind of upbringing / family dynamic as sam & dean
word count: 8.1k words
a/n: woww another dean hurt / comfort miscommunication fic. literally nobody is surprised. also i cannot tell if this is bad sorry lol
You’re in love with Dean but it’s just one of those things you’re going to have to work through, like a flu or a nasty head cold. It has consumed your life since the outbreak, but you’ll shake it off soon enough.
You don’t really have much of a choice. Because there’s no chance in hell or earth that you will let yourself fall in deep for someone like Dean Winchester.
It would be easy, though. It would be so, unbelievably easy to give him everything.
Especially if he keeps looking at you like this. Eyes glossed and starry, partially because of the whiskey and partially just because of you. That slanted smile, the little half-wrinkle by his eyes. The way you could swear his whole world has narrowed itself to just the sight of you.
“Tell me again.”
You laugh. “Dean, I’ve already told you twice-”
“And I wanna hear it again. S’that a crime?”
He winks at you and tilts his chin up, taking a swig from the dark brown bottle in front of him. He switched to beer two rounds ago.
You narrow your eyes at him but he meets you head-on, brazen grin plastered across his face. You sigh with no real exasperation.
“So I’m eleven years old and I’m on a hunt. I’m at the hospital and I’m told to walk in by myself and ask to see my mother-” You make air quotes around the word ‘mother’. Dean’s eyes droop down to your fingers before sliding lazily back to your mouth. “- in hospital. She’s in a coma. At this point we’re pretty sure this lady had been possessed by a demon and later exorcised so I’m being sent in just to look for signs, search through her belongings, check her injuries - that kinda thing.”
He is glowing with amusement. “So you’re brought into the room-”
“So I’m brought into the room and I’m trying to do what I can while all the doctors and nurses are there giving me those sad eyes you give a kid whose mom might not make it. And y’know - I’m only eleven but I know what to look for and how to be subtle. Except five minutes in, the lady wakes up.”
He’s already smiling, teetering on the edge of a laugh. “And you-”
“And I panic. I have no idea what to do because this lady is looking at me like I’ve got four heads and all the doctors and nurses are waiting for a heartfelt moment. So I burst into tears, screaming ‘Mommy you’re awake’, hugging her, the works. Poor lady is horrified, thinking she has amnesia and forgot her own daughter.”
He laughs now - hearty and full breasted. His eyes are glistening, crinkled at the corners. He takes another swing of his beer when he catches his breath. “Can’t believe I’m hearing that one for the first time tonight. Fuckin’ gold. I can picture it too, y’know.”
“Yeah?” You smile, leaning in across the table.
“Yeah. Bet you had the same nervous, twitchy face you get when you’re panicked. Just on a little thing with pigtails.”
You laugh. “Nope. Didn’t exactly have my hair braided for me every morning. Wasn’t that kinda family dynamic.” You pause. “I’m not twitchy.”
“Yeah y’are. Sometimes.”
“You’re so full of shit. I’m more cool and collected than you and Sam put together.”
“The coolest,” he says, a hint sardonic.
You’re in rocky territory. Both of you leaned forward, elbows pressed to the sticky table in the booth. The way he’s grinning at you - heated and shameless, eyes tilted up through his long lashes - is warming your stomach. You’re trying to convince yourself it’s just the two drinks.
Sam dipped almost an hour ago to sit at the bar. Dropped some teasing line about not wanting to third-wheel anymore. You’ve stopped telling him off for it because it only makes him worse. You see him glance at the two of you over his shoulder every now and again.
Dean reaches an arm down to take up your drink - some red girly concoction with cranberry juice and vodka in it. His eyes don’t leave yours while he takes a sip, fingers clutching the glass by the rim. You wonder if his lips are touching the same spot that yours did.
“Shit, that’s good,” he says, sucking his teeth at the tartness. “Why the hell didn’t I order that?”
You laugh. “You just don’t wanna be seen with it. Not manly enough for a big, bad hunter.”
He smiles. “You’re drinkin’ it. You not a big, bad hunter?”
“C’mon, Dean,” you say, scoffing, but you can’t force the corners of your lips down. “Not trying to get on my soapbox here but it’s pretty hard to get people to respect you when you’re a woman hunter as it is. I’m not worried about people seeing me with a cocktail.”
He shrugs in a ‘fair enough’ fashion. He’s about to say something else.
“Hi, um.” You look up to see a pretty, tall girl around your own age or maybe a few years older. Dark curls frame her face. She brushes a strand behind her right ear in an almost theatrical show of shyness. “I’m sorry - this is so weird of me but, um.” She brushes her hair behind her left ear now. “Are you guys on a date?”
You pause briefly, feeling as though you’re coming out of some sort of daze, and then give her a smile. “No, we’re just friends.”
Her face lights up. She’s not looking at you - she’s looking at Dean. “Oh! Okay. That’s good, because, um, I just wanted to see if I could maybe give you my number or something?”
You don’t wait for Dean to respond. You slip out of the booth and wink, mouthing ‘have fun’ to him. You’re not too bothered about whether or not she sees you. She takes your place without so much as a word or even a glance in your direction, eyes only for Dean. You can’t find it in you to blame her.
He is gaping at you as you turn away - eyebrows scrunched together and mouth in a firm pout. Possibly - probably - because he thought tonight would be the night he would finally be able to bring you to bed. He might have been right until this girl came by and screwed everything up by reminding you of yourself.
Sam jolts a bit when you climb up next to him onto the red stool with its fabric torn and its guts spilling out. His head un-cranes itself from a book you recognise about Celtic fairies. He frowns, confused, and then looks behind him towards the booth where Dean is now engaged in conversation. The confused frown turns into a displeased one. He dog-ears a page and closes the book.
“He get ambushed again?” he says.
You huff a laugh. “The word ‘ambushed’ implies he’s not in his element.”
Sam frowns again and looks like he wants to say something - maybe object - but he doesn’t. You’re glad. There’s nothing he could say on this subject that you would want to hear. Instead, he tucks his books into his bag and fishes out a deck of cards from his jacket pocket. He deals them out silently but Dean has approached you before you can pick up your hand.
“Hit the road?” he asks, voice the slightest bit gruff.
You’re mildly surprised to see him again so soon. You had expected him to slip out the back with his company, but you’re just glad that the night is ending before he has enough drinks to start waxing poetic about how pretty you are and how he would kill any man for ‘just one chance with you’.
“Sure,” you say, standing up. Sam sighs and begins to scrape the cards back up from the grimy counter.
You don’t want the answer, but - “You get her number?”
You’re not sure if your voice comes across as teasing as you intend.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Dean gives you a sideways glance, almost perplexed. “Not my type.”
You’re not sure he has a type. The only prerequisite has always just been ‘pretty’, and he plays fast and loose with that rule too sometimes. You don’t say that, though. You don’t say anything.
The motel is far from the worst you’ve stayed in, but that doesn’t take the sting out of the broken shower. You get into a wrestle with it for a good thirty minutes, pulling the front cover off and fiddling around, before finally submitting.
You’re not sure that it’s an option to get front desk to call an electrician in. Not with salt scattered on the ground and pages of information about fairies and demons strewn across the room. So you end up outside Room 14 in your flip flops.
Sam gets the door. He glances down at the towel in your hand and smiles with amusement, opening the door wider for you to step inside. Their room is like yours - small and hot, with bland aspen furniture and an overhead fan that does very little to stave off the sticky closeness. The only difference is the cluster of empty beer bottles and the two single-beds rather than one.
“This place is a dump, huh.”
“It sure ain’t the Ritz.” you say. “Where’s Dumber?”
Sam sits down into a small wooden chair. It’s always funny to see him do that. He’s so tall, it looks almost like he’s folding himself in half. “He’s getting that address we’re after. He should be back in a few. I’m gonna go check it out at the town recorder’s office.”
“Want a hand?”
“I got it,” he says. “You go take your shower.”
You could argue and he would probably fold and accept your help. But the truth is, you’re sweaty and tired and would really rather save your energy for something more important than poring over housing records. You nod and head into the bathroom, towel in-hand.
The shower you take is hot. You use whatever products are already out on the tray. They’re probably Sam’s, because Dean is most likely the sort of person to have a 4-in-1 shampoo-conditioner-body wash-shaving gel combo. Your hair feels a little dry afterwards - you’re not sure whether to attribute that to the hot water or Sam’s all-natural shampoo - but you’re clean. Your muscles are loose and you feel good.
You spend a bit of time in front of the mirror once you’re out of the shower, scraping your fingers through your hair, scrubbing your fingernails with a brush, and thinking. Thinking about the job you’re on and then - reluctantly - thinking about Dean. Thinking about how he looked in the bar last night. Thinking about how he left without working up some action with that girl. He has been doing that a lot lately.
More than just lately, if you really wanted to think about it. You couldn’t say you remember the last time he had picked someone up - that you had seen, anyway. He’s been keeping it all out of sight. Either he’s become a born-again Christian, or he’s got some angle here. You don’t like thinking about it. It makes some twisted, hurt thing curl in your stomach.
Even so, you feel good. You really do. Your hair is wet and soaking through your white t-shirt, but at least it’s clean. And you got a decent sleep last night too so it’s shaping up to be a good day.
The good feelings evaporate once you open up the bathroom door.
“Goddamnit, Jesus f-”
Sam is gone. It’s just Dean in the room now, naked as the day he was born. You avert your eyes, but not fast enough. He dives for the towel on the bed and holds it over his crotch while your face swims with heat.
“Christ, Dean,” you choke.
“You’re in my room, angel. Can’t a man get naked within the safety of his own four walls?”
“Yeah- um. That’s fair. Sorry.” You’re still looking away, uneasy.
He cocks a humorous eye at you. “What you doin’ in here? You miss me?”
“I- Shower. Mine’s broken.”
“That so?”
You look at him then - you don’t really have a choice, his slow drawl doesn’t give you one - and have to stop yourself from hissing in a breath. You have seen glimpses of his bare torso here and there, but never in a setting where there was enough time to admire. Always with something bleeding out or infected or cursed. You have enough time to admire it now - the muscle built from dirty work and necessity rather than vanity, the scars and scratches painted across his chest. There are a few there for which you could name the source.
His muscles shift the slightest bit under your gaze and you realise you’ve forgotten what he’s asked you. “What?”
He laughs and the low sound sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you. Your thighs clench together tight. He’s watching you fight yourself, eyes dark. Your own eyes are currently fixed on his face but they’re a flight risk. “Y’know, I didn’t even know you were in there. A matter of five minutes and I could’ve been walkin’ in on you.”
Heat claws up your neck at the image. “I’m sorry. I figured Sam would have said something.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. You’re welcome to take a shower here any time. In fact, f’you fancy another, I was just about to-”
“Shut up,” you groan. You try to look annoyed, but you’re truthfully relieved at the return to his usual cheeky forwardness. That’s easier to brush off.
But you do need to get the hell out of the room before you’re tempted into looking at anything but his face again. You bundle up your towel in your arms and tell him you’ll see him later. You don’t miss the disappointment that flashes there when you do.
“So ah…” Sam sucks in a breath, tucking the flashlight under his arm to slot little silver slugs into his gun. “What’s going on with you and Dean, huh?”
You’re tempted to act like you don’t know what he’s talking about, but it would just prolong the conversation.
“Sam,” you sigh. “Can we not?”
“What?” he laughs. “You don’t wanna talk about it?” He flicks his flashlight around the bedroom haphazardly - too fast to see very much of anything. You reach a hand out and clasp it over his to steady it.
“Not a good time.”
“When is a good time? When we get back to the motel? You wanna do this in front of Dean?”
You give him a thin stare that you’re not sure he can see in the dark - irritation pricking at you.
Sam has known how to grave-dig in a time crunch since he was twelve years old, but somehow has really never known when to leave well enough alone. This is the third time he’s tested this subject in the last week - albeit never this straightforward. You’re still working out whether this is something you can worm your way out of.
“Why don’t you check this room out and I’ll go downst-”
“Hey,” he says, voice still amused. “You’re not getting out of this. I will bring it up in front of Dean if I need to.”
You study him for a second longer.
He smiles. “Call my bluff, if you want. Your choice.”
You make an ugly noise that seems to start in your stomach, considering your words carefully for what feels like a long time. Little specks of dust float around in the beam of light leading from the flashlight to a little girl’s jewellery box. “There’s nothing going on with me and Dean.”
Sam barks a laugh - loud and seemingly involuntary. “Y’know, I really thought we weren’t gonna have to do the whole ‘playing dumb’ thing-”
“I’m not playing dumb.” You throw him a flat look, opening the jewellery box. You wind it up and some dainty, tinkling tune you don’t recognise begins to play. The ballerina in the box spins around jerkily and mechanically. “There’s nothing going on between the two of us.”
“He admitted it. Multiple times-”
“He was drunk.”
He scoffs, a harsh noise from the back of his throat. “I mean I’m sorry but that’s just bullshit. Even if he was drunk, I’ve got eyes.”
“And what do your eyes tell you, Sam?” you ask him shortly.
“That you guys are into each other. Very into each other.”
“He’s been trying to get me to sleep with him since I first met you guys in Louisiana. This isn’t breaking news.”
“But it’s different now than it ever was before. He’s been diff-”
“Stop.”
“I’m serious! He’s different. And so are you. You never used to give him the time of day before and now you look at him all starry-eyed. It’s been months of this.”
“And?”
He looks over at you from the child-sized vanity table where he has found a small oil lamp, the glass cracked. He takes a lighter out of his pocket and jerks his thumb over it three times until a weak flame bursts out. When a dim brightness swims into the room, you can clearly make out the childlike befuddlement on Sam’s features.
“And,” he stresses, “you’re clearly lying when you say there’s nothing there.”
“I didn’t say there’s nothing there.”
He frowns. “Yes you did-”
“I said there’s nothing going on.”
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, if you wanna be a stickler. There could be something going on.”
“No, there couldn’t.”
Sam turns to face you - the search paused for now. A twitch of uncharacteristic impatience flashes across his face, glowing with the illumination of the lamp. “Why are you talking in riddles-”
“Sam - I don’t know if there’s ‘something there’ between myself and Dean. I don’t know. You say we’re into each other. Okay. Say we are. I don’t know. What can you see happening between us? You think he’s gonna suddenly decide to settle down? That he’ll just- go the distance with one girl for the rest of his life? Be serious.”
He wasn’t expecting you to say that. His eyes dart around your face for a moment, then quickly away. You continue.
“What’s far more likely is that something happens one night and everything gets awkward and I have to find new hunting partners which would really suck. Or worse, we try to make it work and it fails after two weeks, because we both know he’s not exactly a one-woman kinda guy. And I might not exactly be a traditionalist in most senses, but I-” You surprise yourself by choking on your words slightly, throat closing up. “But I still can’t share him. I’d rather not have him at all.”
You probably didn’t need to say that much. Sam is looking around the room like a guilty puppy, face flushed. You can still read a sliver of doubt there, like he is tempted to argue. He decides against it.
“Can we drop it now?” you ask. Your own voice echoes in your skull - weak and defeated. He nods, finally looking back at you with an apologetic smile.
You return it but you know it’s wavering. “I’ll check downstairs.”
You reckon you can spot the signs before anyone else does. It’s always somewhere with a relatively young population - doesn’t have to be a city, but it’s never an ageing, rural town where the only bar regulars are older men with beer bellies and shotguns.
It starts with a group of girls that look a bit too young to be there. They never approach, but their eyes flicker over far too often to be considered the standard ‘checking out a hottie’ once-over. Then it’s the barmen who give your table cold, assessing glances. And then it’s the attention of any and all single women in the bar - the way they size you up, the way they monitor every single arm movement, every twitch of your face to see whether you’re the lucky girl who has managed to take someone like Dean - handsome, mysterious, new - off the market.
Those are the signs that there is about to be a gold rush. And you’d really rather not be there to see it, but there aren’t many exit options when Sam is across the booth from yourself and Dean with a map open, dragging his pointer finger along it while he expounds on the folklore of the area in excruciating detail.
“-but obviously these fairies are different. And it didn’t make sense until I saw this. Look - the tree was in the exact location of the Stewart family home. My best guess is that the Stewarts cut it down to build their home. That’s what they’re avenging.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Dean interjects. “What about the other families? if it’s just about the tree, why wouldn’t they just quit after the Stewarts?”
“That’s the thing - I think the cutting down of the tree unlocked something. I think the tree was their home. And now their only motive now is chaos.”
“Well shit,” you sigh. “That makes it a lot more difficult.”
“How?” Dean says.
You frown at the apathy in his voice. “Well we can’t exactly exterminate them for that, right? I mean, they lost their home. They might not have anywhere else to go.”
“They’re destroying people’s homes.”
“But they haven’t killed anyone-”
“Yet.”
You sigh. “And who’s to say they will? You can’t punish them for stuff they haven’t done.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “What- you wanna buy a condo for them? Put them up in a fairy hotel?”
You try to look vexed. “Don’t piss me off.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”
Your smile breaks but you change course quickly because Sam is starting to look like he is proving a point. “I just think- Maybe if we figured out whether we could get them to inhabit another tree, it would be better for everyone.”
Sam shrugs. “Worth a try. I’ll look into it.”
You give him a grateful smile.
Dean nudges you with an elbow. “Soft touch.”
You scoff. “C’mon, you can’t tell me you don’t see where they’re coming from. I’d be pretty pissed off if someone flattened my home with no warning.”
“Good thing you’ve been on the road since you were ten then-”
“Low blow.”
He’s giving you that fucking lopsided smile again, wrinkles appearing beside his lips and eyes. He’s gone all hazy and lovelorn again, and this time he hasn’t even had half of his drink. And you’ve been trying really fucking hard not to picture him naked like you had seen him in the motel just yesterday but you’re failing. He leans in, opening his mouth to speak, but-
“Excuse me.”
This girl is more confident than the last and even prettier too. She’s in all-black with brunette hair that falls to her waist. She purses her lips into a shrewd smile, eyes laser focused on Dean. “I just wanted to see if you’re single?”
You know your cue when you see it. You’re halfway out the booth when Dean’s strong arm over your shoulder pulls you back. He tucks you in close under his arm, body pressed against his, your thigh finding its way over his own inadvertently. You look up at him, questioning, but he doesn’t look back.
Instead, he shoots a tight smile to the girl standing at the booth. “No. Sorry.”
Sam’s head snaps up from his book. A beat passes.
To give her credit, she takes it in her stride. She nods, smiles a bit uncomfortably at the two of you and makes her way back to her own table where her friends are pretending not to be looking over. You’ve gone stiff under Dean’s arm and there’s a sticky sort of dryness sitting in your throat, but he doesn’t release you. You wonder if it’s the kind of night where he gets too drunk and tells you how bad he wants you to be his while yourself and Sam jostle him back to the motel.
You want to hate him. You really want to hate him for doing this to you. And if you can’t hate him, you would settle for just feeling indifferent or just feeling friendly things towards him. But you don’t know how when he has you tucked under his arm like this, smile on his pretty face like he won some goddamn prize. You don’t know how to not want this all the time.
You don’t want to look at Sam, but you do. He’s got a surprised amusement playing on his face, coupled with a very distinct ‘I’m-trying-not-to-look-too-satisfied’ smile. You speak only because it seems like nobody else is about to.
“Never thought I’d see the day Dean Winchester opts out of a hook-up,” you laugh. It falls flat. Sam stays silent. Dean only frowns down at you for a split-second before his eyes dart away again. His expression is hard to read, but he doesn’t seem pleased.
You can’t help but feel you made a misstep - like that was the wrong thing to say. Thirty seconds go by and then a full minute. Sam is back to poring over the journal. Dean doesn’t say anything. You clear your throat, as if planning to speak, but you can’t think of much to say. You feel a helpless sort of trepidation. It’s all very pointless and stupid.
“I’m, um, I’m gonna get a drink,” you say, unweaving yourself from Dean. Your glass is far from being empty and you see Dean glance at it for just a second. “Anyone want anything?”
Dean still says nothing, but Sam taps his empty bottle twice with a smile. You’re relieved to find that you’re not deliberately being given the silent treatment. You nod at him and make your way up to the bar.
There aren’t many people waiting to be served, but you don’t immediately try to make eye contact with the barman. You’d rather have a moment away from whatever the hell that atmosphere was anyway.
Word must have gotten around, or maybe everyone had been watching Dean’s arm curling itself over your shoulder in response to the pretty girl who had approached, because nobody else goes up to the table. The gold rush is over.
Dean and Sam are deep in conversation, leaned forward and speaking intensely. It’s hard to get a read on either of them - they’re doing that push-and-pull thing they always do - but you have the distinct impression that they’re talking about you. You’re glad that you can’t hear what they’re saying.
You build the image of Dean in your mind again, when you joked about him uncharacteristically rejecting a hook up. His brows pulled low, a slight pout on his lips. Had you offended him? Or is he starting to get frustrated at your unwavering commitment to not sleeping with him?
You can admit that you have been giving him mixed signals. It’s not an intentional thing. But he looks at you with his bright green eyes and it's alluring and tender and it feels like it’s just for you. And you can’t help yourself. Your stomach goes warm and your lips get loose and all you can focus on is keeping that look on his face for as long as possible. So maybe you are to blame for all of this.
“Can I get you a drink?”
You almost sigh in response, turning around to look at the man who has lodged himself against the bar to your right. He has his elbow perched on the bar, leaned against it in a way that could look casual and cool if he were a little bit shorter. But he’s stretching himself awkwardly to reach it. He’s got black hair, slicked back but is otherwise fairly nondescript. Just another face. Just like anyone else.
“I’m ok, thanks. I’m buying two.”
He smiles, shrugging. “Let me buy you two.”
You look at him closer now, suspiciously. You raise an eyebrow and he smiles wider. “What you wanna do that for?”
“Call it an act of kindness.”
You huff a laugh. “I’m not in the habit of accepting those. Doesn’t tend to work out well in my line of work.”
“What’s your line of work?”
You don’t answer, finally catching the eye of the barman instead. You give him your order and the guy to your right makes a gesture for him to put it on his tab.
“You here with anyone?”
You point to the booth behind you where Sam and Dean are seated without looking away from the barman fixing your drink. He looks behind him and then back.
“Either of them your boyfriend?”
You hesitate, an uncomfortable feeling clawing its way around your gut. “Yes.”
You’re not always averse to flirting. Any other day you might even give this guy the time of day. He’s no Dean but he’s not bad looking. He’s dressed pretty well, in a crisp white shirt and a well-fitting pair of vintage Levis. You just don’t see any point in it right now. Not when Dean is unoccupied and you can take up some more of his attention. Not when you can feed that ugly, cruel thing in your brain and stomach. You’re doing a terrible job of shaking off this sickness.
“Which one?”
“Blonde.”
“Damn,” he smiles. “Well if you get tired of him…”
“I’m good,” you say with a tight smile, grabbing the glass and bottle the barman had placed in front of you. “Thanks for the drinks.”
It’s only when you turn to walk back to the table that you notice that Sam and Dean have seemingly finished their conversation. All of their focus is now on you.
Sam thanks you when you put the bottle down in front of him. You slide in beside Dean once again, but keep a safe foot or so of space between you.
“I swear all these honky tonk bars have the same damn playlist or jukebox or whatever,” Sam says. “If I have to hear Sweet Caroline one more time I’m gonna-”
“Have fun up there?” Dean interrupts with a cutting look at you. Sam licks his lips and heaves a tired sigh, like he knew this was coming.
“Not particularly…” you start slowly.
“No? Sure looked like it.”
You should probably feel a bit defensive at his tone, but you’re mostly just fascinated. Dean’s eyes are bulging - the way they bulge when he’s feeling really frantic while on a job. His face has gone fire-engine red. You look him over, then at Sam, questioningly.
Sam looks between the two of you. “I think maybe it’s time we turn in-”
“Not ready yet,” Dean says punchily. “Knock yourself out.”
Sam gives you a look - an offer to go with him - and you hesitate. It’s probably the better idea to go back to the motel with Sam. Let Dean blow off some steam with whatever girl is morally ok with banging some guy that, as far as she’s concerned, has a girlfriend. But the idea of it doesn’t sit right with you.
You shake your head and Sam nods. You can’t help but feel that it’s the kind of nod that indicates you made the right decision. Whatever the hell that might mean. He picks up his jacket and mutters something about getting one of the cabs nearby.
Dean takes up Sam’s untouched drink. He still isn’t looking at you.
You’re not stupid. You know that Dean’s sudden bad mood likely has something to do with the guy chatting you up unsuccessfully at the bar. His chances of getting laid were under threat. He probably wouldn't have reacted half as bad if he hadn’t turned down a pretty girl a few minutes prior.
And you don’t really have anyone that you can blame for this except yourself. Because you’re the one who set those expectations, even if you didn’t mean to. You’re the one who is dragging this on longer than it has any business being, because you’re selfish and you know that the minute you make those clarifications, he will accept defeat. He will change his behaviour out of respect for your decision, which should be a good thing.
But those little bits of him that you can clasp onto - the flirty back-and-forth, the not-so-accidental touches, the longing stares - are things that would hurt to lose. They’re things that your day would be much greyer without. You’ve prioritised them over your friendship with Dean, your job, your sanity. But it’s coming to a head now and you’re not sure how much longer you can wait before things start to collapse around you.
Dean clears his throat awkwardly, eyes still straight ahead. “Sorry.”
You blink. “That’s okay. Do you wanna…”
“Talk about it?” he asks sardonically. “I’m good.”
You nod, a short pause settling between the two of you. You tap on the glass of your drink just to fill the silence with something, but your mind is still on Dean.
He huffs a breathy laugh. “What’d I say? Twitchy. S’how I can tell you’re thinking.”
“Not twitchy. And of course I’m thinking.”
“‘Bout what?”
“Thought you said you didn’t wanna talk.”
“Yeah, I don’t wanna talk. Never said I didn’t want you to.”
You giggle and his mouth breaks into a smile. “Well, that’s just too bad. I’m not in the monologuing kinda mood.”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Help me out here.”
You frown. Dean just keeps on looking ahead. It had seemed like a good idea to talk about everything a few moments ago but somehow the idea of vocalising your thoughts is a little repulsive now. “You first.”
He sighs and it’s more than exasperation or any leftover frustration from the man at the bar. He sounds tired. “I was thinkin’ about you.”
You hesitate. “Oh?”
“Yeah.”
You’re ready for a bite of sarcasm or teasing or some ridiculously, outlandishly flirty remark but it doesn’t come. Just a long, thoughtful pause. You’re terrified and fascinated but you don’t bother wondering what he’s going to say. You need to give up wondering about things. There’s no point in it anymore. It just makes your head spin.
“I’d like to give you what you want,” he says finally. “I just don’t know what that is.”
“What do you mean?” you ask, even though you’re pretty sure you know exactly what he means.
“I can’t tell if you’d like me to leave you alone or if you want…” he trails off.
“I don’t want you to leave me alone,” you say, nervously. “I’d never want that.”
He looks at you now, eyes half-lidded and sleepy. He is wearing some beaten down expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“But you don’t… want me.”
It’s not quite put as a question, but it’s more uncertain than a statement - somewhere in between. You look at him with your mouth just slightly open for one very still, silent moment, before a loud click from the pool table makes you jump.
“I…”
You’re hoping that he’ll make this easier for you by brushing it off, but he is not letting you escape this. His eyes are soft and open, almost pained, but his mouth is set in a resolute line.
You could lie. You could tell him you don’t want him. You could keep it all to yourself - how you want him in every way possible, how you wake up every morning with his voice in your ears and his face in your eye-line, even when he’s not there. It doesn’t seem fair, but you entertain the possibility for just a moment. It would be awkward, but Dean’s a big boy and he has gotten over rejection before. You’ve seen it.
But you’d have to be stronger to do that. You’d have to be able to stop looking at him like he has sunshine pouring out of the pores on his skin. You’d have to stop taking his side in every debate with Sam and you’d have to stop sniffing around like a dog for scraps of his attention. It’s not something you could do. It’s selfish, but you’d rather put the responsibility on Dean of severing whatever the hell you have going on. He would know how to do it much better than you ever would.
“That’s not true,” you choke, just as you see the light beginning to die in Dean’s hopeful gaze. Something flashes there now, brighter than ever. “It’s not that I don’t- That’s not it.”
“Then what?”
“It’s just that I wouldn’t only want that. I would want more.”
His face shifts, mouth downturned. “You- uh, you not into the whole monogamy thing?”
You hiss in a breath. “No! That’s not what I mean-”
“It’s- uh. I mean, I-”
“Dean.” You give him a flat look before turning away. “That’s not what I meant.”
He sighs after a brief, silent suspension. “Sweetheart, I’m no good at riddles. That’s more Sammy’s thing.”
You look back at him with a sort of forced gravity when all you feel is desperation. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for. Because I don’t just want-” you sigh. “I am into the whole monogamy thing. That’s the problem.”
“Why’s that gotta be a problem?” The way he’s speaking is almost indecently gentle.
“Because I love you.” You force yourself not to look at him when you say it, staring directly ahead at the old jukebox in the corner. “Which is a problem in itself. But you don’t need to- I mean, I’m not expecting-”
Why is this so fucking hard? You’re bumbling around with your words and you might be on the verge of tears.
“You’re not expecting what?”
“For it to mean anything.”
“Why wouldn’t it mean anything?” He sounds urgent now, almost desperate.
“Because it’s not realistic. C’mon Dean, you’re you.”
The silence stretches between you. When it hits a certain point, you hazard a look at his face. He’s like a hurt animal. Like you had just torn open a wound.
“And what the hell does me being me have anything to do with it? I could do it. The whole thing, I could do it with you.” He’s giving you a controlled look but his jaw is clenching and his voice is trembling.
“Dean-”
“I love you too, angel.”
It hits you like a bullet, but you try not to let it show. It would be so easy to forego all your reasonable doubts, let yourself fall into the childish fantasy that Dean could love you and it might actually end well. He’s still looking at you with wide, hurt eyes. It would be so easy, when you know that one word from you could wipe the look from his face
You shake your head, ignoring the way he grabs your hand. Ignoring how it feels in your own, rough fingers brushing over your knuckles. “It’s not going to work.”
“Why not?”
“The women, Dean-”
“No women. There’s no women.”
You smile but there’s nothing behind it. “There’s always women.”
“Not for a damn long time.”
You look at him steadily. “That’s not true,” you say, but you don’t say it well. You sound weak and uncertain. It only occurs to you after saying it that you might also feel that way.
His eyes are blazing now and you feel a bit like an insect, trapped under a glass. He’s watching you try to wiggle your way out.
“You really haven’t noticed? Sweetheart, I haven’t touched a woman in months. My balls look like a Smurf’s.”
Your mouth goes dry. “How many months?”
“I dunno. Since before Tulsa.”
It has been many months since then. Many, many months. “Wh-what happened in Tulsa?”
“You started lookin’ at me different. Like, all smiley and cute. Made me think I had a chance so I got my ass on the straight and narrow.”
You look at him. You’re trying to figure out if he’s fucking with you. You can’t tell, but you also don’t think Dean would lie to you about this. Maybe a lie to protect you, or maybe a white lie about why you can’t use his laptop right now because he has to ‘um, send an email first’… but not a lie about this. And his eyes are so soft on yours. He can’t be lying.
And if you want to think about it - you really hadn’t seen him take anyone home in a very long time. You had just assumed he was. You think back to the girl who approached the table earlier. And then about the one from two days ago. And then the one from the last town over. And the one that looked like a damn supermodel a month or two ago. All were turned away by Dean and you had thought that was strange at the time - you just didn’t know it was because of you.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I did.”
You roll your eyes. “Sober.”
He breathes in. “You look at me sometimes like you want me but whenever I try to do somethin’ about it, you get all twitchy and clear off before I can blink.”
You pout, but a smile is threatening to break. “I’m not-”
“Yeah y’are,” he say, looking at you with so much affection that it warms your skin. He smiles as if he just gave you a compliment. “I didn’t know what you wanted. I still don’t.”
You look back at him, nervous, hesitant. “I want you. But only if I never have to share you with anyone.”
Sun spills out of his smile. He puts a gentle hand over your jaw and brings your face to his. You spend a few short seconds waiting, breathing each other’s air. “Angel. That won’t be a problem.”
Dean kisses you.
“What were you thinkin’, huh?”
You don’t have enough breath in your lungs to reply. You make a strained noise at the back of your throat instead. Dean shifts above you, pressing in harder, and you gasp. Your fingers grip his bare shoulders, trying to get some sort of leverage. The skin is damp with sweat under your touch.
“You’re crazy for thinkin’ I want any other pussy but this one for the rest of my damn life. Fuck- sweetheart, knew you’d feel this good.”
“You thought about this?” It comes out a bit too breathy to be teasing, but you are smiling up at him and he huffs a soft laugh back. He thrusts in hard, tip of his cock hitting a soft, pleasurable spot inside you, and you gasp at the overwhelming fullness of him.
“Shit, angel,” he grunts. “Haven’t thought about anything else since I met you. Can’t get your pretty face outta my damn head. Drives me up the fuckin’ wall every single day when you go to another room, knowing I’m not gonna be able to fuck you like I want to. Or when you stretch out all cute in the backseat and I’m just- shit, I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock, waiting to get back to the motel or to some service station toilet so I can rub one out.”
Your voice catches in your throat. Tears prickle behind your eyes. “Thought about you too.”
“Yeah?” You see his eyes shining above you. His movements are hard and slow - you’re sure it’s at least in some part down to the fact that he’s trying to stave off his own orgasm after months of no action - but it makes it much more intense. Your heart is aching pleasantly in your chest.
“Yeah.” You nod. “All the time. Wanted you so bad, Dean, but I didn’t-“
“Y’didn’t think I was serious,” he finishes. You nod.
He leans down to give you a filthy kiss, hips still rolling into your own. His mouth is hungry against your own - one hand perched beside your head to hold him up and the other clasping your jaw. “Sweetheart, I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” Your body arches into his when he hits particularly deep, tits pressing up against his chest. “Never gonna get enough of you. So fuckin’ gorgeous. Feel so good around my cock. Finally lettin’ me give you what you deserve.”
You sigh, bliss spilling into every inch of your body. Dean backs up, putting both hands under your knees and pulling your legs up, hitting an unfamiliar spot. The muscles in your legs quiver at the foreign sensation - the immense pleasure of it. Dean’s eyes droop down to them and he smiles lazily. “Twitchy.”
You’re about to say something sarcastic, but he starts driving his hips forward and any cohesive thought you might have previously had evaporates. He’s so much deeper like this. You moan, eyes rolling back into your head.
“Fuck. That’s right baby, lemme feel it,” he grunts. “Tight cunt pullin’ me in. S’like I belong in here, huh.”
You nod at him, face twisted up and body squirming around him.
He breathes a light laugh which you can only assume is aimed at your fucked-out expression. “Can’t believe you’ve been keepin’ this away from me, sweetheart. Should be fuckin’ illegal. S’okay though, I’ll make up for it. Gonna fuck you six ways to Sunday. Just keep lookin’ at me like that, sweet girl.”
You should have known that Dean would be like this in bed. It’s not enough that he’s the funniest, most charismatic person you know. Or that he’s the love of your life, whose face you had tried and failed to evict from its residence in your brain for almost a year - more, if you want to be completely honest with yourself. No - he has to have a stupidly big cock and a filthy mouth too. You’ve never in your life been this wet, but then you’ve never in your life been eaten out and fucked by Dean Winchester.
“Fuck me-” he chokes out. “You’re so gorgeous, sweetheart. Y’look so beautiful like this. All pretty and ruined for me while I pound that tight, wet fucking pussy. Gonna bust early. You gonna let me come inside?”
You should probably should be ashamed of the fact that you don’t even think about it. One of Dean’s hands leaves your leg to rub against your clit - already swollen from his tongue earlier. The tight ball of need is growing in your lower stomach again. “Please, Dean-” you whine. “Need it. Need to feel you, please. I love you.”
He kisses you again - hot and deep. “Knew you’d let me fill you up, sweetheart. Such an angel, y’know that? My good girl lettin’ me fill her up and make her mine. I love you too, baby. Love you so much it makes me crazy.”
A whimper breaks out of your lips when you lock eyes. His gaze is locked on you intensely and you’re not sure how you never saw it before - all the soft love and awe and devotion written there. His breath has gone short, eyes boring into your own. It almost feels silly now. How could Dean ever want anyone else when he looks at you like that?
You flutter around him, the tight ball in your stomach beginning to loosen.
“Give it to me, baby - I got you,” Dean grunts, face pinched in a sort of pained bliss, eyes half-lidded.
You clench down on him as you become undone and he moans at the sensation, beginning to spill himself inside. The idea of him filling you up makes you crash harder.
“Got you, angel. Fuck, so good to me, lettin’ me give you all my cum. I love you. My best girl.” Dean talks you through it, body going tense around you, movements dogged and rough, eventually pattering out into shallow thrusts.
His eyes are bleary and confused when he finally stops spilling his load into you. He drops down beside you, pulling you onto your side with one hand so he does not immediately have to pull out of you. You end up with one leg over his hip - positioned in a way that is awkward but not uncomfortable. He presses kisses around your face lazily, holding your body close against his own.
Your body begins to twitch tiredly from exertion, legs quivering. “Don’t,” you grunt. He laughs and your body vibrates with the force of it.
✦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.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦summary: you ask dean to sleep with you, he turns you down, and you believe him. you tell him you don't care, and he believes you. eventually, one of you is going to have to tell the truth, won't they. ✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), virgin!reader, angst, overprotective, bad at feelings dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, shameless smut (loss of virginity, praise kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, spanking, fingering, stripping, body worship, degredation kink, soft!dom Dean, size kink, begging, pussy slapping, soft and rough sex, messy, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, dumbification), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 8.6k✦
✦author's note: i love writing idiots in love it's my favorite kind of idiot it's for love✦
“Have sex with me.”
Dean spits his coffee out. You sigh, bracing your hands on your hips, and wait for him to collect himself. You’re patient. He’s scrambling and slamming a fist on his chest, and you pass him a napkin with a sweet smile. You don’t think it’s going to win you a spot in his bed, but it might help.
“Better?” You ask, when he no longer sputtering and choking. He grunts, holding a hand up for a few more seconds. You roll your eyes—it wasn’t that crazy a thing to say—but bounce on your toes and wait.
Dean clears his throat, ears red, and looks up at you like you’ve grown a second head.
“What?”
“Have sex with me-“
“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“
“It’s eight fifteen.”
That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.
“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“
“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”
“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”
“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”
Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”
“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.
“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”
You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”
“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“
“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.
A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.
It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.
Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about.
You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.
“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.
He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.
If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.
You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.
So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on
You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.
So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.
Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.
But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.
“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”
You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”
“You were serious?”
He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.
“Sweetheart-“
“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.
You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.
“Wait, just- Hold on-“
You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.
“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.
It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.
“Why?”
“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”
“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”
You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”
Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”
“I don’t think you are.”
He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.
Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.
“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”
You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.
“Sweetheart-“
“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”
“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“
“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”
Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.
“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.
Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.
“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.
You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.
Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.
At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.
If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.
You’re learning something about yourself.
You are not good at flirting.
The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.
Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.
“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.
“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.
“Why, you forget something?”
“No.”
“Then what-“
Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.
Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.
Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.
You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.
He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.
“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“
“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.
“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“
“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”
“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“
“I do now.”
“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“
You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.
Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.
“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.
You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.
You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work.
But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.
No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.
So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.
“Sam.”
Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.
“Sam.”
“I’m listening, what’s-“
“Have sex with me.”
Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.
“Just- Listen-“
“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“
“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“
“It’s already weird-“
“You’d be doing me a favor-“
“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”
You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”
“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”
“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”
Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”
“Sam Winchester-“
“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“
“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“
“That’s not healthy-“
“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“
“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”
You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”
“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”
You nod, and Sam blinks.
“Are you a virgin?”
“Maybe.”
“You- You’re-“
“Don’t be an asshole-“
“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”
That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”
Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.
“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”
“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.
“Does Dean-“
“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.
“I think you should-“
“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”
“I- Okay.”
You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”
Sam blinks. “What?”
“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”
Sam snorts, and you scowl.
“I’m serious-“
“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”
You stand a little taller. “Really?”
“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”
“I do not annoy you-“
“You’re annoying me right now.”
You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.
“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”
You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”
“You need to sleep with her.”
Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.
“Sammy, what the fuck-“
Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.
Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.
He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.
Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.
And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.
So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.
He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good. He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.
Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.
But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.
“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“
“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“
“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“
“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.
Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”
Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“
“To take her virginity.”
He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”
Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”
“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”
“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”
Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.
But you’d asked him.
You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-
Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.
“How the fuck do you know that.”
Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”
“Sam-“
“She might’ve… Asked me.”
“She what-“
“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”
Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.
“No.”
“Dean, just-“
“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“
“It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”
“She doesn’t want it-“
Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”
Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.
“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”
Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”
Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“
“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”
Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.
He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.
“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.
Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.
“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.
“Uh- Hey.”
“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.
Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”
You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.
“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”
“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”
Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”
“What-“
“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”
Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“
“You didn’t?”
“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“
“Hey- It’s- Woah-“
Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.
“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.
You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”
He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.
Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.
Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.
“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.
“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.
“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”
Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“
“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”
You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now.
Dean says your name, and you shake your head.
“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“
“What if it’s not.”
Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.
“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.
“What if I wanted to. Help you.”
“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”
Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“
“You said you didn’t-“
“I lied.”
You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.
“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”
You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.
Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.
“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“
He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.
High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.
Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.
You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.
“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”
You whine again. “Dean-“
“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”
He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.
“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.
This might be real.
“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.
“Yes.”
“I’m old, sweetheart-“
“I like it.”
Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.
“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“
Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his you can’t shy away.
“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“
He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.
“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”
You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”
Dean grins back. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”
You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”
Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“
“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”
Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”
You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.
“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”
“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.
“Demanding, aren’t we?”
You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.
“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”
You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.
“You like that, huh.”
“Dean-“
“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”
You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.
“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"
You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.
“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”
He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.
“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.
It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.
“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt. “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”
You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.
“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”
Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.
“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“
Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.
Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.
“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”
You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.
“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.
“Dean-“
“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”
“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”
“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”
His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.
“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.
Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.
“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.
“Everything?”
“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”
You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-
“Hey,” Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”
“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.
Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.
Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”
“Shut up-“
“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”
Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.
“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.
“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”
He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.
“You want a little more?”
You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.
“Say please-“
“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“
Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.
He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.
When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.
“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"
He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.
Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.
“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”
“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”
Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”
“Mh- Mhm.”
You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.
“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”
“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“
You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.
“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”
His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.
Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.
You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.
He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.
Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.
“Dean-“
You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.
“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.
“You’re cute.”
“I- I am not-“
“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”
“Deeeean-“
“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”
You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.
“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”
You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.
“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.
Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.
“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.
You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.
“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”
Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.
“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”
Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”
“No, I mean like- It can’t-“
“It can.”
“Dean, I’m serious-“
He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.
“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”
You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.
Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.
“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”
You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.
“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”
You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.
“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“
His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.
“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“
“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“
Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.
“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“
Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.
“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“
Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.
His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.
You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.
“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.
“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”
You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.
He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.
Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.
He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.
“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.
“I like you too-“
“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“
He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.
“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“
You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”
Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”
“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”
Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.
“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.
“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.
“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”
✦End note: drooling for him ✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
sukuna was used to getting hit on. normally, he flat out rejects anyone that even makes an attempt to flirt with him. tonight he's taken you on one of your usual date nights, but imagine his surprise when the woman who approaches your table is hitting on you instead of him!
"ryo. ryo, ryo, ryo, i don't know what to get!" you pout, extending a leg underneath the table to graze your husband's calf as he grunts, brows pinched together in concentration as he stares down at the menu
"doesn't matter. i'm ordering half the stuff they have here anyway... you hungry for dessert too?" he questions, and you give him a deadpan look before he dramatically rolls his eyes, eliciting a giggle from you that has the corner of his mouth tipping upwards in a smirk
"fatty," he murmurs, and you make a point to dig the tip of your heel into his shoe, yet even through the pain, he maintains that annoying grin, and you shake your head with a laugh
the restaurant sukuna chose to take you out to tonight was located on the outer edges of the city near the water. your seating is overlooking the ocean, and you're not sure where you should stare—either at the lapping waves shimmering underneath the sparkling sun, or at your husband (an equally irresistible sight). he's wearing a tight black shirt with the first few buttons open, revealing the intricate details of his tattoos and the large expanse of his muscles and chest
a waitress eventually approaches your table. she's pretty—tall, lean, and wearing a dark red lipstick that suits her well—and you feel your heart sink a bit. you're sure she was staring at your table earlier, and you'd already assumed she was keeping an eye out on sukuna. almost subconsciously, you sit a little taller in your chair as she greets you two
"hello! i hope you guys are doing well. what can i get started?" she starts in an extra sweet voice, and you avoid her eyes and instead drum a single manicured finger against the table to distract yourself
you know you have nothing to feel insecure about, but anyone would feel a bit down if attractive women were constantly hitting on their husband, right?
without looking up, sukuna starts
"i'll have a plate of crab cakes, four fish tacos, one chicken marsala, one miso marinated black cob, two fettuccini pastas, one lobster ravioli, and one lava cake—and the center of it better not be undercooked. my wife doesn't like whenever it happens and i want her dessert to be nothing short of perfection." sukuna finishes, and the waitress looks genuinely distressed as she quickly jots down everything he said
"uhm, and all that is for just the two of you?" she questions hesitantly, and sukuna's gaze snaps up with a scowl
"yeah. and?"
you try to stifle your laughter as she quickly shakes her head with a smile, still writing everything down. your husband was... a bit of a big eater.
"no, no, i was just wondering— oh. did you say wife?" she frowns, and you try not to wince at twinge of disappointment in her voice
"if you were thinking i'm single, you're out of luck." sukuna states boldly, not bothering to give her any further attention as he folds up the menu and hands it to her
"uhm... i wasn't wondering about you. i was wondering about you." — and suddenly her gaze is pinned on you, and your eyes widen a fraction
"me?" you squeak in disbelief, and she smirks. it's cocky and slanted and it instantly reminds you of your husband's habit when he's teasing you, and you can't even try to hide the smile on your face as you cover it with your hand, caught off gaurd and embarrassed
"yes, you. you are beautiful. so, are you happily married to this guy, or just marri—"
"that's enough." sukuna stammers, and he looks genuinely mortified by the look of curiosity on your face. you giggle, shaking your head
"thank you... you're very beautiful too." you smile, and she actually blushes at your words, telling you she'll be out with your food soon as she walks back inside the restaurant with a lot more pep in her step than before
sukuna reaches over to pull your hand out of your lap and onto the table, and he adjusts your ring with furrowed brows as you giggle
"ryo—"
"i can't believe that woman's audacity—hitting on my wife! when i get home, i am writing the most deplorable review of this restaurant." he snaps as you let out a sudden laugh
"don't be silly, you big grump! she was nice," you smile, and he drags a hand down his face as if this was the worst day of his entire life.
sukuna wasn't used to women hitting on you. no man ever tried because all six feet of your husband was always looming behind you like a guard dog just waiting to rip someone's head off for looking at you too long, but he never suspected he had to look out for women too!
his brows are furrowed as he rubs a thumb over the diamond on your ring finger, and your gaze softens before you cradle his own larger hand in your own and press a kiss onto his knuckles. he blinks at you a few times before turning away with a huff, the tips of his ears a light shade of pink
"you're mine. you'll never indulge in anyone that tries anything with you, right?" he murmurs, still staring at your interlocked hands as you pout
"of course not." you promise gently, and he seems satisfied by your response as he holds your hand firmly in his own
after a moment of thought, he opens his mouth once again
"do you think we should make out to confirm our status for everyone else here?"
