“god, you’re so pretty,” she sighs, all breathy and lovestruck, like she’s just seen the stars for the first time — not the man she’s tangled up with every day and night. her eyes glitter with something giddy and smitten and just a little unhinged as she flings her arms around his neck, the dramatic flare of a disney princess twirling in her own fairytale.
dean blinks, caught off guard for a half second — because sure, she says it a lot, but it still hits him like a sucker punch every time. his ears go pink. his hands settle instinctively at her waist, anchoring her close.
“you’re gonna kill me talkin’ like that,” he mutters, grin crooked and bashful, trying to look unaffected but already melting. “what, you been drinkin’ or somethin’?”
“nope,” she chirps, “just drunk on you, baby.”
he groans. “you’re so annoying.”
“and you’re so pretty,” she repeats with extra sweetness, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then another to the corner of his mouth, and another to the tip of his nose. “like, stupid pretty. unfairly pretty. you should be illegal.”
“mal.”
“like, arrested on sight. handcuffed and everything.” her grin turns devilish. “should i frisk you?”
he laughs — full-bodied, head-tilted-back kind of laugh — and she beams at the sound, like it’s her favorite song.
“you definitely should frisk me,” he nods, deadly serious — or at least, trying to be, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. it’s the kind of line he delivers with his whole chest, like he’s reciting scripture, voice low and gravelly like this is a life-or-death declaration.
but it’s also dean winchester we’re talking about, and when it comes to mallory hawthorne, his solemnity holds about as much weight as wet tissue paper.
her brows lift, unimpressed. “oh, do i definitely need to?” she drawls, deadpan, even as her arms cinch tighter around his neck and she inches in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“for your safety and mine,” he nods again, so damn serious it almost sells it. “could be armed. dangerous. concealed weapon.”
“hm. pretty sure your concealed weapon is the least of my concerns.” she hums, hand skating down his chest — slow, smug, teasing. “but sure. i’ll pat you down. real thorough, just in case.”
dean grins like a man who’s just won the lottery and knows he didn’t deserve it. “that’s my girl.”
“damn right.” she mutters, mouth already on his jaw, her voice all mischief and molasses. “now shut up and spread ‘em.”
she tugs his shirt off, nice and slow, sliding her open palms down his chest and his back in an exaggerated manner. she cards her fingers through his hair and makes it stick up every which way. picks up his arms one at a time, inspects them as he stays malleable in her grasp.
“you need the gun show, officer hawthorne?” he drawls lazily, watching her with that smug little smirk.
“sir!” she gasps, mockingly affronted. “i am an officer of the la—mmph— sir!” she squeals when he grabs her face and plants a dramatic smooch to her lips.
she yelps into the kiss, voice muffled, half-laughing and half-struggling as his calloused palms cradle her cheeks like she’s the most precious thing on god’s green earth — and simultaneously a criminal in need of apprehension.
he kisses her with a comical, dramatic mwah, then pulls back just enough to smirk down at her, thumbs still gently squishing her cheeks. “you were sayin’, officer?”
“sir!” she squeaks again, cheeks puffed up from how he’s holding her. “i am —mmph— i am an officer of the law!” she scolds through his grip, trying her hardest to sound authoritative but sounding more like an annoyed chipmunk than a badge-wearing enforcer of justice.
“mmhm. sure. and i’m innocent,” dean murmurs, eyes gleaming as he dips in again and kisses the tip of her nose. “didn’t do nothin’ wrong.”
“then why are you resisting arrest?” she fires back as he finally lets her go, brows raised and pose shifting into full-on interrogator mode.
he lifts his arms, grinning lazily. “was just makin’ sure you were committed to the role.”
“oh, i’m committed, alright,” she purrs, walking her fingers down his bare stomach. “committed to finding every single one of your concealed weapons.”
“you missed one,” he breathes, tilting his chin up, smugness curling at the edges of his voice like cigarette smoke. “right here.”
“hm,” she hums, trailing her fingers lower, pressing a kiss to his sternum. “don’t worry, sir. i’ll be extra thorough this time.”
he groans, hands sliding down to her hips like he’s already surrendering all over again. “god, i love due process.”
mal flicks open his belt buckle — matching, lazy smirks never leaving either of their faces. she hums, unbuttoning his jeans and giving him a theatrical gasp.
“sir! do you have a license for this?”
he tips his head back with a bark of laughter, the sound raw and delighted, running a hand down his face like she’s too much — but god, he wouldn’t have her any other way.
“well, uh,” he grins, propping his hands behind his head like he’s lounging in the goddamn sun, hips shifting ever-so-slightly into her touch. “i think it’s… grandfathered in.”
“grandfathered in,” she repeats, voice dripping with disbelief and delight. “that’s your answer?”
“yeah, y’know,” he shrugs, stretching like a smug cat, the motion making every line of muscle ripple under her gaze. “natural-born right. second amendment or somethin’.”
she snorts so hard she has to press her face to his stomach to hide her laugh. “jesus christ, you absolute menace,” she mutters, muffled against warm skin.
he chuckles low, the sound rumbling through his ribs. “what can i say? i’m a patriot.”
“uh-huh.” she pops back up, still grinning as she leans over him, eyes gleaming. “i should confiscate it.”
“oh no.” dean gasps, all false innocence. “not the ol’ confiscation tactic.”
“you leave me no choice, sir,” she says gravely, tone caught somewhere between sultry and sardonic. “i’m gonna have to take this into custody.”
“just—just treat it nice, alright?” he murmurs, breath hitching as she drags her fingers a little lower. “it’s got rights.”
“shh, baby. don’t worry.” her voice is velvet, her hands steady. “i’ll make sure it gets the full interrogation.”
“baby? if i didn’t know any better, i’d think you were trying to seduce me, officer.” he rasps, wiggling his finger at her like he’s scolding a toddler.
she gasps again — soft and scandalized, pressing a hand to her heart like how dare he, her fingers splayed across her chest. “me?” she breathes, eyes wide and lashes fluttering. “i would never abuse my position of power like that.”
he tilts his head, smirking so hard it borders on smug sin. “uh-huh. then what’s with the hands, sweetheart? and the tiny little skirt?” he gestures vaguely at her outfit, eyes dragging up her thighs like they’re the eighth wonder of the world.
“that’s department issued,” she says coolly, straddling him like it’s procedure. “and don’t change the subject.”
he lets his head fall back against the pillow, groaning in dramatic despair. “officer hawthorne, i think you’re trying to entrap me.”
“sir,” she purrs, brushing his hair off his forehead with all the faux solemnity in the world. “you walked into the trap.”
his eyes narrow, mouth twitching with the effort not to grin too hard. “you set it on purpose.”
“and you tripped it on instinct,” she counters, smoothing her hands up his ribs, trailing kisses up his throat. “not my fault you’ve got the situational awareness of a horny teenager.”
“that’s slander.”
“that’s truth.”
he groans again, long and exaggerated, just to make her laugh. “you are such a brat.”
“mm,” she hums, nosing at his jaw, grinning so big it hurts. “your brat.”
he melts like butter in the sun. “god help me, yeah. mine.”
“just confess, sir. being the government’s bitch really isn’t all that bad,” she coos in mock sympathy.
“you’re sick,” he groans, glaring at her through half-lidded eyes as she grins like the cat that caught the canary, nails dancing over his chest like she’s just waiting to pounce.
“mm, no,” she hums sweetly, tilting her head, voice all sugary-sinister. “i’m civic-minded. serving my country one interrogation at a time.”
“you’re harassing a citizen,” he accuses, even as he shifts to let her settle more comfortably in his lap, big hands gripping her thighs like he’s not trying to stop her at all.
she gasps, scandalized again. “sir! this is a lawful investigation!”
“you’re not even wearing pants!”
“neither are you.”
his mouth opens. closes. he sighs. “touché.”
she leans in, brushing her nose against his, smile curling at the corners of her mouth. “so just confess already. being the government’s little lapdog ain’t the worst fate.”
“you’re sick and twisted,” he mutters, but he’s smiling, lips ghosting hers, their breath warm and shared. “and you’re lucky you’re hot.”
“lucky?” she scoffs, cupping his jaw and kissing his cheek mockingly. “baby, i don’t need luck.”
“no,” he agrees, pulling her flush against him like gravity’s made just for her. “you need supervision.”
“good thing i’m in law enforcement,” she chirps.
“good thing.” he hums against her lips.
“mm, yeah,” she whispers, the sound all honey and mischief, her lips brushing his with every syllable. “i’m gonna write you up, y’know.”
“for what?” he grins, hands wandering slow and lazy over her hips, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“disturbing the peace.” kiss.
“possession of an illegal weapon.” kiss.
“and being stupidly handsome in a public place.” kiss, kiss, kiss.
he laughs, breathless and warm, pressing his forehead to hers. “guilty on all counts.”
“damn right,” she smirks, stealing one more kiss for good measure. “sentence is life with me.”
he hums again, quieter this time, like the thought tastes sweet on his tongue. “good thing.”
and god help her, she almost melts. almost. but she squares her jaw and pulls back with mock authority, one finger pressed to his sternum.
“you still gotta do the time, winchester.”
“only if you’re the time,” he smirks, and she groans, pushing his face away playfully as he cackles.
“so fucken dumb,” she mutters — loud enough for him to hear, soft enough to be affection.
his grin only grows, all smug and shit-eating and completely unrepentant, dimples flashing like he’s trying to be annoying. like he knows it’s his greatest weapon.
“dumb but hot,” he counters, chasing her retreat like he always does, lips brushing the edge of her jaw. “it’s a very specific brand. exclusive, even.”
“exclusive to you, dumbass,” she snorts, tilting her head away but not moving out of reach. never out of reach. “limited edition idiocy. comes with a six-pack and emotional trauma.”
“you love my six-pack,” he mumbles against her skin, nipping playfully at her throat. “and my trauma. don’t lie.”
she gasps, scandalized. “i do not love your trauma.”
he hums. “you nurture it. stroke it. give it a blankie.”
“i need a blankie, dealing with your ass,” she gripes, fingers threading through his hair despite herself. “i should write myself up. for falling for a menace.”
“too late, baby,” he grins, nosing at her collarbone like he’s already claimed it. “you’re in too deep. stuck with me.”
“god,” she sighs, dramatic as hell. “i really am.”
“you poor, beautiful thing,” he teases, cradling her face now, brushing his thumbs over her cheeks like she’s precious cargo.
“i swear to god, dean winchester—”
“do it. swear to me,” he cuts in, faux gravel-voiced like he’s channeling christian bale, eyes wide and ridiculous.
she snorts so hard she nearly falls off his lap. “you’re actually deranged.”
he shrugs. “diagnosed. by you. just now.”
“sentenced to life, remember?”
“mm.” he kisses her again. “best sentence i’ve ever served.”
and when she melts this time, it’s not even almost. it’s all-consuming. it’s the real deal. it’s her, slumping into his chest with a groan that’s more affection than protest, letting him wrap her up like he always does. because yeah, he’s dumb. and hot. and her favorite person on the planet.
and he’s hers.
“it better be.” she laughs, and to dean it sounds like the golden fizz of champagne bubbling up from an uncorked bottle.
he grins, eyes fluttering shut for a second like the sound physically hits him, sweet and heady in his bloodstream. god, her laugh. that breathless, shoulder-shaking kind that makes his heart stumble in his chest. he’d chase it across continents if he had to.
“baby,” he murmurs, pressing his nose to her temple, voice all reverent and starry-eyed, “you know it is. everything with you is.”
she hums like she doesn’t believe him — like she’s teasing, like she’s baiting him — but her arms snake a little tighter around his neck all the same, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck like she feels what she does to him. like she likes it.
and dean? dean is a goner. he’s already spiraling, drunk off her laugh and the weight of her pressed to him and the soft heat of her hands. “your laugh’s gonna be the death of me,” he whispers, grinning against her skin. “mark my words.”
“at least you’ll die happy,” she grins, smirking against his throat like a devil in silk.
“happier than any man’s got a right to be,” he replies without missing a beat, and it’s not flirtation. not this time. it’s just the truth.
and she knows it — feels it in the way his chest rises with hers, in the softness of his hold, in the hush that settles between them.
it’s mal’s perfect nightly routine, and dean gets added into every part of it. hot shower, brush teeth next to each other and write messages in the fogged up mirror, sometimes she sticks her pinky into the corner of his foamy mouth just to be a bother. then dean likes to brush her wet hair when it gets unwrapped from her towel, she blow dries it — and him, just a little. then pajamas and crawl into bed. then kiss for a while. then talk, about nothing and everything. then kiss some more. then whisper a little more until they fall asleep
it’s everything. it’s the kind of domestic that you ache for — not loud, not performative, not over-the-top with grand gestures or movie-perfect scenes. no, this is the real kind. the kind that settles in your bones and makes you believe in softness again.
mal’s perfect little ritual, once sacred and solitary, now feels incomplete without dean’s steady presence tucked into every crease. she used to do it all on her own — steam away the day in a blistering hot shower, wrap her hair in a towel, brush her teeth in silence. now there’s laughter echoing off the tiles, warm palms on her waist, and shared glances in the mirror that say i see you. i know you. i love you.
and it’s playful, of course. she’s sticking her pinky into the corner of his mouth mid-brush just to be annoying, and he bites at it halfheartedly, grinning through the foam. she writes “loser” on his side of the mirror and he wipes it off just to draw a dumb heart over her head. their toothbrushes clink against the edge of the sink, and the water runs too long, and the bathroom smells like her shampoo and his cologne, and everything about it feels like home.
he brushes her hair next, like it’s second nature. wide-toothed comb first, slow and methodical. the towel falls away and he gathers the wet strands like he’s handling spun silk, dragging the brush through from tip to root like she taught him, even murmuring dumb things like “gorgeous,” and “how the hell is it this soft?” while she melts quietly in front of him. she closes her eyes and leans into his touch, humming like a cat in the sun.
when she finally blow-dries it, she tilts the nozzle toward him just to watch him flinch and glare, and she cackles, snorting into her hand until he lunges for her waist, grinning as he squints and ducks, laughing. “hey, hey, stop, you menace—”
“you need a little volume, babe.”
“i’ll give you volume—”
and then it’s pajamas — her in one of his old shirts, him in pajama pants— and they tumble into bed in that loose-limbed way that says we’ve made it, we’re safe now.
they kiss. of course they kiss. not frantic, not hungry, just slow. patient. the kind of kissing that hums through your veins like honeyed tea.
then the talking begins. about the hunt they’re prepping for. about what sam said at dinner. about what he saw in the news. about the book she’s reading. about why the moon looks orange tonight. curled together under the covers like two kids at a sleepover, whispering about nothing and everything. dreams, movies, weird facts he learned that day, whether she thinks frogs have feelings.
and then more kisses.
then whispers.
soft little “did you lock the door?” and “you smell nice” and “what was your favorite part of today?”
she tucks herself against his chest like she always does. he throws a heavy arm over her like he always does. her hair is still slightly warm from the dryer, and his skin is clean and soft, and their breathing evens out together like they’ve done this for a thousand nights already.
she whispers, “night, baby.”
and he doesn’t even respond — just kisses her forehead, and holds her tighter, and drifts.
they’re young still, fresh out of the shower, mal’s brushing her wet hair in only some dark blue, cheeky cut panties. dean’s standing next to her, towel wrapped low on his waist, shaving his face.
she twists to grab one of her hair products from the cabinet, and when she turns back, she gasps, utterly affronted. “dean!” mallory exclaims, whining like nobody’s business. “there’s a bug bite on my ass!”
“no! babe, th-this can’t be!” dean gapes, placing his hand over his chest.
he stumbles back a step, as if the mere idea of it physically wounds him. “a bug bite? on your ass? no. god wouldn’t allow it. not to that ass.”
mallory just pouts and stares at it disdainfully.
“don’t panic,” dean says immediately, dropping his razor into the sink like a battlefield casualty. he steps closer, serious now, solemn, brows furrowed in concern as he gently cups her hips. “lemme see the damage.”
“you’re gonna laugh at me.”
“i’d never,” he says, and he means it — dead serious, like this is the moment he was born for. “this is a medical emergency, mallory. c’mon, let me be your hero.”
she snorts but sighs dramatically, turning around and popping one hip out slightly. “well? is it bad?”
he drops to a crouch immediately — squinting in mock concentration, thumb brushing just above the faint pink dot on the curve of her cheek. “mm. it’s serious, alright.”
“deannn,” she groans, face burning, half-laughing, half-mortified.
“deadly,” he murmurs, shaking his head like it’s tragic, like it’s taken ten years off his life. “gonna need to kiss it better.”
“you’re insufferable.”
he presses a kiss to her skin anyway, right next to the bite, then looks up at her from where he’s crouched, that dumb crooked grin already in place. “but you love me.”
“unfortunately,” she mutters, reaching down to flick water from her hair onto him.
he just grins wider. “can’t believe a bug had the audacity. what is this world coming to?”
“probably the same bug you missed killing in the kitchen yesterday.”
“hey—i tried. he had ninja skills.”
“i’m gonna die. and it’s your fault.” she mock-sobs.
“then i’ll avenge you. hunt that sucker down and stick his head on a toothpick.” he vows.
“ugh, you would,” mallory snorts, crossing her arms as she turns back to the mirror, trying to flatten her damp hair with her fingers. “you’re having way too much fun playing knight in shining boxers.”
dean rises to his feet with a dramatic groan, one hand still lingering at the curve of her hip. “you wound me, ma’am,” he says in a faux southern drawl, resting his other hand over his heart. “i only live to serve.”
“serve me a new ass,” she sighs, narrowing her eyes at the tiny pink welt in the reflection. “this one’s clearly been compromised.”
“blasphemy.” dean’s eyes go wide again, genuinely appalled. “take that back right now.”
“can’t,” she says, tongue in cheek. “this is a crime scene now. i have to live with the trauma.”
“you mean we have to live with it,” he corrects, pressing his chest to her back, arms sliding around her waist as he sways them lightly in front of the mirror. “this is a tragedy for us both. i mean, i rely on that thing for morale.”
mallory lets out a laugh, leaning back into him, her fingers toying with the edge of his towel. “you’re ridiculous.”
“i’m grieving,” he says solemnly. “mourning the perfect peach. it’s a dark day in the winchester-hawthorne-singer household.”
“you’re not even a little bit sorry, are you?”
he grins, nuzzling into her neck, lips brushing her damp skin. “not even a little bit.”
she sighs, relenting with a tired smile, tugging one of his arms tighter around her. “you’re lucky i love you.”
“i am lucky,” he murmurs into her skin, warm and low and sincere. “so, so lucky.”
mallory pauses for a beat, then smirks as she catches his eyes in the mirror. “just don’t think you’re getting out of bug duty for the next week.”
“deal,” he says easily, already reaching for the brush in her hand. “but only if you let me brush your hair.”
she blinks, a little caught off guard. “what?”
he shrugs, a bit sheepish now, still smiling. “i like doing it. it’s pretty.”
she stares at him a moment, heart flipping a little, before she turns, handing him the brush without a word and stepping between his legs, facing away.
he brushes her hair slow, gentle, reverent.
“you’re such a little freak,” she mumbles, grinning at her reflection.
“and you’re my girl,” he says simply.
and they finish their nighttime routine like that — naked, warm, damp, and perfectly in love, in their shared little bathroom sanctuary. bug bite and all.
mal is such a diva and dean will never stop catering to her every whim. he brings her a bagel with cream cheese in bed and she just stares at him with an unimpressed look. “does this look lightly toasted to you?” she sighs, exasperated even though she pulls him down to kiss him in thanks.
but god, he lives for it. her dramatics. her little sighs of disapproval. her demands delivered with such elegance and annoyance, like she’s some 1940’s starlet trapped in the body of a modern hellion.
she sits up in bed — wearing one of his sweatshirts, hair in a messy but somehow still editorial bun, lashes heavy and eyes already full of judgment — and stares at the bagel like it personally offended her.
“dean,” she says in that tone. the one that’s less scolding and more you poor, simple creature. “does this look lightly toasted to you?”
he’s still holding the plate. standing there in his flannel pajama pants, socks half on, hair all messy from where she tugged it last night and about ten minutes ago. and he just grins.
“baby, it’s got a golden glow,” he defends, gesturing like it’s a sunset and not just a slightly beige bagel. “you said light toast, not ghost toast.”
“this is medium toast at best,” she huffs, but she’s already leaning forward, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him down for a slow, indulgent kiss.
he melts instantly, plate still in hand, brain thoroughly scrambled.
“so… you still want it?” he murmurs, a little dazed when they part.
she takes the plate, flicks her gaze over the bagel one last time, and sighs as if she’s bearing the weight of the world.
“i guess i’ll allow it. but only because you’re pretty.”
he scoffs, flopping down beside her and propping his head on her thigh.
“you know,” he says, peering up at her as she takes a prim little bite, “i was gonna bring you orange juice too. but now i’m worried about your standards.”
“good,” she says through a mouthful of bagel, not missing a beat. “fear keeps you sharp.”
and she smirks down at him, brushing his hair back with one perfectly-manicured hand.
he adores her. always has. always will.
toast complaints and all.
they’re curled up together, tangled in sheets that still smell like sleep and sin, the late morning light slanting in through the blinds. mal’s cross-legged with the bagel in one hand and her phone in the other, casually scrolling with all the regal poise of a queen at court — except, y’know, barefoot and in bed.
“here,” she says at one point, not looking up as she tears the bagel in half and shoves the better portion into dean’s hand. no hesitation. just generosity masked in indifference.
he takes it gratefully — always takes what she offers like it’s sacred — and leans over to kiss her shoulder in thanks.
they’re halfway through breakfast when she freezes, squints down at her knee, and huffs.
“are you kidding me?”
dean glances over, mouth full, and tries not to laugh. “what happened?”
she points, scandalized, to the little bit of cream cheese perched on her kneecap like it’s personally ruined her day.
“how did it even get there?” she whines, wiping it off with a napkin and flicking the evidence onto his plate like this is your fault.
he raises both brows, smirking. “i mean… your knees are pretty distracting.”
“you’re disgusting.” she deadpans.
“you love me.”
she sighs like she’s exhausted by how right he is, rolls her eyes, and smears a fresh bit of cream cheese onto his cheek in retaliation.
he grins, grabs her wrist gently, and licks it off with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.
“disgusting,” she repeats, shoving him back into the pillows with a playful shove — but she’s already laughing, and her knee’s forgotten entirely as she climbs onto his lap like it’s her throne.
the bagel’s abandoned on the nightstand. breakfast has officially been derailed.
they’re so wrapped up in each other it’s borderline criminal — disgusting in the best, most heart-wrenchingly sappy way.
they brush their teeth together every night. and dean always tries to talk with a mouthful of toothpaste, and she always yells at him, but then gives in and lets him finish whatever he’s saying. they spit, rinse, and then kiss like idiots with minty mouths.
she steals his flannels and he pretends to be mad. stomps around the bunker like, “mal, where the hell is my red one? you know the one.” and she’s just sitting on the couch in it, legs tucked up, sipping coffee like she didn’t do it on purpose. he groans, leans over the back of the couch, kisses her temple and mutters, “you’re lucky you look hot in my shit.”
they have synchronized sighs. the same long, tired exhale when they sit down after a hunt. the same little grunt when they crawl into bed. it’s embarrassing. sam brings it up once and they both do it louder next time on purpose.
she doodles little hearts on napkins at diners and writes his name inside them. sometimes “dean + mal,” sometimes just “d.w.” she doesn’t even think about it. leaves them behind like love letters to the universe.
he keeps a picture of her tucked into the sun visor of the impala. it’s not even a particularly flattering one — she’s squinting in the sun and giving him the finger — but it’s hers, and it makes him smile every time he sees it.
they slow dance in motel rooms. to the sound of the a/c unit humming or the staticky lull of a rerun playing low on the TV. doesn’t matter what time of day it is. she loops her arms around his neck, he sways them back and forth with a hand on her lower back, and they whisper dumb jokes into each other’s skin until they’re dizzy from laughing.
he calls her “darlin’” like it’s sacred. like the word was made just for her. and every time he does, she does that little fluttery blink, like it still gets her, like she’ll never get used to the way he says it.
she loves to sit behind him, legs around his waist, arms hugging his chest, chin on his shoulder, while he works. fixing the impala, cleaning guns, researching. doesn’t matter — she just wants to be on him. and he leans back into her every time, like that’s where he belongs.
when she falls asleep on the couch, he carries her to bed. even if it’s a tight motel room. even if she’s literally five feet away from the mattress. it’s the principle. he tucks her in, kisses her forehead, and sighs like she’s his whole damn world.
because she is.
they are the kind of in love that leaks into everything. toothpaste, bad diner coffee, bloodied bandages and burnt pie crusts. the kind of in love that makes you unbearable to be around but makes perfect sense when you’re in it. like gravity. like home.
they don’t just love each other. they like each other. best friends to the bitter end, sick with devotion, deranged in their delight. god help anyone who tries to pull them apart.
they’ll just kiss in the wreckage. and then slow dance in it. and then make out in the backseat like teenagers.
because that’s what love looks like. for them. and it’s glorious.
it’s disgusting. it’s so sickeningly beautiful. they’re in love like it’s their religion. like the world starts and ends in each other’s eyes. like the only thing keeping the sun in the sky is the weight of her fingers in his hair and his mouth at her neck.
sometimes, when they’re sitting at red lights, he reaches across the console and holds her jaw just to look at her. thumb stroking her cheekbone. she turns toward him and smiles, soft and quiet, and he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t need to say anything. the whole car is heavy with it — that feral, wordless affection.
she’s got a million ways of saying i love you without ever using the words. making his coffee how he likes it. resting her hand on his thigh when he’s stressed. tucking herself into his side and whispering “you’re good. you’re good, baby,” after a particularly hard hunt.
and him? he worships her. not just with his hands, not just in bed, but always. buys her snacks he knows she likes. lets her hog the blankets even when she ends up rolled up like a burrito. keeps one of her hair ties around his wrist even though it cuts off his circulation. hums songs she hums, just to keep a piece of her in his throat.
sometimes they’ll be sitting with sam or bobby or anyone else and he’ll reach out and tug her hand into his lap, idly playing with her fingers like they’re rosary beads. she keeps talking. he keeps touching. no big deal. just casually tethered together like it’s the only way to breathe.
he once stitched her up with tears in his eyes and whispered “i can’t lose you,” and she smiled at him with blood on her lips and said, “then don’t,” like it was that simple.
and he didn’t.
they leave notes for each other all the time. post-its, napkins, receipts. stupid stuff. “don’t forget your knife, dumbass.” or “i made you a sandwich. it’s in the fridge. no, you can’t have sex with me as thanks. (okay maybe).” he keeps every single one. she pretends she doesn’t know. she knows.
and when she says “kiss” and tilts her head back? he always listens. doesn’t matter what’s happening. could be the end of the world, could be a shootout, could be the middle of a convenience store. he’s there. mouth to hers. hand on her waist. like a man possessed.
because he is.
possessed by her.
haunted by her.
he chose to be.
and she?
she never had a chance.
not once he smiled at her like that.
oh god. they’re in love. and it’s awful. and it’s perfect.
miss girl talks a big game — smart mouth, smug grin, eyes glittering with mischief — but half the time, she’s pushing his buttons on purpose just to get put in her place. she’s the type to roll her eyes mid-argument, hands on her hips, and smirk up at him with that daring little tilt of her head like, “what’re you gonna do about it, winchester?”
and then —boom— she’s over his knee.
dean doesn’t even hesitate. palms her ass like he owns it, holds her there with that tight grip at her waist while she wriggles and taunts, and he just shakes his head, grinning, because she wants it. she needs it. the attitude, the backtalk — it’s foreplay. and the spanking? oh, she loves that.
mal’s into the ritual of it. the anticipation. the way his hand lingers, warm and warning, before the first smack lands. the sound it makes, the sting blooming across her skin, the way it pulls breathy little gasps out of her even when she’s trying to stay defiant. she’ll mouth off after the first few, all, “that all you got, cowboy?” and “my grandma hits harder.”
and dean? he laughs. he lives for this version of her, bratty and beautiful and ready to break.
sometimes he makes her count them. sometimes he coos praise between the blows, thumb brushing over the red flush with a reverent sort of gentleness that drives her insane. “look at you, takin’ it so well.” “so pretty when you’re like this.” “all that fire, baby, but you’re still mine.”
and she melts. not just from the impact, but from the ownership of it all — the way he sees her, reads her, knows when she needs to be soothed and when she needs to be pushed.
but that’s not even the wildest part. no, no, that would be the fact that sometimes? she’ll deliberately misbehave in front of people. not full-on lewd, but just enough attitude to make dean go still — go quiet — and everyone at the table knows something just shifted. and then later? in the car? in the motel?
she gets what she asked for. sometimes over his knee. sometimes bent over the sink. sometimes face-down in the mattress with her wrists pinned and his voice in her ear, low and dangerous: “you really wanted to be punished, huh?”
and the thing is? mal doesn’t just like it. she thrives on it.
on the power exchange. the trust. the feeling of being tamed — not truly, never fully, but just enough to leave her shaking and smug and blissed out.
and dean? he may grumble about her being a menace, but he’s obsessed. head over heels for his wicked little brat. she’s fire and fury and the best kind of trouble — and he’ll gladly spank her into next week if it means she keeps looking at him like that.
and she just adores riling him up in public, because he's limited in what he can do about it in that moment. however, he's developed a certain look — and that look means business. she knows it too, gets all giggly and smug about it. knows the moment they're alone he'll take her over his knee and teach her some manners, but they never last. she always needs a reminder soon enough. but it doesn't feel that way when her skin is red and stinging, and she's reaching for his hand where her head lolls by his calf.
mal’s a menace of the highest order when it comes to public mischief. she lives for it. thrives on the tension, the power she holds in just a brush of fingers, a whispered filth-laced comment, a not-so-innocent sway of her hips when no one’s looking. well — almost no one. dean always sees. always feels it.
and she watches the fire build in him, eyes flashing like she’s lighting a match and waiting for the explosion. it’s a game, really — poke the bear, tease the wolf, flirt just past the line where things start to burn.
and when she finally gets the look — chin dipped, eyes dark, mouth a sharp line of warning — it only makes her grin. she gets all giggly and saccharine sweet, batting her lashes and pretending she’s so innocent, when they both know exactly what she’s doing.
“don’t look at me like that,” he’ll whisper, lips barely brushing her ear. “unless you’re ready to start something right here.”
and he is, always is — but dean winchester’s a man of control. barely. and that look? it means later. it means, you’re mine the second we’re alone. it means her ass is grass the moment that motel door clicks shut. and god, does she love it.
sometimes they don’t even make it that far. the impala’s seen more than its fair share of backseat confessions. but when they do get back to the room? he’s got her over his knee so fast her head spins. pants around her ankles, heart hammering like a drumline, and all her little sins come back to haunt her in the form of dean’s palm. each smack lands with intent, with meaning, with a growled, “this what you wanted, sweetheart?” in her ear.
and mal — mal moans through the sting, but when it starts to really hurt, when her skin’s hot and glowing and her attitude’s crumbled to soft whimpers, she goes all quiet. all needy.
her fingers will find his calf, reaching for that tether — anchoring herself to him. and dean’s hand, rough and warm, will catch hers without hesitation, squeezing back like, i’ve got you. i always do.
and the moment he does, her whole body just melts. breath shaky, mind swimming, still trembling from the correction — but comforted. claimed. loved.
and she always swears she’ll behave after that, nose pressed to his thigh, voice a cracked little murmur of, “okay. okay. i’ll be good now.”
and dean will just laugh, low and smug, rubbing slow circles into her back. “sure you will, baby. until tomorrow.”
and they both know she’ll need another reminder before the week’s out. maybe even sooner. and that’s just how they like it.
especially years down the line. dean — older, rougher around the edges, eyes darker from too many losses and too many lies, carrying that delicious weight of world-weariness like it’s stitched into the very seams of his skin. he’s got that low, drawled voice, all smoke and gravel, that swagger that’s slower now but no less lethal, and he knows what he wants. knows how to give it, how to take it.
this dean doesn’t play games unless he’s winning them. he’s more dangerous now — less impulsive, more deliberate, but still sharp when it comes to her. mal’s always been the exception. his soft spot, his pressure point, his kryptonite. and god, she knows it. uses it. delights in testing just how far she can push before that switch flips and she’s no longer teasing the wolf, she’s got it by the scruff.
he’s not shy about it anymore, either. not about them, not about what she does to him. he’ll pull her into his lap in the bunker library, hand already under her skirt before sam can even clear his throat, murmuring filth against her ear like he’s reading scripture.
or he’ll just look at her across the war room table when she’s mouthing off, and that look alone has her thighs pressing together, knowing damn well he’s cataloging every smart remark for later punishment.
he’s got rules now, ones she breaks on purpose: no teasing in front of sam, no touching under the table during research, no whispering what she wants in his ear during phone calls with cas.
and she breaks them all, gleefully. he’s the one who sets the scene. handcuffs already hanging from the headboard. knife from the bedside drawer just for the threat of it. bourbon on his breath and gravel in his voice as he pulls her in by the wrist and tells her flat-out, “you’re gonna be good for me now, sweetheart. or i’ll make you.”
and mal? oh, she grins at that. because being made to behave by this dean? that’s a reward, not a punishment.
dean winchester might be a lot of things — cocky, reckless, indulgent — but when it comes to mal running that razor-sharp mouth of hers, he’s got a line, and once she crosses it?
he puts her in her place.
one second she’s mouthing off, chin tilted high and eyes glittering with challenge, and the next? he’s got her bent just the way he wants, hands gripping her hips tight enough to bruise, slamming into her so deep she chokes on a gasp.
“you done?” he growls, panting, his voice rough and steady like gravel under tires. her only answer is a stifled whimper, eyes rolling as her knees threaten to buckle. he doesn’t let her fall — just keeps her there, trembling and breathless, exactly where he wants her.
then he pulls out just enough before bottoming out to lean in, still buried, still in control, and taps her cheek with two fingers like a scolding parent. “look at me when i’m talkin’ to you.”
she barely manages it, lashes fluttering, lips parted in shock and delight. and that’s when he points that damn finger in her face — stern, smug, so self-satisfied.
“you run your mouth like that again, sweetheart,” he drawls, “and i’ll make sure you can’t walk straight for a week. got it?”
and mal? mal just smiles, all wicked and flushed and breathless. because she loves it. loves him like this — wild, possessive, and too far gone in his need for her to play nice.
“yes, sir,” she purrs.
his eyes darken. she’s in for it now. and they both know it.
his palm is warm and firm against her cheeks, fingers squeezing just enough to make her lips pout in that perfect, kissable way. “say you’re sorry,” he chides again, voice a low rumble — gravelly and amused, but edged with authority that dares her to keep playing.
mal just blinks up at him, defiant even with her face smushed in his grip, eyes sparkling with mischief. she could give in — should give in — but when has she ever done anything the easy way?
so she just makes a muffled little noise, something between a pout and a scoff, still refusing to tap out.
he leans in closer, foreheads nearly touching, breath hot against her lips. “c’mon, baby. be good. say it.”
her pride wars with the way her thighs press together, the thrill of his control curling low in her belly. finally, she breathes out a sulky, garbled, “m’sorry,” through squished lips, and it’s almost sincere.
“close enough.” he chuckles darkly, thumb brushing along her cheek as his grip softens. “good girl.”
her breath hitches. and just like that — she’s wrecked. melted. undone by two stupid words and the way he says them like a promise, like praise dipped in sin.
she’s not saying sorry again, though. not unless he makes her.
she whimpers as he pulls out nearly all the way, pouting at the loss of him.
her fingers tighten on his forearms instinctively, nails digging in just a little, head tipping back as she whines — soft and breathy, a sound that slips out without permission. “no,” she pouts, hips chasing after him, needy and petulant at once. “don’t tease.”
but he’s grinning, the kind of smug, wicked grin that spells trouble, that promises he’s nowhere near done. his hand finds her waist, anchoring her in place, making sure she doesn’t get what she wants just yet.
“what’s that, baby?” he hums, voice all smoke and syrup. “you want me back in that bad?”
she nods, fast and desperate, bottom lip wobbling, already wrecked from the slow roll of him, from being so full and then not at all.
“well,” he drawls, dragging it out as his thumb strokes over her hipbone, “maybe you shouldn’t backtalk, huh?”
she glares at him, or tries to — doesn’t quite land it, not with how wide her eyes are, not with how ruined she looks for him. and he’s not any better, flushed and breathing heavy, watching her fall apart just because he pulled away.
he waits another beat, another moment of near-agony, and then slams back in all at once — rough, deep, home — and she gasps, arching with a cry that’s half a sob and all surrender.
“that’s more like it,” he growls against her throat, and this time she doesn’t dare talk back.
“dean,” she gasps, the name tumbling from her lips like a prayer, ragged and aching, barely holding herself up where she’s bent over the counter. her arms tremble, elbows slipping slightly as her cheek grazes the cool surface, breaths coming in shallow bursts.
his hands are firm at her hips, grounding her, greedy with how they hold her in place, fingers splayed across her skin like he can’t bear to let go. and he’s not being gentle — not this time — but there’s love in it anyway, tangled in the tension, in the way he leans in close enough for his chest to brush her spine and presses a kiss to the back of her neck.
“you still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice low and gravel-slick, concern tucked beneath the dominance like velvet under leather.
she nods, but it’s weak, dazed, more of a sound than a gesture. “uh-huh,” she breathes, and then again, “yeah. i’m okay. just—jesus.”
he grins against her skin, kisses her again, and rolls his hips slow, deep, just once. her knees nearly give out. he catches her easily, smug and warm, steady in the way only he can be.
“good girl,” he purrs, and she shudders at the praise, breath hitching. “tell me if it’s too much.”
“no,” she whispers, already chasing more, already curling her fingers into the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth. “don’t stop.”
“m’sorry,” she whines, all breath and desperation, the sound catching in her throat as she clutches at his forearm — the one curled firm and unyielding around her throat like a leash spun from need and love. it’s not tight, not really, but the weight of it is enough to make her dizzy, to remind her she’s his, always has been.
he’s bent over her now, chest warm against her back, the heat of him blooming through her spine, pressing her down and in and deeper. she can’t move — not with his hand anchoring her and his body caging her in, the counter biting into her hips — and god, she doesn’t want to.
“yeah?” he breathes against her ear, voice like smoke and sin, half amusement and half hunger. “you sure, baby? sounded like you liked mouthing off just fine a minute ago.”
her breath stutters, tears pricking at her lashes — not from pain, not really, just from the stretch of it all, from the overwhelming pull of being so full of him, so completely overwhelmed. she nods frantically, cheek brushing the countertop, lips parting with a hiccup of a sob. “i didn’t mean it, i’m sorry—”
he kisses her temple, tender despite the ache in his thrusts, despite the way he’s still holding her neck like a prized possession. “you always say that,” he hums, dragging his mouth along her skin, slow and reverent. “but you never learn, do you?”
“gimme a chance to,” she pleads, voice cracking, one hand scrambling to grab at the arm keeping her still, just needing him close, needing him everywhere.
he hums like he’s considering it, then lets his other hand slip between her thighs, coaxing another gasp from her. “then you better be extra nice for me, sweetheart,” he says, rough and low. “show me just how sorry you are.”
she mewls, her head tipping back against his broad shoulder. “i’ll—shit.” she hisses. “i’ll bake you a pie,” she manages, “wear a little apron with just a —mmph— nightie under, and no underwear, p-promise,”
he laughs, deep and indulgent, the sound curling around her spine like smoke off bourbon — warm and dangerous.
“wanna be good,” she whimpers, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as his hand on her throat slips up, cupping her jaw, keeping her looking forward at the reflection of them in the kitchen window.
“a pie, huh?” he murmurs, dragging his teeth down the shell of her ear, his breath hot and damp. “my girl tries to sass me and thinks she can buy my forgiveness with pie?”
but his hips don’t stop, not even for a second — he’s too far gone, too addicted to the way she clenches around him, the way her voice trembles as she babbles through the heat and haze. his forearm flexes where it’s still firm at her throat, not choking, just there, possessive, reverent. grounding her in place like he knows she needs it.
she shudders as he grinds deep, her body arching into him, pliant and desperate. “not just a pie,” she breathes, lips parted, voice feather-soft and shaking. “cherry. your favorite. i’ll even—fuck—i’ll even hand-whip the cream.”
“jesus christ,” he groans, burying his face against her neck, the wet drag of his mouth making her jolt. “you tryna kill me, baby?”
“just trying to say sorry,” she whimpers, breath catching on another thrust, her legs shaking, her knuckles white on the countertop.
“you keep talking like that, and we’ll be doing round two before the damn pie’s even outta the oven,” he growls, biting down on her shoulder, his voice ragged now, caught between laughter and a moan. “and you better wear a nightie. little lace trim. pale pink. i wanna ruin you in it.”
“deal,” she gasps, melting into him, her throat blooming with the press of his hand, her body trembling with every echoing thrust. “whatever you want, baby. i’m all yours.”
“fuck,” he grits out, the image hitting him like a freight train. her in the kitchen, all soft curves and devilish smiles, barefoot and smug with flour on her cheek and nothing but a nightie beneath that ridiculous little apron. “you’re gonna be the death of me, mal.”
she grins, all feral and breathless, despite the way she’s practically falling apart in his arms. “good,” she pants, pushing back against him with a little roll of her hips, teasing and tender. “you die, i die. romantic as shit, win-win.”
dean lets out a choked laugh, the kind that sounds more like a growl, and dips his head to nip at her ear. “you’re a menace,” he growls, dragging his teeth along her jaw. “and you better follow through. i want cherry. full crust lattice top. none of that store-bought bullshit.”
“yes, chef,” she gasps, giggling even through the tremble in her thighs. “whatever you want.”
“whatever i want,” he repeats with a grin, slow and dangerous. “you’re really askin’ for it now, baby.”
“begging, actually,” she corrects, smiling at him as she moans.
he damn near chokes on the sound of her — laughing, moaning, trembling in his arms with that wicked little smile like she’s proud of herself, like she hasn’t just turned him inside out and carved her name into the softest parts of him.
his palm slides up, cradling her jaw, coaxing her head to tilt, to show him that flushed cheek, those glassy eyes, her lip bitten raw and her grin still cocky through it all.
“begging,” he echoes, voice torn and reverent, like a prayer and a promise all in one breath. “fuck, sweetheart. you really don’t play fair.”
her lashes flutter as she looks at him sideways, their reflection blurred in the window — half steam, half candlelight, the kitchen painted in golds and reds, in the heat of them and nothing else. “never said i did,” she whispers, breath ghosting over his lips. “i just want you. always.”
his hips stutter. just once. just enough for her to feel it. he kisses her — sloppy and deep, like he’s drowning and her mouth’s the only air he wants. his hand drops from her jaw to her waist, pulling her impossibly closer, grounding her against the counter as if he can sink her into it, brand her into the memory of this moment.
“you got me,” he breathes against her lips. “every damn part.”
“i know,” she whispers, smug and syrup-sweet. “i’m gonna take real good care of you.”
he growls, helpless and grinning, pressing his forehead to hers as his thrusts slow, more deliberate, more intimate. “cherry pie,” he pants, dragging his nose along her temple. “apron. no underwear.”
“nightie too,” she hums, eyelids heavy. “lace trim. pale pink.”
“that’s my girl,” he laughs, kissing her temple and snaking his hand between her thighs once more.
she gasps, hips twitching at the sudden heat of his hand, her fingers scrabbling at the counter for something — anything — to hold onto. her voice pitches high, breath hitching. “dean—”
“shh,” he coos, all sweetness laced with something far more dangerous, something honeyed and sharp. “you’re doin’ so good, baby. so damn good for me.”
his fingers work her with the same easy confidence as his voice, slow and steady, coaxing every soft sound from her lips like a song he already knows by heart. she’s trembling, boneless against him, and still she pushes back, always greedy, always aching for more.
“fuck,” she breathes, her voice a broken melody. “i love you.”
he groans, the sound deep and desperate, mouth at her neck again like he can’t help himself. “say it again,” he rasps, curling his fingers just right, his thrusts matching the rhythm of his hand.
“i love you,” she whines, forehead resting against the windowpane now, the cool glass fogging beneath her breath. “god, i love you, dean—”
“that’s my girl,” he murmurs, kissing her shoulder, her jaw, her cheek, anywhere he can reach as she shudders around him. “you’re mine, mal. say it.”
“i’m yours,” she sobs, teetering on the edge, every part of her unraveling in his arms. “i’m yours, i’m yours, i’m—”
and he catches her as she falls apart, holds her like something sacred, like something claimed — his other hand never leaving her hip, steady and grounding. he kisses her through it, soft and reverent, and whispers against her lips, “that’s my girl.”
when the shaking quiets and her breath steadies, she turns to look at him with that sleepy little smirk, cheek still flushed, eyes half-lidded.
“you still want pie?” she murmurs, a breathless laugh spilling past her lips.
he grins, wide and wolfish, brushing her hair back from her face. “more than anything, sweetheart. but first, i’m takin’ you to bed. can’t have my best girl passing out against the kitchen counter.”
“hm,” she hums, already letting him lift her into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist. “you gonna carry me, chef?”
“hell yeah,” he chuckles, kissing her cheek. “gotta keep my pie baker in one piece.”
“spoil me and i’ll make you a whole damn bakery,” she whispers sleepily.
“baby,” he says, pressing a kiss to her temple as he walks them toward the bedroom, “you already do.”
“okay, proposal. round two in bed, pie and a movie after?” she smiles, gazing up at him fondly.
he groans, low and helpless, like she’s just offered him paradise wrapped in a cherry-sweet bow. his grip on her tightens just a little, like he’s anchoring himself to her, or maybe like he’s making sure she doesn’t float off with the way she’s smiling at him. “jesus, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice thick with affection, “you really do wanna kill me, huh?”
she laughs, soft and smug and still just a little breathless, her nose brushing his cheek as she nuzzles in close. “not kill you,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss just under his jaw. “just keep you nice and pliant. like taffy.”
he laughs at that — really laughs, the sound shaking through both of them, warm and bright and stupidly in love. “you’re the devil.”
“i’m your devil,” she grins, whispering it like a promise, like a prayer, her fingers brushing along the back of his neck.
he carries her the rest of the way to the bed like she weighs nothing, setting her down with a reverence that borders on worship. “okay,” he says, nudging her knees apart and crawling over her with a crooked little smirk, “round two. then pie. then whatever dumb movie you want—i don’t even care if it’s got subtitles. i’m all in.”
she beams up at him, fingertips trailing down his chest like she’s drawing a constellation. “you sure you’re not gonna fall asleep on me, old man?”
“not a chance,” he says, voice low as he leans down to kiss her, slow and deep and honey-sweet. “you said pie and a movie, mal. that’s romance. that’s foreplay. that’s the american dream.”
she giggles into his mouth, tugging him closer, and sighs, soft and content. “love you, dreamboat.”
“love you more, my lil’ pastry chef,” he murmurs, his smile all teeth and velvet. “now quit stallin’. you promised me round two.”
“yes sir.” she snickers, nipping at his bottom lip.
“that’s my girl,” he growls, voice thick with pride and mischief, the sound vibrating against her lips as he grins wide, cocky and utterly gone for her. his fingers find her waist like muscle memory, thumbs tracing the curve of her hips with something dangerously close to reverence. “and don’t think i’m forgetting that apron comment. you better be wearin’ that thing when i come down for pie, or i swear to god—”
“or what?” she teases, breath hitching as she tugs him closer by the nape of his neck, legs already hooking around his hips like she’s locking him in place. “you’ll spank me? beg me for a taste? recite the constitution of pastry rights?”
he laughs, nose bumping hers, that stupid, fond little expression softening the sharpness of his jaw. “you are so damn lucky i’m in love with you,” he mutters, then presses his forehead to hers, a beat of silence settling between them — warm and full and breathing.
“i know,” she whispers, gazing up at him with that particular brand of wild devotion that only she knows how to wear. “but you are, so… apron. nightie. cherry pie. full lattice. me. you. round two. now.”
“jesus christ,” he breathes, eyes rolling back as he dives in again like he never even left, drunk on her words, her mouth, the wicked gleam in her eyes. “you’re gonna be the death of me, mal.”
“we already covered that,” she gasps, arching up into him like a prayer. “romantic as shit. win-win.”
“right, how could i forget,” he snorts, breathless, the sound rasping against her throat as he presses hot kisses there, slow and savoring. he’s grinning, cocky and wrecked and absolutely reveling in the way she mewls — that sweet, needy little sound that makes his spine light up and his ego swell to something unholy. “you, all soft and sweet and full of promises. swearin’ you’ll kill me with an apron and pie like it’s some kind of mercy.”
she squirms beneath him, arms curling around his shoulders, fingers digging into his back like she’s clinging to something holy. “it is mercy,” she pants, kissing along his jaw, dizzy and giggling. “i’m being so nice to you.”
“mm, sure,” he chuckles, nipping at her earlobe. “so kind. so generous. just a peach, really.”
“no,” she hums, smug now, despite the heat still clinging to her skin. “cherry, remember?”
he groans, head dropping to her shoulder with a defeated little growl of affection. “you’re evil,” he mumbles against her skin, laughing helplessly. “you’re absolutely evil and i’m in love with you and i don’t even care.”
“you better not,” she snickers, arms tightening around him, her smile warm and wild and dizzy with love. “i’ve got a nightie to ruin and a pie to bake, baby. you’re stuck with me.”
“now kiss me, dreamboat,” she demands, all saccharine threat and starry-eyed command, her fingers curling into the back of his hair just enough to make him grunt, just enough to make him obey.
he lifts his head with a lazy grin, dazed and drunk on her, eyes half-lidded and lips already parted. “yes, ma’am,” he murmurs, voice like thunder softened by velvet, and leans in slow, savoring it — the command in her touch, the gleam in her eyes, the warmth between them that crackles like fire in the hearth.
and then he kisses her — slow and sure, with the weight of a thousand unspoken promises and a grin still curling into it. he kisses her like she’s his whole damn world, like he doesn’t care about round two or cherry pie or anything except the sound she makes when his lips slot against hers just right.
her hands slide to his jaw, thumbs brushing the stubble there, her breath catching just slightly before she deepens it, sighing like it’s the only thing she’s ever wanted.
“that’s more like it,” she whispers, pulling back just enough to smile against him.
he chuckles, lips ghosting hers again. “bossy,” he teases, “but sweet.”
CW : || 18+ || sub!dean || fingering || dean the insatiable munch || mal is the condescending one rn but she’s a nicer dom than he is || spit kink lmao || unprotected piv as usual ||
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they’re in some bar, dean’s pulling her into a bathroom and pushing her against the counter, dipping his head to suck her neck. “this is getting pathetic, baby.” she snickers, it’s the third time he’s done this just this week.
“i’m pathetic,” he huffs against her neck, grabbing her thighs and pulling them around his waist, getting her onto the counter.
she laughs, breathless, letting him manhandle her like he always does when he gets like this — needy, desperate, single-minded in his pursuit of her. “yeah, you are,” she hums, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging just enough to make him groan. “what, couldn’t wait ‘til we got home?”
“nope,” he pops the p, dragging his mouth down her throat, licking over the bruise he just made. his hands roam up her thighs, pushing her skirt higher, bunching it at her hips. “been watchin’ you all night, baby. sittin’ there, lookin’ all pretty, bein’ a fuckin’ tease.” he grinds against her, and she shudders, nails digging into his shoulders.
“me?” she feigns innocence, breath hitching when he nips at her collarbone. “i wasn’t doing anything, dean.”
“bullshit.” he pulls back just enough to look at her, eyes dark, pupils blown. “you knew exactly what you were doin’, sittin’ in my lap, playin’ with my hair, lookin’ at me like that.” he nudges her nose with his, breathing hard. “you wanna tell me you didn’t want this?”
she smirks, reaching down to pop open his belt, her knuckles brushing the front of his jeans. “course i did,” she murmurs, tugging him back in. “just wanted to see how long you’d last.”
“you’re so mean sometimes,” he whines breathlessly, a desperate pout pulling on his full lips.
“aww, poor baby,” she coos, tilting her head, pretending to pout back at him. she drags her nails down his back, just enough to make him shudder, his breath stuttering against her lips. “you like it, though.”
he exhales a shaky laugh, pressing his forehead to hers. “yeah,” he admits, voice low and wrecked. “fuck, i do.” his hands grip her thighs tighter, fingers digging in as he rolls his hips against her, dragging another breathless whimper from her throat.
she grins, grabbing his face in both hands, kissing him slow, teasing, just to get him more riled up. he groans into her mouth, nipping at her bottom lip, trying to take back control, but she just pulls away with a smug little hum.
“you gonna whine some more, baby?” she taunts, smoothing her thumbs over his cheekbones. “or you gonna fuck me?”
“both, probably.” he replies, looking at her with those big sparkly eyes, the dim bathroom lighting making the whole thing a hazy dream.
her lips curl, fingers sliding into his hair as she tugs him closer. “figured,” she hums, brushing her nose against his. “such a pretty boy, all desperate for me.”
his breath shudders, and he squeezes her thighs hard enough to bruise, but it’s not like she minds. he leans in, lips barely touching hers, eyes blown wide and pleading. “c’mon, mal,” he murmurs, voice all honey and gravel.
she tilts her head, feigning curiosity, even as her own breath is coming faster. “c’mon, what?”
his jaw clenches, and his fingers twitch against her skin. “fuck me like you mean it.”
she tuts, shaking her head a little. “fuck you? now why would i do that?”
his grip on her tightens, his fingers pressing into her thighs like he’s trying to keep himself tethered. he huffs, a little breathless, a little wrecked already, and it makes her smirk. “mal—”
she tilts her head, feigning innocence. “no, really, baby. why would i do that?” her nails drag along the back of his neck, teasing, deliberate. “you’ve been so desperate lately. pulling me into bathrooms, pawing at me every chance you get—”
“yeah,” he grits out, eyes dark and pleading. “so fuckin’ do something about it.”
“me? it’s all you, baby. if you want me you gotta work for it.” she purrs, a little mean.
he groans, the sound low and frustrated, his fingers digging into her thighs as he rolls his hips against her. “you’re killin’ me, mal.”
she just smirks, tilting her head like she’s considering him. “mm, i don’t know… you seem pretty alive to me.” her nails scratch lightly over his scalp, making him shudder, making his grip tighten. “all needy and desperate… so fuckin’ cute.”
he glares at her, but there’s no real heat behind it — just that wrecked, hazy look in his eyes. “not cute.”
she laughs, breathy and smug. “no? what would you call it, then?”
he growls under his breath, pushing her harder against the counter, crowding into her space, his lips brushing against her jaw. “call it me losing my fuckin’ mind over you.”
she tugs on his hair, hard enough to pull him back far enough to look him in the eye, but not mean enough for it to really hurt. “if you’ll be good, you can have me, huh?” she clicks her tongue patronizingly, her hand sliding down to his jaw, running her thumb over his lip and pulling him up by the chin.
he nods, quick and eager, his tongue flicking out to brush against the pad of her thumb. “yeah, baby. i’ll be so good.” his voice is all low and breathless, practically pleading, and god, she loves him like this — wide-eyed and desperate, held in the palm of her hand.
her smirk softens just a little, her fingers tracing along his jaw before she tilts his chin up further. “i know you will.” she leans in, her lips just barely ghosting over his. “you always are.”
and then she kisses him, slow and deep at first, teasing, before it melts into something rougher, messier. he groans into her mouth, hands gripping her thighs tight enough to bruise, like he’s afraid she’ll pull away again. but she doesn’t — she just laughs against his lips, breathless and smug, letting him swallow the sound as she tugs him closer.
“my pretty boy,” she hums, prying his lips apart with her thumb, pinching and tugging on his bottom one teasingly.
he whimpers, letting her do whatever she wants with him, his lashes fluttering as she pulls at his lip. “yours,” he breathes, glassy-eyed and pliant, his hands gripping the counter on either side of her thighs like he’s trying to ground himself.
mallory hums, tilting her head as she watches him, her thumb pressing a little firmer against his lip before she releases it. “yeah, you are.” her fingers trail down, skimming over his throat, her nails barely scratching at his skin. “so pretty when you’re desperate.”
he swallows hard, pressing into her touch, his hands twitching like he wants to grab her but knows better than to do anything without her say-so. “please, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “need you.”
she sighs, sweet and indulgent, threading her fingers through his hair. “since you asked so nicely.” and then she pulls him in, kissing him so deep he forgets his own name.
her lithe hand runs back down to his throat, just enough to tease him, biting at his bottom lip to get his lips to part in a whine, slipping her tongue in.
he moans into her mouth, his hands flexing against the counter like he’s fighting the urge to grab her, to take back some control, but she’s got him exactly where she wants him — needy, whimpering, and completely at her mercy.
mallory smirks against his lips, her fingers tightening just a little around his throat, feeling the way he swallows against her palm. “so good for me,” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to take in the way his cheeks are flushed, his pupils blown wide.
“only for you,” he breathes, his voice wrecked, his hands finally coming up to grip her hips, squeezing like he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart completely.
she’s gripping his jaw again, slipping her thumb between his lips and prying them open, gazing down at him with a hazy smirk before she’s letting a wad of cottony, cherry flavored saliva fall into his mouth.
dean groans, his lashes fluttering as his lips instinctively close around her thumb, swallowing without hesitation. his fingers dig into her hips, his breath stuttering against her skin. “fuck,” he rasps, his voice all gravel and desperation, eyes dark and dazed as he looks up at her.
mallory hums, pleased, trailing her thumb down his chin, smearing a bit of spit across his jaw before gripping it again. “so pretty,” she purrs, tilting his face up further, her own lips curving in satisfaction. “you love this, don’t you?”
“yeah,” he breathes, barely above a whisper, his fingers twitching on her thighs. “love it.”
“my pretty baby, huh? ya’all mine?” she purrs, her lips brushing against his.
“all yours,” he breathes, his voice barely holding steady, the words slipping out like a confession. his hands tighten on her thighs, dragging her closer, his lips parting just enough for his breath to mingle with hers. “always.”
mallory hums approvingly, her fingers trailing down his throat, pressing just enough to feel his pulse stutter beneath her touch. “good boy,” she murmurs, brushing her lips against his but not quite kissing him, letting the anticipation stretch. “knew you would be.”
she’s pulling him in by the chin again, her low tone smoother than glass. “that’s a good boy, hm?” she smirks lazily, petting his hair.
dean’s breath hitches, a soft whimper escaping him as she tugs him down, her touch a mix of authority and something sweeter that makes his pulse race. he leans into her hand, his eyes flickering up to hers, vulnerability flashing before he hides it behind a cocky grin. “you know, you really know how to keep a guy on edge,” he murmurs, his voice low, raw, and just the slightest bit desperate.
her hand in his hair feels like an anchor, pulling him closer, and when she speaks that way — so commanding — he can’t help but submit, every muscle in his body betraying him.
“you gonna show me how good you can be?” she purrs sardonically.
dean swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing against her fingers. he’s nodding before he can even think, his body reacting to her touch, her voice, the slow, lazy smirk curving her lips. “yeah,” he breathes, his hands gripping her thighs a little tighter, as if she might disappear if he lets go.
mallory’s thumb traces over his bottom lip, her smirk deepening as she tugs his head back just a little, forcing him to look up at her. “mm,” she hums, tilting her head like she’s considering. “i don’t know, baby, you talk a big game, but let’s see if you can back it up.”
dean huffs a quiet, breathless laugh, but there’s no real bravado behind it. he’s already falling, already willing to prove himself, and she knows it. she always knows.
he’s sinking to his knees, pulling her legs apart and kissing up her bare skin from her ankles to her inner thighs, gazing up at her while he does so.
mallory hums, her fingers sliding through his hair as he works his way up, slow and reverent, like he’s worshipping her. his lips are warm against her skin, his breath uneven, and when he glances up at her through those thick lashes, his eyes dark and glassy, she exhales a slow, knowing sigh.
“that’s more like it,” she muses, tilting her head as she watches him. her nails scratch lightly against his scalp, making him shudder. “such a pretty boy when you’re on your knees for me.”
dean groans softly, his grip tightening on her thighs. “only for you,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of her thigh, his voice rough, needy. he nips at the skin, just to hear her breath hitch, just to feel the way she tenses beneath his hands. his fingers dig in, his lips trailing higher. “always for you.”
he’s pushing up her miniskirt with big, warm hands, callouses running over the smoothness of her thighs as he hooks them behind her knees and tugs her forward, pulling her legs over his shoulders.
mallory smirks, leaning back just a little, her fingers tightening in his hair as he settles between her thighs. “there’s my handsome boy,” she purrs, tilting his chin up with her thumb, watching the way his lips part at the praise, the way his breath stutters.
dean groans, his grip flexing on her thighs, fingertips pressing into soft skin. he loves this — loves the way she looks at him, like she owns him, like she knows exactly how easy he is for her. his lips brush the inside of her thigh, slow, teasing, his breath hot against her skin. “say it again,” he rasps, his voice rough with want, eyes locked on hers.
mallory smirks, giving his hair a little tug, not mean, just enough to make him gasp. “so good, so handsome.” she repeats, softer this time, dragging her nails over his scalp.
he’s more than willing, leaning in and sucking a mark on her inner thigh, then another to leave a heart-shaped bruise behind. he’s entirely in his element, lidded gaze locked on the maroon cotton of her panties and the dark patch in the center of her clothed cunt.
he noses at the fabric, tugging it down her legs with the utmost care and devotion, tucking them in his back pocket for safe-keeping, in true dean winchester fashion. he’s back as soon as he left, pressing a gentle kiss to her clit and sighing like he couldn’t be happier.
mallory watches him with hooded eyes, her smirk lazy, indulgent. “so fucken needy,” she murmurs, stroking her fingers through his hair as he settles in like he belongs there — because he does. she feels his breath against her, warm and content, and her own hitches just slightly, though she refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’s already unraveling her.
dean hums against her, his hands flexing against her thighs, thumbs stroking idly. “can’t help it,” he admits, his voice low, wrecked, and he kisses her again, softer this time, almost sweet if not for the way his tongue flicks out to taste her. he’s got that lovesick look on his face when he glances up at her, half-drunk on just the anticipation. “you know you drive me crazy, baby.”
mallory hums, tilting her head, feigning consideration. “i do,” she muses, curling her fingers at the nape of his neck, nails scratching just enough to make him shiver. “but i like hearing you say it.”
“i’ll say it til i die,” dean hums against her core, the vibrations of his impossibly deep cadence making her thighs tighten slightly around his head. “ya know, this might be how i wanna die,” he chuckles, licking a stripe up her pretty pink cunt.
mallory snickers, her fingers tightening in his hair as she leans her head back against the mirror. “what, between my thighs?” she muses, her voice light, teasing. “figured you were more of a blaze-of-glory kind of guy.”
dean groans against her, his grip on her thighs tightening. “baby, this is a blaze of glory.” he punctuates it with another slow, deliberate lick, his eyes flicking up to watch her reaction, drinking in the way her breath catches, the way her lips part just slightly. “besides, i don’t see the appeal of goin’ out any other way when i got heaven right here.”
she huffs a breathy laugh, trying not to let his words get to her, but it’s impossible when he’s looking at her like that, like she’s something to be worshipped, like he’d give his last breath just to stay between her thighs a little longer. “god, you’re such a loverboy,” she murmurs, rolling her eyes even as her grip on him tightens, even as her hips tilt slightly toward his mouth.
dean just grins, all mischief and devotion, pressing a kiss right to her clit before murmuring, “only for you, sweetheart.”
“as much as i love seeing you like this, i dunno if i’d have the heart to squeeze and watch the life leave your eyes.” she snickers, reaching for his left hand to hold.
dean laughs against her skin, the warmth of his breath making her shiver. “that’s real sweet, baby,” he murmurs, lacing his fingers through hers and squeezing. “but if you ever change your mind, i’d die the happiest man on earth.”
mallory scoffs, shaking her head as she watches him, thumb running absentmindedly over his knuckles. “you’re so dramatic,” she teases, but there’s something softer in her tone, something fond.
dean presses another kiss to her, slow and reverent, before looking up at her with that lazy, cocky grin. “yeah? and you love it.”
“guess so,” she hums, breath catching in her throat as he pushes two thick fingers into her cunt, curling them just so, waiting patiently for the noise she’d be making any second now.
he doesn’t have to wait long — her breathy little gasp is music to his ears, her fingers tightening around his. he grins against the inside of her thigh, watching the way her lashes flutter as she tilts her head back, her lips parting just enough to let out another sweet, desperate sound.
“there it is,” he murmurs, like he’s been waiting all day for that exact noise. his fingers curl again, slow and deliberate, pushing in deep before dragging out just to do it all over again, his thumb ghosting over her clit. “never get tired of hearing you, baby. sweetest fuckin’ thing.”
“sweet talker,” she scoffs, but there’s no malice, only fond amusement as she gazes down at him, letting out a breathy whimper.
“just callin’ it like i see it,” he rasps, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh, his lips curving into a smirk. his fingers work her open with the kind of lazy confidence that drives her insane, like he’s got all the time in the world to unravel her, like he enjoys it just as much as she does.
“my best girl,” he muses, crooking his fingers inside her just right, watching the way her breath hitches, the way her lashes flutter. he grins, all lazy and adoring, dipping his head to press a kiss to her clit, his breath hot against her.
“all yours,” she whispers, her voice low and sultry as she slides her fingers down his neck, feeling his pulse race under her touch. dean lets out a shaky breath, his hands tightening on her thighs as he shifts closer, desperate to please her, to make her proud.
“'n m’all yours,” he smiles, slow and satisfied, his lips trailing up the inside of her thigh again, slow and deliberate. the tension in the air is thick, crackling with anticipation, and he knows that she’s the one in control now. she’s guiding him, shaping his every move, and he’s eager to follow.
mallory grins, watching him with a smoldering look, her fingers tangled in his hair as she guides him where she wants him. “i know you are, baby,” she purrs. “and you’re gonna make me feel good, aren’t you?”
he nods, his eyes glassy and full of need, his body trembling as he presses his lips to her skin once more, determined to show her just how much he’s willing to give for her.
“yeah, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire, his hands gripping her tighter as his lips trail up her inner thighs. “you like when i’m good for you, don’t you?”
mallory nods, her breath shaky as her fingers dig into his hair, holding him close. “god, you’re so good for me, dean,” she whispers, voice low, needy. “just like that… so perfect for me.”
he groans, the sound vibrating against her skin as he moves higher, his eyes dark with longing, hands firm on her hips. “only ever for you,” he murmurs, pulling her closer, his lips brushing over her skin, teasing, before he presses a soft kiss to her stomach.
mallory tilts her head back, letting out a quiet, breathless laugh. “you really are mine, huh?” she teases, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging him up to meet her gaze. “you’re so fucking cute when you’re desperate for me.”
his eyes widen slightly, his breath coming faster as his lips curl into a grin. “you know i am, mal. can’t help it. you’re all i want.”
her lips curl in satisfaction, her hands resting on his shoulders as she leans in, brushing her lips over his. “yeah,” she hums, her voice low and sultry, “all mine.”
dean’s pulse quickens at her words, his grip on her hips tightening as he leans in to kiss her again — slow, hot, hungry, the tension between them building once more.
she whines into his mouth, his fingers curling with practiced ease as her free hand clings to his wrist.
he smirks, so impossibly hard right now, his jeans uncomfortably tight, but he couldn’t care less. he’s busy pleasing his girl, and she always comes first, literally and metaphorically.
he feels her body tremble beneath his touch, and the whine she lets out makes his chest tighten with desire. he presses a kiss to her lips, soft but urgent, his fingers moving faster, knowing exactly what she needs.
“that’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice rough, his breath hot against her skin as he pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. “you gonna let me make you feel good?”
mallory nods, her grip on his wrist tightening as she shudders, her other hand dragging him closer, not wanting an inch of space between them. “always,” she breathes, a low moan escaping her lips. “always, dean.”
his smirk widens, his lips curving in satisfaction. “that’s what i like to hear.”
he leans down, capturing her mouth again, deep and desperate, his hand moving with a sense of urgency. dean can’t help but lose himself in the way she reacts, in the way she needs him, his world narrowing to the sweet sound of her breathless whispers and the way she grips him like she can’t get enough.
she whines, and dean bites back a moan at the sweet sound.
the sound that slips from him is downright sinful, muffled by her thigh as he mouths at her skin like it’s holy. he looks up at her like she hung the stars — like she’s the beginning and the end, like the only thing he needs to survive is the taste of her.
he mouths at her thighs like he’s trying to hold himself together, every inch of him trembling beneath her touch. he buries his face between her legs, mouthing at her through lace and heat, the fabric damp from how long she’s been waiting too. she’s not immune — not really — but she hides it better, always does. it’s part of the game, part of the tease, part of what makes him so utterly fucking desperate for her.
his tongue is wicked and eager, pushing past the lace as he growls low in his throat, tasting her like he needs it to survive. mallory tilts her head back, her lips parted on a sigh, one leg curling over his shoulder as her heel digs into his back to keep him close. “good boy,” she breathes, her voice low and syrupy, thick with affection and authority all at once.
dean moans into her, and the sound vibrates through her, makes her eyes flutter shut for half a beat before she’s looking down again, needing to see him like this — on his knees, lips wet, face flushed, working for it like it’s the only thing that matters. and god, maybe it is. maybe it always has been.
“so eager,” she murmurs, dragging her nails over his scalp again, slow and indulgent. “you gonna make me come before i let you fuck me? that it, baby?”
he whines, nodding against her, his tongue fucking her slow, deep, like he’s savoring every second. he’s not sloppy, not careless — he never is with her. every flick of his tongue, every press of his lips, is worshipful. deliberate. desperate.
mallory laughs, low and smug, her fingers tightening in his hair as her hips roll against his mouth. “yeah,” she breathes, her voice sharp around the edges now. “fuck — that’s it, dean, don’t stop.”
he doesn’t. god, he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. he’d live down there if she let him. maybe he already does — maybe some part of his soul has taken up permanent residence between her thighs, tongue and lips and devotion all tangled together.
her breath starts to hitch, the smirk turning shaky, and she grins down at him through a haze of pleasure. “just like that, baby. make me come and maybe — maybe — i’ll let you fuck me.”
he groans, like the idea alone is enough to make him come untouched, and the desperation in it makes her shudder. makes her tilt her hips to meet his mouth, makes her thighs tighten around his head.
and when she does come — sharp and sudden, her fingers gripping his hair, her head tipping back against the mirror with a muffled fuck — he doesn’t stop. not until she’s pulling him back by the hair, eyes half-lidded and smug, breath stuttering.
“up,” she says, low and lazy, like she owns the world and him with it.
he obeys instantly, rising from the floor, mouth slick, face flushed, his eyes dazed with devotion and need. mallory grabs him by the collar and kisses him filthy, letting him taste the echo of her pleasure on her tongue. he groans into it, hands frantic at her hips.
“pants,” she orders against his lips, voice like velvet and steel.
he fumbles with the belt she already popped, cursing under his breath, clumsy in his urgency, his cock already flushed and hard, aching to be inside her.
mallory grins, slow and feral, as she yanks him closer and sinks down onto him in one smooth, unrelenting motion.
they both gasp — her at the stretch, him at the heat — and she curls her fingers into his shoulders, nails digging deep as he buries his face in her neck again, moaning like he’s never felt anything so good.
“that what you needed, baby?” she pants, rolling her hips. “this what you been whining about all week?”
“yes, fuck, yes — mal,” he gasps, his voice cracked and helpless, hips stuttering forward like he can’t help himself. “feels so fuckin’ good — you feel so good —”
she kisses him, all tongue and teeth, and pulls his hair until he groans. “then shut the fuck up and take it.”
and he does. god, he does.
they stumble out of the bathroom a bit later — well, dean stumbles, a hazy, lovesick grin tugging at his lipstick-covered lips.
mallory follows closely behind, her steps just a little more steady, though there’s a glint of mischief in her eyes as she watches dean trying to regain some semblance of composure. she adjusts her lipstick in the mirror, smirking at her reflection as she swipes a finger across his mouth, smearing the remnants of her kiss. “looking good there, sweetheart,” she teases, her voice a little breathless from the fun they just had.
dean, still riding the high of it all, just grins back at her — dopey, lovesick, like he’s been caught in some kind of trance. “you have no idea, doll,” he murmurs, his voice low, a little slurred, but the grin on his face is nothing short of adoring.
he stumbles forward a step, bumping into her with a soft chuckle. “you’re trouble, you know that?” he mutters, hand reaching out to steady himself on her hip.
“only for you, dean,” she replies, her smile wicked but fond as she tilts her head, considering him for a moment. “you like it.”
he’s sliding back into the booth, she’s getting them another round of drinks and coming back, sitting on his lap and lifting his glass to his lips, one arm draped across his shoulders.
she slides into the booth smoothly, her hips swaying just enough to catch his eye, and without skipping a beat, she’s lifting the glass to his lips. her arm drapes across his shoulders, fingers idly tracing the slope of his shoulder as she presses closer, her warmth seeping into him.
dean’s gaze follows her movements, his lips parting to take a sip from the glass she’s holding for him, his eyes half-lidded in a mixture of affection and amusement. as she settles against him, he slings an arm around her waist, pulling her just a little tighter. “god, you’re good at this,” he murmurs, voice low, like he’s drunk off her just as much as the booze.
mallory smiles knowingly, the corner of her lips curling in that teasing, unapologetic way of hers. “i know,” she says, meeting his gaze, and there’s something dangerously playful in her eyes.
“you tryna get me into bed with ya? because i’m taken, ya know. got a pretty girl at home,” he hums in a low, teasing drawl.
mallory smirks, playing along. “yeah? you think she’d share?”
dean chuckles, his fingers lightly brushing the side of her arm as he leans in closer, voice hushed, teasing. “i think she’d make an exception, for me.” his grin widens, almost smug as he locks eyes with her. “but i don’t think she’d appreciate you trying to steal me away, sweetheart.”
mallory leans back, a playful, almost mocking glint in her eye. “oh, i wouldn’t be stealing, baby. just… borrowing for a little while,” she murmurs, her lips brushing his ear before she pulls back, eyes full of mischief.
dean, still grinning, lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “you’ve got a way of making everything sound like a dare, don’t ya?”
“makes life fun,” she snickers, tilting up his chin.
dean’s grin softens a bit, his gaze flickering between her eyes, a mix of admiration and something deeper. “it sure does,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over her wrist as he catches her hand. there’s a warmth in his expression now, a little less playful, but no less intense. “you always know how to keep me on my toes, don’t you?”
mallory shrugs, coy but smug. “call it a gift,”
dean chuckles, shaking his head with a grin that’s half affectionate, half incredulous. “you’ve got plenty of those, don’t you?” he teases, squeezing her hand gently before pulling her in closer, his other arm resting around her waist. “i’m not complaining, though. keeps me entertained.”
he leans in, brushing his lips just against her ear, his voice dropping low. “but if you keep pushing me like this, i might just decide to take you up on that offer.”
hiiii sophia, i wanted to (very shyly) ask for some mal & dean smut 🫣
⋆˙⟡♡ thinking about dean winchester shoving her thighs apart like he’s mad at them for being in the way.
dean is the master of that kind of frenzied reverence, the way he handles her like he’s not sure whether to worship her or ruin her, so he ends up doing both. there’s this look in his eyes — dark, hungry, reverent in a feral kind of way — right before he gets his hands on her. and then it’s just hands, everywhere, big and warm and rough with callouses, gripping her thighs like they’ve personally offended him. like how dare they try to keep him from her.
“spread,” he growls, voice already wrecked, already breathless, and when she so much as hesitates, grinning like she wants to test him — oh, he grabs. shoves them open with purpose, strong fingers biting into soft flesh, thumbs digging in just enough to leave a mark. like he wants her to feel it tomorrow and remember what she does to him. what he does to her.
and mal? she just gasps — loves it, lives for it — hips twitching, toes curling, pupils blown wide as she watches him settle between her thighs like it’s his goddamn birthright. because to dean winchester, it is. she’s his, and he’s going to prove it with his mouth, his fingers, his everything. again and again and again.
and yeah, he might act mad about her teasing, about her bratty little comments and smug smirks, but the second she’s laid out for him, slick and trembling and daring him with her eyes? he’s a man possessed. hungry. devoted. absolutely feral with the need to wreck her.
and he does. every damn time.
it’s the kind of worship that comes with bite marks and bruises, the kind of reverence that wrecks. because with him, it’s never just about getting off — it’s about claiming, about reminding her that no matter how much she teases or tests or pushes his buttons, she’s his. and he proves it with every shove of his hands, every graze of his teeth, every breathless growl of her name like it’s the only prayer he’s ever known.
he’s not gentle when he does it — not at first. there’s too much heat behind his eyes, too much tension in his jaw. he looks at her like she’s both the answer and the question, the salvation and the sin. and when she’s laying back, smirking like she’s untouchable, like he won’t lose it over her again — oh, that’s when he snaps.
“don’t play with me, baby,” he hisses, dragging her to the edge of the bed by her hips, her thighs jostled open by rough hands that tremble with need. “you wanted my attention, didn’t you? you’ve got it.”
and god, does she. his grip is bruising, possessive, reverent in the dirtiest, most desperate way. like her body is a gift and a battlefield, and he’s been fighting all damn day for this moment. for her. for the taste of her on his tongue and the sound of her moans in his ears.
she whimpers, and he grins — all wolfish hunger and boyish pride — like yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing to her. and when he finally sinks down between her legs, it’s with that same purpose, that same claim. because to dean winchester, her thighs aren’t an obstacle. they’re a challenge. a promise. a birthright.
and he earns it. again and again, until she’s writhing and breathless and ruined just how he likes her — not just taken apart, but remade in his hands. and tomorrow, when she’s sore and smug and walking a little funny, he’ll wrap an arm around her waist, press his lips to her ear and say, low and satisfied;
CW : || 18+ || improper use of a beer bottle || dirty talk || || dean’s got a real bad dacryphilia kink || unprotected piv — don’t be stupid like them || dean’s quite condescending but it’s hot || marathon sex || consensual dub-con || dean is ROUGH ||
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the couch creaked under dean's weight as he flopped back, beer bottle sweating between his fingers, some shitty movie humming in the background like a half-forgotten thought. the lights were low, golden with sunset and laziness, and the air was thick with the kind of heat that made everything feel a little more reckless.
mal was half in his lap, one leg tossed over his thigh, the other dangling off the edge of the couch. she was warm and sticky, skin dewy from the summer air, tank top clinging, shorts riding high. her bare thigh was pressed up against his denim, soft and smooth, and she sighed like she was melting.
he took a lazy sip of his beer, cold against his lips, then let the bottle dangle in his hand. condensation dripped slow onto her leg, and she batted at it without looking."jesus, that’s cold," she muttered, brushing at the droplets.
"aw, c’mon, sweetheart," dean drawled, grinning around the mouth of the bottle. “don’t go gettin’ shy on me now.”
she shot him a sideways look, all raised brows and a knowing smirk, but before she could say anything, he tipped the bottle down, nudging the chilled glass right against the inside of her thigh.
mal gasped, jerking slightly. "dean—"he just shushed her, brows cocked, grin turning wicked.
"what the fuck are you doing?" she asked, half-laughing, half-scolding.
he tilted his head, innocent as sin. “coolin’ you off.”
the bottle slid higher.
she squirmed, breath catching, trying to bat it away, but he was faster, meaner in that soft, teasing way that made her feel like she was glowing under his touch. he dragged the lip of the bottle right over her panties — slow, deliberate, cold enough to make her knees jump.she choked on a gasp.
"jesus christ—"
"relax," dean murmured, low and sticky, "just takin’ care of my girl."
and then he slipped it under the elastic.
mal’s breath stuttered. the bottle, still cool from the fridge, kissed the softest part of her, and she squealed, thighs twitching closed instinctively — except dean caught one, gripped it tight to keep her open.
“shit, you’re sensitive,” he teased, tapping the glass lightly against her, testing the temperature like he was checking to see if the bottle needed another dip in the cooler.
she squirmed, hips rolling up, laugh caught somewhere between pleasure and disbelief. “you’re such a dick,” she breathed, but her fingers curled into his shirt anyway, grounding herself.
he just smiled, all teeth and deviltry, and with no warning — none at all — he tilted the bottle just right and pressed the rounded lip right against her folds. not deep. not yet. just the barest push, enough to make her whine, hips rocking up on instinct.
"fuckin’ sweet," dean muttered, pulling it back.
he looked at it. glistening. then looked at her.
and then he took a long drink.
mal watched, stunned and breathless, as his tongue flicked out to lick a bead off the rim.
“shit,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse. “tastes even better now.”
that broke her — she burst into laughter, still half panting, shaking her head as she tried to scold him through her grin. “you are so fucked up.”
he just hummed, pleased, dragging the bottle back between her thighs like it was a toy he wasn’t done with. slow circles, through her panties now, teasing over her clit like he had all night to waste.
mal moaned, soft and surprised, and dean caught that sound like a prize, grinning wider.
“see? told you you’d like it.”
“this is so unsanitary,” she managed, even as her hips chased every glide of glass, mouth open, thighs twitching.
he laughed, low and shameless. “oh yeah? you want me to stop?”
her silence was answer enough.
dean chuckled again, cocky and slow, like he’d won something. “yeah,” he murmured, fingers creeping up her thigh now, under her waistband, replacing glass with skin. “that’s what i thought.”
and as the beer bottle clinked quietly against the floor, he settled her deeper into his lap, free hand sliding warm beneath her clothes, lips brushing her temple, her cheek, her jaw.
“now,” he said, voice rough and thick with promise, “let’s see how sweet you really taste.”
mal barely had time to catch her breath before dean was on her. his hand — hot where the bottle had been cold — slid slow under her panties, fingers dragging through slick heat, and he groaned, head tipping back against the couch like the sight alone knocked the air out of him.
“jesus, mal,” he breathed, thumb teasing along her clit like it was the most natural thing in the world, like his hand belonged there. “you’re fuckin’ soaked.”
"wonder why," she muttered, breath catching, but her voice wavered when he rubbed a little firmer, a little slower. her body arched instinctively, chasing it, greedy and warm and needy.
he chuckled, low and rough, the sound curling around her like smoke. “not like you ever need much encouragement.”
“yeah, well, maybe if you stopped being so fucking hot—”
he cut her off with a kiss — filthy and slow, tongue sweeping past her lips like he was already imagining it elsewhere. her hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in, and he groaned, deep in his chest, the kind of sound that made her melt.
he pulled back just far enough to watch her face, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-dazed and parted. his fingers never stopped moving, slow circles that had her panting.
“look at you,” he murmured, thumb sliding lower, middle finger slipping inside without resistance. her breath hitched, eyes fluttering shut. “so fuckin’ pretty like this.”
“dean—” she gasped, hand fisting in his shirt, “shit—”
he curled his fingers, finding that spot that made her tremble, and smirked like the bastard he was. “right there, huh?”
her laugh cracked into a moan. “you know it is.”
and god, did he.
he leaned down, lips at her ear, voice all grit and heat. “gonna make you come just like this, sweetheart. right here on the fuckin’ couch.”
she whimpered, biting her lip, thighs twitching around his hand — but he didn’t stop, didn’t ease up. just fucked her slow with his fingers, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet room, the movie still droning on in the background like an afterthought.
“dean—fuck—dean, please—”
he kissed her again, rougher this time, swallowing the way her voice cracked, and then,
“you gonna do that thing i like?” he asked, grinning against her mouth, teasing and low.
mal blinked up at him, flushed and panting. “what thing—?”
he dragged his fingers out, soaked, and rubbed a lazy circle against her clit. “y’know,” he said, voice hoarse, “that thing.”
her cheeks flamed. “fuck you.”
he laughed, delighted. “oh, you like that i try.”
and then he slipped back inside, added another finger, and angled just right, thumb never leaving her clit, the rhythm cruel and perfect, and mal’s body just shook, back arching, nails scraping down his chest like she was climbing something.
her breath hitched, high and frantic, and dean knew, could feel her getting close. her thighs were trembling, her hips frantic now, riding his hand without shame.
“c’mon, baby,” he murmured, nose brushing hers, “wanna feel you lose it. wanna see that pretty little mess you make—”
her moan hitched, breath catching in her throat as her body locked up, tight and high and right on the edge—
and then it broke.
she came with a choked-off cry, thighs clamping around his wrist, whole body twitching and wet, and dean groaned, eyes dark and reverent.
“holy shit,” he whispered, watching as she gasped and squirmed, still riding it out, slick soaking his fingers, dripping down onto his jeans. “you’re fuckin’ amazing, mal.”
she blinked at him, still dazed, hair sticking to her temple, lips parted, laughing breathlessly. “told you i could do it.”
he grinned, fingers still lazily stroking her, making her twitch.
“you’re gonna kill me one of these days,” he murmured.
“hell of a way to die,” she smirked, slow and wicked, voice still wrecked, dreamy as her fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, the pads of them featherlight against his stomach. she was still twitching a little, overstimmed and boneless, spread out like something ruined across his lap — but she smiled through it, dazed and radiant.
dean looked like he’d just seen god.
he had that half-lidded, cock-drunk expression she loved — like he’d tasted heaven and wanted a second helping. his fingers were still buried inside her, slow and indulgent, and every little shift had her jerking, gasping, biting her lip raw. she looked up at him through her lashes, pupils wide, and gave him a smile so smug it practically purred.
“you’re obsessed with me,” she said, breathless and teasing.
dean let out a soft laugh, chest rising and falling, his other hand reaching to brush a damp strand of hair from her cheek. “yeah,” he said, not even trying to deny it. “kinda hard not to be.”
he leaned down and kissed her — slow and deep and filthy, his fingers still moving just enough to make her hips roll again, greedy and helpless. she was already sensitive, twitching from it, but she didn’t tell him to stop. not yet.
she whimpered into his mouth, and he pulled back with a grin, his fingers finally slipping out of her with a soft, wet sound. he brought them to his mouth and sucked them clean with a low groan, eyes locked on hers.
“you taste like fuckin’ candy,” he muttered, licking the last of her from his knuckles, “’m never gonna get enough of you.”
mal laughed, breathless, still trembling, but she reached for him anyway, tugging at his belt. “then shut up and fuck me properly.”
“jesus,” he groaned, but his voice was pure devotion, already leaning into her, his mouth dragging over her throat, his hands fumbling with his belt even as he kept pressing kisses to every inch of exposed skin he could reach. “you’re gonna kill me.”
“already said,” she whispered, curling a leg around his waist, “hell of a way to die.”
and he shoved her panties to the side, dragged the tip of his cock through her slick like he couldn’t help himself, breath shaking in his chest.
“you ready?” he asked, teasing even now, even with his voice shot to hell and his hands shaking.
mal grinned, feral and soft and wild. “i’m always ready for you.”
dean pushed in with one long, slow thrust, and they both moaned like they were coming home.
he bottomed out with a stuttered groan, forehead pressed to hers, their breath mingling, hot and heavy. mal's arms came around his shoulders, dragging her nails down his back slow, just to make him shiver. he felt so good inside her — big, warm, thick — stretching her open just right, like he belonged there.
and god, the way he moved — deep, deliberate, slow like he was savoring every inch of her. she gasped at the drag, her legs tightening around his waist, heels digging into the curve of his ass like she could pull him even closer.
“fuck,” she whimpered, voice cracking.
“mm,” dean growled, pulling back just enough to watch her face, “that’s it, baby. look so pretty like this. full of me. feel good?”
“you know i do,” she bit out, eyes fluttering closed as he snapped his hips forward, just once — sharp enough to make her cry out, hands scrabbling at his shoulders.
dean chuckled low and breathless, cock twitching inside her. “yeah, you do. squeezin’ me like you wanna cry.”
she did cry, honestly — just a little. she always did when it got this good. eyes watering from the way he hit that spot, from the heat building in her belly, from the unbearable sweetness of it all. and when he leaned in and kissed the tears off her cheeks, she whimpered, too far gone to pretend she wasn’t unraveling.
“so fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered against her skin. “all mine, right?”
“yours,” she gasped, breath hitching, voice cracking with it. “fuck—dean, i’m yours.”
he rocked into her slow, grinding deep and heavy, making her feel everything. “say it again.”
she opened her eyes, glossy and wide, lips parted like prayer. “i’m yours.”
he kissed her hard then, filthy and wet and possessive, his hands gripping her thighs like he couldn’t bear the thought of her pulling away. like he’d die if she wasn’t close enough. and when she gasped into his mouth —“i’m gonna come”— he didn’t even slow down.
“go on, sweetheart,” he growled, fucking her through it. “wanna feel you come all over my cock. give it to me.”
her back arched, nails dragging down his back again, moaning his name like it was the only one she’d ever known.
and when she broke apart beneath him, shaking and crying, mouth open and gorgeous, dean whispered, "that’s my girl,” and kept fucking her like he meant it.
but dean’s in a greedy mood, wanting to see just how many orgasms he can pull from her until she’s sobbing and babbling and whining about how she can’t take it while her soaked cunt sucks him in like a vice.
she was still trembling when he eased her legs higher, hooking them over his shoulders this time, shifting the angle. her body jolted, breath catching in her throat like a sob.
“dean—” she whined, already raw, already reeling.
“shh, i know, baby,” he murmured, thumb brushing at the damp corners of her eyes. “you’re doin’ so good. just one more for me, yeah?”
“you said that last time—”
“and you gave it to me,” he grinned, crooked and cocky, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. “you always do. ‘cause you love me, right?”
she hiccuped a breath, tears slipping fresh down her cheeks. “fuck, i do. i love you, i love you—”
“i know, baby. i know. and you love when i ruin you, don’t you?”
he pushed back in slow, deliberate, savoring the way she clenched around him, her whole body taut with overstimulation. her hands scrambled at the sheets, twisting them up in tight, trembling fists.
“c-can’t—”
“you can,” dean said, voice thick and low, almost gentle if not for the filth spilling out after. “look at you. drippin’ all over my cock, sobbin’ like a fuckin’ angel, and still squeezin’ me like you need it.”
he drove in deeper, hips grinding hard, slow, until he found that spot that made her see stars. she choked out a moan so broken and soft it barely sounded like her.
“there she is,” he breathed, dragging a thumb down the curve of her cheek, then over her spit-slick lips. “that’s my girl. c’mon, sweetheart—gimme another one. let me see how pretty you look when you break.”
she was already breaking, really — face flushed, mouth trembling, thighs quivering around his shoulders. dean kept his pace slow, torturous, his cock dragging through her soaked, twitching cunt like it was the first time all over again.
“daddy,” she gasped, and it wrecked him — his rhythm stuttered, jaw going slack.
“fuck. say it again.”
“daddy,” she moaned, voice high and wrecked, eyes rolling back as her hips bucked against him helplessly. “please, please—i’m gonna—i c-can’t—”
“yes you can,” he growled, fucking into her harder now, dragging her back up onto the edge of another orgasm with single-minded focus. “you’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you, doll? show me how good this pussy gets when i fuck it stupid.”
she sobbed, legs trembling so hard they slipped from his shoulders, and dean caught them, wrapping her up tight, pinning her down as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave. she cried out, long and sharp, nails clawing at his arms, every muscle locking up while she pulsed around him.
“that’s it, baby—fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathed, chasing his own release now, grinding deep inside her as she writhed beneath him.
and when she whimpered, "no more, too much," her body twitching, cheeks glistening with tears, dean just kissed her, slow and tender.
“shh, baby,” he whispered against her lips, “just one more. promise. i’ll make it so good you’ll forget your name.”
“dean, please,” she manages, more of a whimper than a plea.
he groans like it physically hurts him to hear her like that — so wrecked, so soft and pleading, voice gone all warbly from overuse. she’s trembling under him, boneless and flushed, her thighs still twitching every time his cock drags through her soaked, swollen cunt.
“please?” he echoes, grinning dark, even as his hand cradles her jaw like she’s something precious. “please what, baby?”
her breath hitches, lips parted but barely able to form the words. she blinks up at him through glassy eyes, face all flushed and wet with tears, spit, sweat.
“please… i can’t—” her voice breaks, just like the rest of her. “s’too much, dean, i—”
but he just hushes her with a kiss, slow and hot and deep, his thumb stroking under her chin as he rocks into her again, making her sob into his mouth.
“you can take it,” he breathes when he pulls back, forehead pressed to hers. “you’re takin’ it right now, aren’t you? bein’ so good for me. fuck, look at you.”
and she is — ruined and trembling and gorgeous, body limp except for the desperate way her hips still roll up to meet his thrusts, even as she’s whispering that she’s done.
“you’re not done, doll,” dean murmurs, voice going soft but rough with hunger, “and i want one more. just one more, baby. let me see you fall apart for me again.”
her fingers claw weakly at his back, pulling him in, sobbing and nodding before she even realizes she’s doing it.
“atta girl,” he coos, mouth dragging down her neck, biting just enough to make her gasp again. “give it to me. give me everything.”
and god, does she. again. and again.
“you want it softer, baby?” dean hums, kissing her jaw.
“be mean,” she mumbles, voice hoarse and wrecked and barely there, but the words hit dean like a spark to gasoline.he stills for a beat, breath catching at the sound of it — how broken she sounds, how hungry for it, like she needs him to ruin her more than she needs air.
“fuck,” he growls, low and dangerous, dragging his teeth along her jaw before pulling back to look at her, really look at her. flushed and soaked, hair stuck to her temple, lips all kiss-swollen and parted, her whole body trembling like she’s strung up on the edge of something holy.
“you don’t even know what you’re askin’ for,” he mutters, voice thick with heat, but his hips are already pulling back, slow and deliberate, just to slam back in hard, sharp enough to make her cry out and clutch at him.
“is this what you want, baby?” he grits through clenched teeth, fucking into her harder now, rougher, the mattress creaking beneath them, his hand fisting in the sheets beside her head. “want me to use this sweet cunt until you’re sobbing for real?”
she gasps, nodding frantically, eyes rolling back as her fingers claw at his shoulders, greedy and aching and mindless with it.
“goddamn right you do,” he snarls, grabbing her thigh and throwing it over his hip, opening her up even more so he can drive in deeper, so hard she jolts with every thrust. “look at you. fuckin’ made for this. made for me.”
he catches her mouth in another bruising kiss, one hand sliding between them, fingers rubbing her clit in tight, filthy circles as he keeps thrusting like he wants to tear her apart.
“cry for me, sweetheart,” he pants, lips brushing her ear. “be good and cry for me while i fuck you dumb. that what you want?”
she chokes on a sob, eyes fluttering shut as another orgasm builds so fast it makes her dizzy.
“yeah,” dean groans, relentless.
“that’s my girl,” he growls, voice rough and thick like honey poured over gravel, and he doesn’t give her a second to breathe before he’s flipping her over — face down, ass up, her knees giving out beneath her but he just catches her hips, drags her back into place like she’s nothing but a toy he’s hellbent on playing with until she breaks.
“stay just like that,” he murmurs, almost sweetly, like he isn’t grinding the thick head of his cock right back inside her, slower this time —meaner— making her feel every goddamn inch.
she sobs into the pillow, breath hitching on every thrust, thighs trembling so hard they barely hold her up.
“aw, baby,” dean croons, dragging one hand up her spine while the other fists in her hair, yanking her head back just enough so he can bend over and kiss her temple. “you’re cryin’ already?”
“i c-can’t—” she chokes out, voice slurred and soft, but he shushes her, cruel and gentle all at once.
“yes you can,” he hums, lips brushing her ear. “you will.”
and then he’s fucking her again, hard and deep, each thrust punching soft sounds from her throat, and he’s right there with her — murmuring in her ear, voice low and full of filthy praise.
“that’s it. cry for me, pretty girl. let me see how many times my girl can come before she passes out.”
his hand slides around her waist, down between her thighs again, fingers ruthless as he circles her clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. she’s gasping, her body coiled tight, her sobs turning breathless and high as she shatters again, clenching down so hard around him that he groans and buries his face in the back of her neck.
“fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, still rolling his hips, still rubbing her through it. “so damn greedy. you love this, don’t you? my cock, the crying, the way i fuck you like i own you.”
“i—i do,” she whimpers, voice barely a sound, raw and broken and real.
he pulls her up, chest to back, both of them slick with sweat, and keeps fucking her through it, whispering against her skin, “one more, baby. just one more for me. come on, be a good girl—give it to me.”
“you wanted it mean, sweetheart,” he snarls, breath hot against the back of her neck as he grabs a handful of her ass, fingers digging in hard enough to leave prints. “don’t start beggin’ now.”
he slaps her once — sharp and stinging — right on the curve of her ass, then kneads the flesh after, palm soothing only to wind up again. she jerks forward with a cry, arms barely holding her up, tears dripping off her chin onto the pillow below.
“look at this fuckin’ mess,” dean growls, watching the way her cunt clenches down around him every time he hits that perfect spot. “you’re dripping, baby. cock-drunk and sloppy and so goddamn wet for me.”
another slap. another choked sob.
“you hear that?” he sneers, hips smacking against hers in a relentless rhythm. “that filthy little squelch every time i fuck back into you? that’s you, baby. makin’ that sound. embarrassing, isn’t it?”
“yes—fuck, yes,” she hiccups, face red, body wrecked, fingers fisting the sheets.
he’s mean with his words, but crueler with his thrusts, pulling out slow just to slam back in deep, punching every ounce of breath from her lungs. he’s bullying her body into another orgasm, chasing it like a hunter — relentless, precise, merciless.
“you like it when i treat you like this,” he taunts, voice gravel-rough and dripping with satisfaction. “like a dumb little toy to fuck full. like you’re only good for takin’ cock and cryin’ about it.”
her moans dissolve into a sob, one hand reaching blindly behind her to grab at him — something, anything — but dean just grabs her wrist and pins it to her lower back, leaning over to murmur against her shoulder, “not yet, sweetheart. you said ‘be mean,’ remember?”
he nips at her skin, then licks the bite like an apology he doesn’t mean. “so that’s what you’re gettin’. now take it.”
and she does — takes all of it, even as she cries through another orgasm, even as he spanks her again and tells her she was made for this, even as he keeps her right on that razor’s edge with one hand on her clit and the other gripping her like he owns her soul.
he’s relentless.
and she’s unraveling.
and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
his hand comes down on her ass with a sharp, unforgiving slap that makes her yelp, and then he’s grabbing a handful, fingers sinking into the plush skin, kneading like he’s trying to mold her into something even more obscene.
“fuckin’ look at you,” he grits out, watching the way her body trembles beneath him, all flushed and slick and wrecked. “droolin’ on the pillows, ass red, cryin’ like a little slut who doesn’t know what she’s good for unless she’s got a cock in her.”
she sobs — loves it — her thighs twitching every time he slaps her again, the heat blooming across her skin only driving her higher.
“you wanted this, remember?” he sneers, bending over her again, cock still driving deep, hand twisted in her hair. “you asked for it. begged for it. told me to be mean.”
“i—i know,” she whimpers, voice all high and broken.
“then take it,” dean snaps. “take it like my best girl always does. all cock-drunk and needy,”
another slap. another deep, punishing thrust. his other hand never stops moving between her legs, thumb circling her clit in tight, relentless circles, sending sparks through her with every motion.
“look at this needy fuckin’ cunt,” he growls, gaze locked where they’re joined. “suckin’ me in like you’ll die without it. you like being used, huh? you like when i fuck the tears outta you?”
“yes,” she sobs, back arching as her legs threaten to give again. “yes, dean, i—i do, please!”
he doesn’t let up. just keeps railing her, mean and filthy and rough, the headboard thumping faintly against the wall with every vicious snap of his hips.
he grabs a handful of her hair, gently pulling her head back and reveling in the whimper she lets out.
“no one else gets to see you like this,” he huffs into her hair. “no one else gets to break you down like i do. you’re mine, mal. fuckin’ mine.”
and she shatters, thighs clamping around him as she screams through her orgasm, body shaking like he’s pulled the soul from her.
but he's not done.
he slows, just barely, dragging it out, rocking into her in deep, rolling waves, still rubbing her clit, still whispering filth into her ear while she sobs, her body overstimulated and twitching beneath him.
“you said be mean, baby,” he murmurs, biting at her shoulder. “so i’m not gonna stop ‘til you’re beggin’ me to, huh, doll?”
dean’s hand keeps moving — never ceasing, never giving her a moment to catch her breath — his thumb grinding hard circles over her clit, relentless and unforgiving. each slick stroke drags her closer to the edge she thought she’d already passed, teasing her beyond reason until she’s nothing but desperate gasps and weak, trembling legs.
he leans down, teeth grazing her ear, voice a dark growl low and rough with promise, “look at you, baby—fucked out, begging like a little slut who can’t get enough. all soaked and trembling ‘cause i won’t quit. wanna keep goin’? wanna see how many times i can break you before you beg me to stop?”
her voice is ragged, barely a whisper, but filled with that same wild, reckless fire dean loves so much, “please, dean... don’t stop.”
and fuck, that’s all he needs. his hips slam in harder, deeper, each thrust a sharp command. his free hand clamps down on her ass, fingers digging in like he’s claiming her all over again. he’s brutal and greedy, taking and taking until her cries are broken and breathless, her body convulsing around him like a live wire on fire.
her sobs mix with his groans, the room thick with heat and the raw, electric pulse of everything they’ve ever been to each other. then, just when she thinks she can’t feel anything but the pounding need, dean slows, fingers curling tighter around her hips, pulling her flush against him.
his voice drops to a dark whisper, heavy and full of something softer beneath the roughness. “you’re mine, mal. all of you.”
and as she shudders, clinging to him, broken and beautiful and utterly his, dean presses a bruising kiss to the back of her neck and murmurs, “ain’t nobody else gonna love you like this. not like i do.”
mallory's still twitching under him, breath catching in her throat, mascara smudged in the shadows under her eyes. dean watches the way she shudders through the aftershocks, eyes unfocused, mouth parted like she’s still trying to beg even though her voice has long since broken.
he ought to slow down. give her a second to breathe. but the sight of her like this — so undone, so raw, so his — has something snarling and feral blooming hot in his chest.
he drags his cock out slow, just to the tip, then slams back in with a growl, sharp and wet and perfect. she screams, high and broken, whole body jolting forward as she clutches at the sheets.
“fuck, listen to you,” he hisses, leaning down to mouth at her shoulder, kissing over the bite he left earlier. “screamin’ like it’s the end of the world. what happened to my girl who never shuts up, huh?”
his hand slides up her back, slow and grounding, then tangles in her hair again, yanking just enough to make her moan. he loves her like this — wrecked but still clinging to him, still chasing the edge even when her body’s begging for mercy.
“so greedy,” he pants against her ear, thrusts unrelenting, his cock dragging slick and messy through her soaked cunt. “you came already, sweetheart. but you’re still fuckin’ moaning — still pushin’ back on me. you need it, don’t you?”
mallory tries to answer, really tries, but all that comes out is a choked little sob, more noise than words.
dean laughs, rough and warm, his thumb finding her clit again — barely a touch, just a flick — and she sobs, face buried in the pillow, thighs trembling like they might give out.
“yeah, you do,” he mutters, more to himself now, watching her fall apart. “cock-drunk crybaby. can’t think straight with my dick in you.”
he lets his hand smooth down her back again, then spanks her, sudden and sharp, the sound ringing out. she jerks, hips rolling back like she doesn’t even know what she wants anymore.
"that’s it," he growls. “take it, baby. be good for me and take it.”
she’s babbling now — his name over and over, high and whiny and breathless, “dean, dean, dean, please—too much—i can’t—i can’t—”
he just keeps going. slows down a beat, fucks her in these deep, brutal waves that make her sob louder than before. she’s got nothing left to give and he still hasn’t stopped.
“yes, you can,” he murmurs, almost sweet. almost. “you can take it, baby, i know you can. you’re the best girl i’ve ever had, aren’t you? take it for me—just one more, c’mon, just one more—”
and then she shatters, loud and devastating, sobbing his name like it’s a prayer, thighs clamping down as she gushes around him, slick soaking down her legs and his thighs, shaking so hard he has to catch her before she crumples.
dean groans, guttural, like he’s watching the heavens split open. “fuck, baby, that’s it. holy shit—look at that—look what you just did.”
he pulls her back into him, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop praising her, voice ragged and low, “you’re so fuckin’ good for me. my girl. my perfect, filthy, fuckin’ angel—”
and he’s close. right on the edge, rutting into her hard and fast, driven mad by the sight of her soaked and twitching and crying out his name like there’s nothing else that matters.
and god help him — he’s not sure he’ll ever stop. not with her like this.
she's sobbing into the pillow, head lolling onto her arm, her cheek squished as her eyes roll back in pleasure. "dean, please—s'good," she barely manages, the desperation in her voice only making him harder, if possible.
he groans, low and dark and buried in his throat like it’s the only sound he’s capable of making anymore, because fuck, she says it like that and it goes straight to his cock. so good, all hiccupy and wrecked and sweet, like she doesn’t even know where she is anymore, just knows it’s him and it’s good and she wants more.
her voice is all torn up, soft and pathetic, but honest in a way that’s brutal. and her body’s still trying to take everything he’s giving, back arching, hips tilting, greedy cunt fluttering around him like it’s begging to keep him.
he leans down again, body pressed flush to hers, slick skin against hers, heat rolling off both of them like a fever. his mouth drags across her temple, sweat-damp hair sticking to his lips.
“yeah, baby?” he rasps, filthy and breathless, his cock driving in deeper now, slower and crueler. “feels that good, huh? can’t even talk right, and you’re still beggin’.”
she nods, or tries to, but her cheek’s squished against her arm, lips parted, tears smearing across her skin as she sobs out another broken, “please…”
he kisses her temple, then slams into her again, and her mouth drops open in a soundless moan. “fuckin’ love hearing that,” he hisses. “love when you beg like this. love when you cry for it. makes me wanna ruin you all over again.”
his hand slides under her belly, lifting her just enough to reach down and rub her clit, thumb circling it with practiced cruelty, and she wails — full-on sobbing now, fingers clawing at the sheets, hips twitching like she doesn’t know whether to pull away or grind closer.
“dean—!” she gasps, and it’s soaked in pleasure, in desperation, in devotion — like it’s the only word left she remembers how to say.
he licks the shell of her ear, voice a low, dirty purr. “gonna come for me again, sweetheart? even though you said you couldn’t? even though you’re cryin’ and shaking and all fucked-out already?”
she whimpers, nodding, babbling something incoherent, just noise and need.
“fuckin’ perfect,” he growls. “you’re perfect, mallory. mine. all mine.”
and she breaks again — screams into the pillow, sobs like her body’s short-circuiting, her pussy spasming around him as she comes, again, harder than before, soaking them both in a wet gush that makes dean choke on a moan.
his rhythm stutters. falters. the wet, obscene slap of skin on skin grows erratic as he finally lets go, hips snapping forward in a few ragged thrusts before he buries himself deep, groaning her name like a prayer as he spills into her, thick and hot and endless.
and then they collapse — his chest on her back, both of them trembling, breathing hard, slick with sweat and cum and tears.
but he doesn’t pull out. just wraps himself around her, hand still on her hip, kissing her shoulder, whispering all soft now.
“you did so good, baby. so fuckin’ good for me. my pretty girl, my perfect girl…”
the air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the room humming with the echo of her cries, of the headboard’s final thud against the wall. now it’s just breath. deep, greedy lungfuls, hot and shared. dean doesn’t move far — can’t — not when she’s still trembling beneath him, boneless and ruined, her body limp in the aftermath. he slides his hand up her side, palm wide and slow like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her all over again, grounding her with every pass.
“hey, hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing sweaty hair from her temple. “you with me, baby?”
she hums — barely — and lets her head tilt back against his shoulder like a doll who’s been dragged through hell and loved every second of it. her mouth is parted in a dazed little grin, cheeks glistening with drying tears, eyes fluttering open and shut like she’s not sure if she wants to stay awake or just melt into the mattress. “mmhm,” she breathes. “so good. that was so—fuck, dean…”
he chuckles, low and warm, lips trailing along her jaw, up to her cheekbone. “yeah?” he murmurs, and then he’s licking a tear right from her cheek, slow and indulgent, like it’s honey. “so pretty, baby. goddamn. never get tired of seeing you like that.”
she sniffs, lets out a shaky little laugh, and his arms wrap tighter around her, pulling her back into his chest, still inside her, but soft now, no urgency — just heat and closeness and that overwhelming kind of love that feels like it might split him open if he doesn’t say something.
“you okay?” he asks gently, pressing kisses along her hairline, to the shell of her ear. “not too much?”
she nods, still smiling, still flushed, reaching back with limp fingers to drag her nails down his forearm in a lazy kind of affection. “never too much,” she mumbles, then adds, quieter, “not from you.”
dean exhales like she just saved his life. buries his face in her neck. he kisses her there, lets his hand drift to her belly, rubbing soft circles, coaxing her down from the clouds.
“you’re unreal,” he says against her skin. “my best girl. took everything like a fuckin’ champ.”
she giggles, ragged and sniffling, lashes still wet. “i asked for it.”
he grins. kisses her again, slow and sweet. “yeah, you did. and you liked it.”
“loved it,” she whispers.
they stay like that, tangled in each other, her body slowly relaxing as the tremors ease, and his hands never stop moving — petting, holding, worshipping her even now.
the danger’s over, the storm passed — but she’s still glowing, and he’s still drunk on her. utterly wrecked, totally in love.
that gentle quiet that only comes after the storm — when the air is still heavy, but the edges have gone soft, and their bodies are a tangle of heat and skin and shared breath. the kind of silence that doesn’t ask to be broken, only filled — with the smallest sounds. the hum of contentment. the faint creak of the bed. the slide of dean’s palm, slow and steady, gliding up the curve of her spine and down again, again, again.
mallory is sprawled on her stomach, cheek turned into the pillow, lips parted with the laziest little smile, eyes shut. she looks blissed out, totally gone, and dean’s got this look on his face like he just saw god.
“you good?” he murmurs, breaking the silence only to keep her tethered, thumb brushing over the dip of her back.
“mmhm,” she hums, soft and syrupy. “perfect.”
dean lets out a breath, lets his head drop beside hers on the pillow, still dragging his hand up the slope of her spine, fingers fanning wide over her shoulder blades, then back down, settling low on the curve of her ass before starting all over again. he’s anchored in it — like touching her is the only thing keeping him sane.
“you were unreal,” he whispers. “swear to god, every time with you it’s like… i dunno. like i forget how to breathe.”
she chuckles — barely a sound, more a warm flutter of breath. “you’re so dramatic.”
he grins into the mattress, then lifts his hand just long enough to give her a playful little swat on the hip. “you love it.”
“mmhm,” she agrees easily. “i do.”
they fall quiet again for a few seconds, and then she shifts slightly, turning her head just enough to blink at him through heavy lashes. “my legs still feel like jello,” she mumbles.
“yeah?” he smirks. “kinda proud of that.”
“you should be,” she sighs, closing her eyes again. “you ruined me.”
“good. i like you ruined.” his hand slides up her back again, knuckles brushing her spine. “makes you all soft and sweet and quiet.”
she lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “shut up.”
“nah,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss her shoulder, soft and slow. “gonna keep talkin’. keep tellin’ you how fuckin’ good you are for me. how pretty you sound when you cry. how lucky i am that you let me do that to you.”
she doesn’t answer — not really. just reaches out, finds his other hand where it rests on the sheets and tangles their fingers together.
“you’re mine, you know,” he whispers into her skin, lips brushing over the shell of her ear. “every part of you.”
“yours,” she echoes, not even thinking, not even hesitating. “always.”
and his heart aches with it, the way she says that like it’s fact. like it’s gravity. like it’s inevitable.
they lie there a little longer, just breathing, just being — until the sweat starts to cool on their skin and the outside world starts creeping back in.
“wanna move?” dean asks quietly.
“no.”
he grins, kisses her temple. “okay. we’ll stay.”
he brings their joined hands to his mouth with all the reverence of a man on his knees in a cathedral, worshipping at an altar that’s always been hers. his lips press to her knuckles, slow and lingering, a kiss that isn't rushed, isn't casual, isn’t just affection. it’s awe. it’s devotion. his eyes stay locked on her the whole time — green and glassy and soft, like she’s the most sacred thing he’s ever touched.
he doesn’t pull away. doesn’t even blink. just keeps his mouth there, breathing her in, thumb brushing gently over the backs of her fingers as his lips press into the bones of her hand like he could write his name there. claim her all over again. not with sex, but with something impossibly quiet. reverent.
mallory feels it in her chest, in her ribs, in the place behind her lungs where her heart gets too full and starts to ache. her lashes flutter as she looks over at him, her smile going crooked — soft and sleepy, with a little crack of emotion at the corner.
“you okay?” she whispers.
he nods. swallows. doesn’t let go of her hand. “yeah,” he says. “just—lookin’ at you.”
she huffs out a breath that might be a laugh, might be something else. “you’re ridiculous.”
“mm,” he hums, dragging her knuckles up and pressing another kiss there. “you love it.”
“i do,” she admits, voice a little hoarse.
his hand sinks back down to rest between them, but he still doesn’t let go. just keeps his fingers tangled in hers, still rubbing his thumb back and forth. “you wreck me, mal. every fuckin’ time.”
“good,” she murmurs, her voice thick and fond. “means we’re even.”
they lie there in the soft hush that follows, the kind that doesn't demand words. his hand finds her spine again. her leg hooks over his. her lips press to the edge of his jaw. and nothing about it is loud or rushed or burning.
it’s full. it’s quiet. it’s home.
they stay there for a long while — long enough for the sweat to start cooling and the sticky heat between them to mellow into something hazy and warm. mallory’s splayed over him like a throw blanket, all loose limbs and fluttering breaths, her hair a messy halo across his shoulder. her back rises and falls beneath his palm as he strokes along her spine, lazy and rhythmic like he’s playing scales on a well-loved instrument.
he’s still inside her, thick and soft, but he doesn’t make a move to pull out. neither of them does. it’s too good like this — too heavy and sticky and real in all the right ways. she clenches around him every now and then, making him groan low in his throat, a sound he buries into her hair with a sleepy smile.
“jesus,” he mutters against her ear, “you tryin’ to milk me dry or what?”
mallory makes a faint noise — somewhere between a snort and a pleased hum — but she doesn’t lift her head. just shifts the tiniest bit and sighs, her voice muffled where her cheek is smushed against his chest. “you’re the one who hasn’t moved. don’t blame me ‘cause you’re lazy.”
“lazy?” he scoffs, running a hand down to squeeze her ass. “sweetheart, i rearranged your fuckin’ organs. i earned a break.”
she snorts again, a little more awake now, and tips her head back just enough to flash him a loopy grin. “you always talk this much after you ruin me?”
he grins right back, hand skating up her thigh like he might start trouble all over again. “only when you look this goddamn smug about it.”
“i can’t even feel my legs,” she says, dreamy and proud of it.
“mm, yeah,” he drawls, cock twitching just a little where he’s still buried deep, “that’s cause you took it like a champ, sweetheart.”
mallory huffs a laugh, presses a slow, indulgent kiss to his collarbone, and doesn’t bother lifting her head. “you’re so full of yourself. and you said that already.”
“well,” dean says, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear even though he knows she hates that, “you’re still full of me, so, y’know. checks out.”
“dean,” she groans, rolling her eyes even though she doesn’t have the energy to do much more than melt further into him.
“what?” he says, all innocence, smirking at the ceiling. “not my fault you keep makin’ it impossible for me to behave.”
“you never behave,” she mutters, but it’s fond, slow-drifting, her hand sliding up to rest over his heart.
“yeah, but you love that about me.”
she hums, tilting her head just enough to kiss his throat. “maybe.”
his fingers are still stroking her spine when he mutters, low and almost shy, “wanna stay like this forever.”
she sighs softly, pressing her lips to his pulse point. “me too.”
they stay like that a little longer, all tangle and heat and sleep-drenched bliss, with dean occasionally whispering filthy little nothings just to make her giggle, and mallory humming vague threats into his skin that she never plans to follow through on. because neither of them wants to move. not yet. maybe not ever.
eventually, they manage to peel themselves from the bed, all grumbles and reluctant limbs, dean groaning dramatically as he finally pulls out, mumbling something about how she’s trying to kill him. mallory just laughs, wobbly on her feet, muttering “good,” like it’s a blessing.
the bathroom's already steamy by the time he gets the water running, warm and inviting. dean throws a few bath salts in — because of course mallory packs that kind of thing — and then tugs her in with him, guiding her into the tub and settling in behind her, long legs wrapping around her body as she sinks back against his chest.
his arms come around her middle. hers rest on top of his. it’s quiet for a minute, just the sound of water lapping against porcelain and their soft, content breathing.
he leans down, nose brushing her temple, voice low and rough from earlier. “you good, baby?”
she nods. doesn’t even open her eyes. “more than good.”
his thumbs stroke slow circles over her ribs. “wasn’t too much?”
“you asking if you ruined me or checking if you went too far?” she murmurs.
“both.”
she smiles. tips her head to kiss his jaw. “you’re sweet when i’m sore.”
“you’re sore?”
“dean.” deadpan. “i might never walk again.”
he chuckles, nose nuzzling her cheek. “my proudest accomplishment.”
they lounge like that for a long while. he washes her gently, reverent, pouring water over her hair and trailing his fingers down her arms, her thighs. she reaches for the washcloth and does the same to him, slow and playful, giggling when he shivers and mutters that she’s testing his restraint.
“you are not allowed to start round... i don't even know in the bath,” she warns, voice lazy.
“me?” he gasps. “would never.”
he definitely would.
but he behaves — mostly — because when she leans back into his chest again, sighing like it’s the best she’s felt all day, he doesn’t want to ruin it. just kisses her damp shoulder and holds her there.
when they finally drag themselves out of the tub, dean wraps her up in a towel that’s way too big, tucks her against his chest while he uses another to dry her hair.
“you pampering me now?” she asks, peeking up at him with a teasing smile.
“you earned it, mrs. ‘be mean,’” he teases, kissing her nose.
they get dressed in comfy clothes and dean insists on cooking dinner. or, well, heating up leftovers. he puts a pot of mac and cheese on the stove and tosses garlic bread into the oven while mallory leans against the counter, snacking on pickles straight from the jar and watching him with the dopiest little smile.
“what,” he asks, catching her gaze.
she shrugs, trying to play it cool. “you’re hot when you cook.”
he grins. “i’m hot always.”
“mmm, debatable.”
he throws a paper towel at her. she laughs and dodges it, stealing a kiss before settling back on a stool, cheeks still warm from earlier, heart still fluttering.
they eat curled up together on the couch, his arm slung over her shoulders, her legs draped across his lap. a horror movie plays on mute in the background. she steals bites from his plate. he lets her.
they clean up together after dinner, clinking forks and brushing shoulders in the kitchen, soft laughter echoing in the quiet warmth of it all. dean’s hands keep finding her waist — like muscle memory — pulling her close as she rinses dishes, sneaking kisses to her neck until she threatens to drop a plate. she kisses him in retaliation, slow and syrupy, making him forget what he was doing altogether.
eventually, they make it back to bed, both too full and too sleepy to do anything but collapse sideways across the sheets. mallory ends up half on top of him, sprawled like a lazy cat, her cheek resting on his chest, one leg flung over his hips. his fingers trail up and down her spine, lazy and unhurried, like he never wants to stop touching her.
“you feel like satin,” he murmurs, voice low and tired.
“that’s just the lotion,” she mumbles against his skin.
“nah. you’d feel this good even if you were covered in dirt.”
she snorts. “romantic.”
“it is,” he insists, grinning into her hair. “you could be bloody and mad as hell and i’d still want you in my bed.”
she hums, sleep beginning to pull her under like a tide. “you get real sappy after sex.”
he kisses the crown of her head. “you make me sappy.”
they fall quiet. her breath evens out first, soft and slow against his ribs. he keeps petting her back anyway, thumb tracing the vertebrae of her spine, the shape of her shoulder blades. the glow from the bedside lamp casts golden shadows across the room, catching in the edges of her hair, all soft and warm.
his other hand finds hers beneath the blanket. their fingers link easily, naturally, like they were built to tangle together.
“love you,” he whispers, so quiet he’s not sure she hears.
but she shifts just a little, nuzzling closer, her lips brushing the skin over his heart.
“love you more,” she mumbles, barely awake.
and that’s it — he’s done for. melted into the mattress, heart bursting, utterly wrecked by how tender she is when she’s soft like this.
his last thought before sleep takes him is: i’d do it all over again. every fight, every mile, every goddamn bruise — if it meant ending up right here.
then he’s out, tangled up in her warmth, the room quiet, the world forgotten. just the two of them, heartbeats syncing in the dark.
it's a slow, hazy morning. soft golden light spilling through half-drawn curtains, the kind of dawn that drapes itself over two bodies still tangled together like they never even moved. they’re sticky and warm and wonderfully sore, cocooned in blankets and each other, the sheets twisted and lived-in, the kind of bed that knows something beautiful happened in it.
mallory wakes first, sort of. not really — just enough to hum and nuzzle her face into dean’s throat, pressing her nose to the warm curve beneath his jaw. he’s already holding her, like his body never forgot where she belonged, one arm slung heavy over her waist, their legs locked together like ivy climbing a brick wall.
he shifts just a little, eyes still closed, voice rough with sleep. “mmph. ‘s too early.”
“you don’t even know what time it is,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible, raspy and sweet.
“don’t gotta. still feels like dream time.”
“dream time?”
he cracks one eye open, peers at her through heavy lashes, smirking. “yeah. time when you get to keep dreamin’ about the pretty girl you wrecked last night.”
she snorts, hides her smile in the crook of his neck. “you’re awful.”
“mmhm. and you’re still here, so what’s that say about you?”
she bites his shoulder gently in retaliation, makes him laugh, makes her chest warm. he rolls her onto her back with a groan and hovers above her, forearms braced on either side of her head, eyes sleepy but sparkling. her hair’s a mess and his beard’s scratching against her chin, but it’s perfect. they’re perfect. messy, flushed, undone by nothing more than each other.
she smiles. “hi.”
“hi,” he whispers.
he kisses her like it’s the first time all over again — slow, patient, reverent. just the press of lips and the soft exhale of breath, warm and easy.
“you hungry?” she eventually asks, blinking up at him like maybe she forgot what the outside world even is.
he groans dramatically. “ugh. yes. but that means moving.”
“i’ll make coffee,” she offers.
he leans into her touch like a cat. “don’t go. you are a goddess.”
“you gonna worship me properly?” she teases, arching a brow.
“baby, i got nothin’ but worship in me when it comes to you.”
a few minutes later, he nudges the door open with his hip, coffee steam curling up toward his nose as he carries in the two mugs, fingers looped delicately around the handles, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. nestled in the crook of his arm is a little bowl with a bunch of grapes, still clinging to their vine, freshly rinsed and glistening with droplets of water. he looks too damn pleased with himself, like he’s just brought back a feast instead of the bare minimum.
“look at me,” he says proudly, stepping into the room like he’s about to take a bow. “provider. domestic god. morning hero.”
mallory, still splayed boneless on the bed, one leg half-tucked beneath her and the other dangling off the side, peers up through her lashes, biting back a smirk. “grapes, winchester?”
“nature’s candy,” he replies, smug, as he sets down the mugs on the nightstand and climbs back into bed with the bowl. “and, might i add, very sensual.”
“you just didn’t want to slice anything.”
“damn right,” he grins, plucking a grape and popping it into his mouth. “but also, romantic. if i feed ‘em to you like a roman emperor, that counts as love language, right?”
she laughs, letting her head fall back against the pillow as she reaches out for her mug. “depends. are you gonna fan me with a palm frond too?”
“only if you call me your high priest of debauchery.”
she snorts, choking a little on her first sip of coffee, and dean looks far too pleased with himself. “you’re such an idiot.”
“your idiot,” he singsongs, plucking another grape and holding it above her lips. “c’mon, open up. say ‘ahh,’ princess.”
she eyes him like she’s considering biting his fingers off, but her lips part anyway, slow and deliberate, and she takes the grape without breaking eye contact. he watches the way her mouth moves, slow and sultry, and groans like it’s killing him.
“jesus christ,” he mutters, hand scrubbing over his face. “you make everything dirty.”
“me?” she asks, feigning innocence, voice laced with honey. “you’re the one with the worship kink.”
“yeah,” he says, low and fond, eyes sweeping over her like she’s a vision. “and you’re the altar.”
they fall quiet for a minute, sipping coffee, sharing the grapes, legs tangled under the sheets. the air is thick with warmth, with the scent of roasted beans and skin and sleep. outside, birds chatter in the trees and light filters through the curtains like melted gold.
“we should do this more,” she murmurs eventually, almost to herself. “the slow mornings.”
dean hums, pressing a kiss to her temple. “we’ve earned a few.”
mal’s sleeping, dean’s bored out of his mind. he grabs the hot wheel he has of his car off his nightstand, the one mal gave him as a joke, and drives it up the length of her body. starts at her ankle, up her calf, thigh, over her ass and down the dip of her waist.
“what are you doing?” she mumbles, half-asleep and not moving an inch.
“takin’ the scenic route,” he murmurs, barely holding back a grin as he steers the tiny impala along her spine like it’s the goddamn pacific coast highway. “real hilly terrain.”
she snorts, face still buried in the pillow, voice muffled. “you’re so dumb.”
“yeah yeah,” he mutters, cruising the hot wheel over her shoulder blade, making a little revving sound with his mouth. “impala’s handling it great, though. suspension’s top notch.”
“mmhm,” she hums, too tired to roll her eyes, but the lazy smile tugging at her lips gives her away. “better hope she doesn’t crash into something.”
he pauses the car dramatically between her shoulder blades. “oh no,” he says gravely, “looks like we hit a very sexy speed bump.”
mal groans into the mattress. “go to sleep.”
“can’t,” he grins, rolling the car down her arm now. “i’m on a road trip.”
“you’re such a child,” she snickers, but doesn’t make any move to push him off.
“yeah, well,” he says, dragging the impala in slow, lazy loops across her lower back, “you knew that when you got with me. no refunds.”
she hums, sinking a little deeper into the pillow. “pretty sure the no-refunds thing goes both ways.”
“damn right it does.” he pauses the car on the dip of her spine, leans down to press a kiss between her shoulder blades. “lifetime warranty. comes with dumb jokes, hot wheels, and world-class cuddling.”
she laughs quietly, the sound barely above a breath, and reaches back to blindly pat his thigh. “sounds like a decent deal.”
“best one you’ll ever get,” he murmurs, driving the little car down her spine and over the curve of her ass.
“yeah, you’re probably right. now quit drivin’ baby over my ass.” she snickers.
dean is not above slipping his fingers under the hem if mal’s wearing a dress — not in private, not in public
dean winchester is many things — charming, reckless, a menace to public decency — but above slipping his fingers under mal’s dress? in any setting? not even a little bit. especially not when she wears one of those flowy, flirty little numbers that swirl around her thighs and catch in the breeze, the kind that make his mouth go dry and his hands get real brave.
in private, it’s expected. routine, even. he’s always crowding her against counters or yanking her into his lap, hands already halfway up her skirt before she can even sass him. doesn’t matter if they were supposed to be doing research, or laundry, or literally anything else — if she’s in a dress, he’s in it too.
but in public? oh, that’s where he gets dangerous. sneaky hands while they’re in line at the diner, a slow slide up her thigh while she pretends to read the menu. the softest brush of his fingertips just beneath the hem while they stand shoulder to shoulder in a crowded bar, and his smirk widens when she stumbles a step closer. he’ll lean in like he’s whispering something innocent, voice thick with laughter and heat, mumbling something like, “you started it, sweetheart. shouldn’t wear somethin’ so easy to slip under if you didn’t want my attention.”
she always glares at him, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, but she never stops him. not even when his fingers start to inch a little higher, not even when her teeth sink into her bottom lip to keep from gasping out loud.
and worst of all — he’s smug as hell about it. whole palm on her thigh, knuckles brushing lace, mouthing at her ear like he’s telling her a secret and not mapping out exactly how he’s gonna wreck her the second they get somewhere private.
“you wearin’ these for me, or just for the thrill?”
and when she finally breathes out, “both,” like it’s a challenge — god help the poor piece of furniture they end up defiling later.
dean is the kind of man who thinks “public decency” is more of a soft guideline than a rule, especially when it comes to mal. if she’s wearing something that makes his imagination run wild, you can bet his hands are gonna follow.
and mal? oh, she’s no better. she knows exactly what she’s doing when she wears a dress that rides up the second she sits down, or something backless with a halter tie he can undo with one soft tug. she’ll smirk when he gets antsy in a booth, innocently sipping her drink while his hand disappears beneath the table.
it’s a game. one they both play very well.
and every now and then, someone notices. maybe sam catches the very pointed way dean adjusts his jacket when they leave a diner, or the suspicious flush on mal’s cheeks, or how neither of them seems capable of making eye contact for ten minutes straight. bobby just grumbles something about “damn kids” and walks away. cas tilts his head and says something like, “your pheromones are unusually active, dean,” and dean has the audacity to wink at him.
and mal? she just leans over, whispers something absolutely filthy in dean’s ear, and watches the last of his self-control snap. he’s dragging her to the impala in seconds, and she’s giggling the whole way, smug and sweet and just a little dangerous.
because if there’s one thing they both know — it’s that dean’s hands belong under her dress, no matter where they are.
dean winchester thrives when mal objectifies him — when she ogles him, praises him, talks about him like he’s her personal piece of grade-a meat. he acts all flustered, like “mal, c’mon, you can’t just say that in public,” but deep down? he’s preening. glowing. tail-wagging levels of smug. he could be covered in dirt and monster guts and if she so much as mutters “god, you’re hot when you’re all bloodied up like that,” he’s done for. ruined. grinning like an idiot and puffing up his chest.
call him pretty boy while he’s fixing the impala? he’ll drop the wrench, smirk over his shoulder and be like, “yeah? you like the view?”
comment on his thighs when he’s got his jeans on low and slung lazy over his hips? suddenly he’s all, “these old things? nah, baby, it’s just genetics."
tell him he looks like a porn star and he’ll wink and say “damn right. i’m the main event.”
and the best part? the more she does it, the more obnoxiously flirty he gets — like she unlocks some hidden level of dean where he fully commits to being her hot boy toy. throws his arm behind his head when he’s lying shirtless just so she’ll look. flexes on purpose when he thinks she’s watching. does that gravelly voice thing because he knows it drives her insane.
and when she teases, “you’re so pretty, dean. makes me wanna climb you like a tree,” he just grins slow and says, “babe, i’m all yours. start climbin’.”
he lives for it. melts under it. he’s a menace and a prize and he loves when mal knows it.
he loves when she demands the gun show, or makes him do pushups with her sitting on his back, or when he wears compression shirts that are way too small.
he lives for that shit. dean winchester? total slut for being ogled and bossed around by mal when it comes to showing off. it’s not even subtle. she’ll walk in, toss him one of those tight black compression shirts that’s barely a second skin, and go, “put this on. for science.” and he’ll grumble just loud enough to be dramatic, but he’s already pulling his old t-shirt off, smirking like a bastard the whole time.
and when she says “gun show. now.”? he’s already rolling up his sleeves and flexing obnoxiously, giving her a full slow turn like he’s on a damn catwalk. he’ll do that dumb double bicep pose and grin when she whistles, puffing his chest like a proud jock who just won prom king. “you want front row tickets or backstage passes, sweetheart?”
but the pushups? oh, the pushups are a whole event. mal climbs on his back with zero warning, all smug and wiggly, kissing the back of his neck like a menace. and dean? doesn’t even flinch. just keeps going like there isn’t an extra hundred-something pounds on his back.
and later? when she makes some offhand comment like “compression shirts are a crime when you wear ‘em like that”, he’ll cock a brow and say “a crime? baby, then arrest me. i’ve been real bad.”
he’s shameless. completely whipped. and so proud of it.
“naughty.” she snickers, getting the fuzzy pink handcuffs and clicking them into place.
“oh, you’re gonna cuff me?” dean drawls, eyes flicking down to where her fingers are expertly securing the fuzzy pink restraints around his wrists, the corner of his mouth twitching up in that signature, cocky grin. “you know i’ve got at least three lock picks in my jeans right now, right?”
“yeah,” she purrs, straddling him with a wicked glint in her eyes, “and if you use any of them, you’re sleeping in the car.”
he laughs, low and warm in his throat, and leans in like he’s gonna kiss her — soft and sweet — but then just breathes against her lips, all smug and sinful. “yes, ma’am.”
“good boy,” she hums, clicking the cuffs tighter for good measure, then trailing her nails slowly down his chest. “you’re officially under arrest.”
“what’re the charges?” he rasps, watching her like she’s the only religion he’s ever believed in.
she grins, syrup-slow and feral. “being too hot. existing while irresistible. and resisting arrest by being a cocky little shit.”
he throws his head back and laughs, full-bodied and helpless, tugging on the cuffs just enough to feel them. “guilty as charged, sweetheart.”
“damn right you are,” she whispers, leaning down to nip his jaw. “now shut up and take your punishment like a man.”
and he does — happily.
his breath catches as she sinks down, hot and slow, denim rasping under her thighs while his jeans bunch around his knees. she settles on his leg with a satisfied little sigh, fingers still wrapped around the leather of his belt like it owes her something. “no more lock picks, hm?” she teases, grinding just a little — not enough to be cruel, but enough to make his breath hitch again.
“none that’ll save me now,” he mutters, eyes dark, fixed on her like she’s both storm and salvation. “you got me, sweetheart. dead to rights.”
“mm,” she hums, leaning in, tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth. “and what kind of hunter would i be if i let the monster get away?”
his hips twitch, helpless against the pressure of her, and he groans low in his throat. “monster now, huh?”
“oh yeah,” she purrs, dragging her nails up his chest, slow and unrepentant.
“no more lock picks.” she teases, voice like honey laced with arsenic, dragging her nails along the waistband of his boxers. dean hisses through his teeth, hips jerking ever so slightly beneath her. he’s still cuffed, wrists resting above his head where she left them, metal glinting sweet and smug against his skin.
he watches her from under heavy lashes, mouth parted, a slow, dangerous grin curving his lips. “you sure? could’ve hid one in my boot.”
she quirks a brow, grinding down against the meat of his thigh, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his muscles tense beneath her. “boots are off, winchester. you’re all outta tricks.”
“maybe i like being at your mercy,” he breathes, voice dark and low, the kind of sound that makes her shiver all the way down to her toes. “maybe i like knowing you’ve got full control.”
she hums, leaning in to bite his bottom lip gently, then soothe the sting with a soft kiss. “you do like it,” she purrs against his mouth, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging just hard enough to make his breath hitch. “you love it when i use you.”
“fuck, mal,” he groans, eyes fluttering shut as she rolls her hips again, slow and sinuous. “you’re gonna ruin me.”
she grins, breath hot against his throat. “i am gonna ruin you. that’s the whole point.” her hands trail down his chest, nails raking lightly. “you look so pretty all spread out for me, baby. like a present.”
“unwrap me, then,” he whispers, needy now, desperate in a way that makes her feel wild and victorious all at once. “please.”
“say it again,” she demands, rolling her hips one more time, drawing a low whimper from his throat.
“please,” he gasps, breathless and utterly wrecked. “please, mal.”
and oh, she’s never loved him more than in that moment — laid bare, begging, cuffed and beautiful, all his bravado melted down into want.
“so handsome,” she coos, syrupy sweet and devastatingly fond, palms splayed flat on his abs as she presses herself down on his thigh, slow and languid, like she has all the time in the world to ruin him. the denim seam catches just right and her breath hitches, lashes fluttering, a shaky exhale slipping past her lips.
he watches her from beneath furrowed brows, his biceps flexing against the cuffs, jaw clenched tight like he’s holding back a prayer or a curse — maybe both. the compression tee clings to every inch of him, damp with sweat and stretched taut over his chest. the sleeves bite into his arms, and there’s a soft smattering of hair peeking out, a teasing little detail that just makes her hips roll again, slow and cruel.
his chest rises too fast, breaths uneven, and he’s already hard — aching — straining against the thin fabric of his boxers. her eyes drag over him like molasses, dark and indulgent, every inch of him claimed and catalogued, all of it hers.
“you like being pretty for me?” she asks, voice gone soft and mocking, sweet enough to rot. her nails scratch lightly down his sides, just enough to make him twitch.
he groans, a strangled sound low in his throat. “mal…”
“what?” she pouts, circling her hips again. “you want me to stop?”
“no,” he rasps, head falling back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut. “fuck—don’t stop. please, baby, just…”
“mm.” she leans down, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, her voice dropping into a whisper, reverent and sinful. “so eager. so good for me. you gonna beg for it?”
“if you want,” he breathes, almost trembling beneath her. “if that’s what it takes.”
she smiles against his skin, slow and wicked. “everything takes begging, sweetheart. i told you that when you let me cuff you.”
he swallows hard. “then i’ll beg.”
god, she loves him like this — bound and beautiful, need seeping from every inch of him, his pride surrendered with reverence at her feet. all muscle and muscle memory, and still so completely at her mercy.
“good boy,” she murmurs, kissing down his throat. “let’s see how long you last.”
begging on my knees for a nsfw fact abt dean and mal PUHLEASE SOPHIA I BEG
⋆˙⟡♡ if dean hears someone else having sex in another motel room, he makes it his personal mission to outdo them, doesn’t even care about the potential noise complaint
the second some poor souls in room 207 start going at it loud enough for others to hear, dean’s eyebrows shoot up, a slow, mischievous grin curling onto his lips. he turns to mal with a glint in his eye that screams challenge accepted, tilting his head toward the noise like, you hear that?
“you believe this?” he mutters, already pulling off his shirt like a man on a mission. “someone thinks they can outdo us? us?”
mal raises a brow, unimpressed, until he starts crowding her onto the bed, hands already tugging at the hem of her shirt, his grin bordering on feral.
“you hear that?” he murmurs, unbuckling his belt.
“unfortunately,” mal deadpans, rolling her eyes. “poor girl sounds like she’s never had an orgasm in her life.”
dean grins, teeth and wickedness. “well, we can’t let that be the last thing anyone hears tonight.”
“you’re so dumb,” she laughs,
“babe,” he cuts in, voice low and steady, “we have a reputation to uphold.”
she doesn’t even get a chance to respond — he’s already got his mouth on hers, hands greedy and insistent, dragging her down onto the mattress like he’s got something to prove. and oh, he does. he makes it his goddamn mission to make her scream louder, beg prettier, make the headboard shake so hard the wall starts thudding in rhythm with them.
dean doesn’t just want to win, he wants to decimate. he wants the neighbors to know exactly who’s in the next room over. the headboard starts hitting the wall with a vengeance, his voice low and filthy in her ear, all grit and praise and smug encouragement —“that’s right, baby, let ‘em hear ya”— like the sound of her is his favorite weapon. and when the couple next door finally quiets down?
he has the audacity to sit back against the pillows, panting, satisfied, and go, “huh. guess we showed ‘em.”
mal, tangled in sheets and laughter, just throws a pillow at him.
and when it’s all said and done, when she’s breathless and glowing and barely able to string words together, he just sprawls out next to her with that cocky little grin and says, “think we won?”
