Summary: Behind every powerful man is a resourceful woman. He doesn’t realize how much he relies on you, until he realizes how much he wants you.
AN: This was originally requested as a birthday fic for a lovely Patreon member, @redhoodieone! It's my first attempt at an office AU with Dean, but I know it's a popular trope for a reason lol. Hope you guys enjoy this little snack of office smut ❤️🔥
Word Count: 1.7K
Posted on Patreon: Feb. 7, 2026
Tags & Warnings: (18+) Office politics, power imbalance (but not really), hint of angst, but mostly smut (v. fingering, oral – female receiving)
“Dean, you’re driving me crazy!” you snap. “Just read the speech as written. Sam and I worked on it for two weeks. It’s perfect.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t even sound like me,” he grumbles. “What the hell does ‘solidarity’ mean?”
You utter a sigh as you follow him into his office, shutting the door behind you with your ass. Your hands are full—with a large binder of purchase orders that still need to be approved by the very man who can’t seem to take anything seriously.
He has the notecards Sam gave him in one hand, a glass tumbler with a generous pour of whiskey in the other. He’s meant to address the entire company in twenty minutes, and he still hasn’t put on his suit jacket or picked out his tie. You laid two options over the arm of his desk chair: black and white pinstripe or burgundy with a tiny triangle pattern.
“Cohesion. Harmony. Camaraderie. All the things you want to inspire in your employees after another million-dollar deal that’s going to make their workloads triple over the next six months,” you say, heaving the binder onto Dean’s large desk. The rest, you mutter under your breath. “And something severely lacking between you and I.”
Dean looks up from the small print on the index card, aiming his furrowed brows your way.
“What’re you talking about?” he asks, drawing closer. He sets his glass with a heavy clink down on polished wood. He glances down at his still unbuttoned collar and starts closing buttons. “You and I are one of the most well-oiled machines in this place. By the way, which—”
You hold up the burgundy tie for his inspection. Dean’s lips twitch at a grin. It’s like you’re in his goddamn head.
“See? You already know what I want before I gotta ask,” he says. A small sigh escapes you, but you still start sliding the tie up around his neck and under his collar.
“That’s because I’ve apparently made a career out of babysitting a grown man. Move your hand,” you say, batting his digits away from doing the tie himself. You know how he likes it, done in a Pratt knot rather than an old-school Windsor.
He snorts. “I’ll tell you what, it’s your fault, okay? Before you waltzed your way in here—”
“Before you hired me?” you interject.
He smirks. “Fine, before I hired you, with barely a scrap of professional experience besides a little college internship and an eight-month stint in an office—at one of our competitors, I might add—”
He grunts when your hand “slips,” making the knot tight enough to choke him. Amused, but still giving you a censuring look, he slips a finger between the fabric and his neck, loosening it a little as he clears his throat.
“I was entirely capable of running my life without you. I made make-or-break decisions for this company every damn day,” he says. But slowly, his smile slips. The way the green of his eyes roam over your face, your familiar hands, your softly parted lips while you pretend to be concentrated on what you’re doing.
“Now, I don’t know,” Dean says. He swallows, his throat sticking. “I’m in a meeting, and I can’t get comfortable until I know you’re sitting right there to my left. You don’t even need to be taking notes or anything. All you need to do is sit there, and I’m good.”
You pause, finally meeting his eyes.
“I close on a deal, and I’m not satisfied,” he says. “Not ‘til I tell you about it. Because I know you’ve been busting your ass just as much to help make it happen in the first place.”
Your hands begin to release his tie, but he gently grips your arms, keeping you in place.
“Dean…”
“I would say it’s a crying shame that bastard knocked you up before you really got your shot over there at Ashland, but that would mean I wouldn’t have the benefits of your many talents,” he says.
You try to ignore the thing that’s creeping into his tone. The thing that makes your cheeks prickle, and warmth bloom between your legs. You sigh and smile up at him, half exasperated.
“That might just make you the most selfish man in the world,” you say.
He smirks, his thumbs beginning to brush back and forth against your arms. Even in this little number you got on, a plain white blouse tucked neatly in a long pencil skirt, he can’t help his imagination. He’s fantasized about helping you for a change, with that pointless collection of fabric and buttons on this very floor, and his mouth anywhere you want him.
Anywhere you let him taste you.
“Yeah, I wonder if Emma thinks so, seeing as I’m the one who got her mom a raise so she could go to that fancy private school,” he says, with an arch of his brow. “Looking forward to that little play they’re putting on. What was it again?”
“Matilda,” you supply.
Dean frowns. “What? Isn’t that the one where the asshole principal locks little kids in a closet and stuffs ‘em full of cake like she’s making pâté? Little heavy for Kindergarteners, huh?”
You laugh, showing off that smile he gets out of you more often than not.
“She’s kind of nervous about that, actually. But she did ask if you were coming,” you say. Your eyes lower, just like your hands smoothing down his collar, then lying flat against his chest. “God knows if her father’s going to show up.”
Dean releases his hold on you, just so he can take your chin between his fingers and raise your eyes to meet his.
“I’ll be there,” he says. Finality and promise—something a man’s never given you.
Dean knows enough to know what he’s doing, what he’s saying. His free hand molds to the curve of your waist, tightening with the edge of possessiveness.
“Dean,” you breathe a warning in his name. His lips hover near yours, one decision shy of getting his way. “We…we can’t do this again.”
“See, I get that, but I’ve been having a hard time remembering why,” he says. All the while, his fingers are toying with the zipper on the side of your skirt. He guides it down, and down, and his practiced hand slips behind the waistband, behind white lace underneath, skimming bare flesh and heat against the palm of his hand, until his fingers find the wet slit of your pussy. A shaky breath falls from your lips.
“You damn well know why.”
And yet, your hand slips across his cheek, caressing there briefly as your eyes lock with his. Then your fingers sink into his hair, and you’re pulling him into you, tangling your lips and tongue with his in a way that makes you both moan.
The hand that’s not buried between your legs has a stronghold on your hip. He guides you back against his desk, but you’re the one lowering your skirt further so he has more room to torture your clit. Rough finger pads strum you mercilessly, drawing slick arousal from your entrance.
“Oh, fuck. Dean,” you gasp against his mouth. Your fingers curl tighter in his hair. Your hips buck to the rhythm of his hand, begging for more. His lips claim wherever they burn their path, from your jawline to sucking hard against your neck. You’re not even quite on the edge of his desk, half leaning, half clinging to him for survival as his fingers plunder you deeper.
Until he withdraws his hand entirely. You’re heaving for breath, uncomprehending, but you don’t even really have time to ask him just what the hell he’s doing by stopping. Because he’s already sinking to his knees.
He grabs your thighs and pulls you in, burying his face right between your glistening folds. A gasp and a whimper choke out of you at the pleasurable invasion of his tongue. Your hand flies to his hair as you try to steady yourself on the desk.
“Dean! Jesus,” you whisper-shout. Suddenly you remember, worried, that you two haven’t bothered to lock the door this time. He’s supposed to address the entire staff body in exactly ten minutes, and he’s not even fully dressed yet. Now, neither are you.
The man doesn’t seem to give a fuck about anything sensible like that, other than devouring your pussy. Your panties are a torn scrap of fabric around your ankles, along with your skirt that you spent thirty minutes ironing this morning. But you can’t bring yourself to give much of a fuck either, not when his tongue licks up to your clit, and his lips suck around the swollen bud like it’s butterscotch candy.
His fingers join in, slipping into your hot, throbbing core. By then, it doesn’t take more than a few strokes against your sensitive walls to have you coming hard around his fingers. Black and white brittle stars burst behind your eyelids, your mouth falling open in a harsh cry.
You can’t even breathe, because he’s still fucking you with his long, talented fingers. It’s too much. It’s like pushing you off the edge of the volcano while you’re still falling, still erupting. Still want his cock too.
Your fingers tighten in his hair to stop him.
“Dean, Dean, Dean, please…”
Mercifully, he stops. His fingers slip out of you, though his tongue laps at you one more time, just to feel you squirm and shudder against him. But as he pants for breath, he presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh, reverent, an unspoken declaration.
You soften as you look down on him. Your eyes show your conflict and your fondness as you cup his face with both hands, caressing his wet, stubbly cheeks with your thumbs.
“God, baby, you’re a mess,” you laugh, grabbing a tissue off his desk to wipe at his glistening mouth, nose, and chin. He smirks in satisfaction beneath your hand.
“There you go, still takin’ care of me,” he teases, rubbing your thighs.
This is a far cry from the cocky asshole you met a year ago.
Dean Winchester, CEO of HunterCorp, who hadn’t thought he needed an assistant when you came in for your interview. He hadn’t even looked at your resume beforehand and didn’t think he was going to remember your name by the end.
Now, that man is on his knees, willingly covered in your arousal. It’s obscene, but it’s also pulling at your heartstrings.
You guide him back up to your lips, where you can stake your claim on him. You don’t know yet if it’s going to stick, but he’s finally worn you down.
You’re willing to try.
AN: Some of my Patreon members suggested I write a Part 2 to this. What did you think of “part 1”?
And are you thirsty for more CEO!Dean? 😉
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A/N: hii :3 I am so excited to finally like show y'all this, i got like reeaallyyy drunk one weekend and i wrote like 3 parts in one night lol. There is a doggie character in this but PLEASE don't worry - the dog will not be harmed, as a mommy to a kitty-cat i couldn't take it. enjoy lovelies!!
song inspo here ←
If there was one thing you hated, it was driving at night. Especially in the middle of nowhere Texas.
Unfortunately for you luck just hasn’t been on your side these past few years. Things weren’t always so bad but after dad died everything just sorta…tailspinned. When your now ex boyfriend offered to let you crash with him, it was sorta the only choice you had, given being alone felt unbearable. Sure, he was lazy. Sure, he spent your money like his own and somehow always had an excuse for why he couldn’t hold a job. But splitting rent was easier than paying it alone.
Then the yelling started. Then the holes in the wall. Then the apologies, and then one day he put his hands on you. A mere twenty-four hours ago you were at work and cooking dinner, now you were on the road, your entire life thrown into your trunk. By midnight, Texas was in your rearview mirror. And for the first time in years, you had no idea what the endpoint would be.
The only guiding light through this was Murphy, the mutt you adopted years ago. Despite being sixty-five pounds of drool and fur, he was your best friend. He’d been through it all with you. He was there through the screaming matches, through the nights of sleeping in your car, through every kick and punch.
Sometimes you’d wake up in the middle of the night just to find the dog stretched across the bedroom floor, positioned between you and the bedroom door like a barricade, poor pup tried.
He watched and he guarded. He reminded you that there was always one thing to love you without conditions. Which is hilarious, considering Murphy looked intimidating as hell. Most people saw the shepherd mix and crossed the street.
You saw the puppy who wanted to be tucked into your sheets during the winter and didnt like to step on wet grass.
Driving from Odessa to Chicago was no small feat, and unfortunately for your, the trip had just begun.
Just four hours ago you were throwing your entire life into the backseat. You hadn’t exactly left with a plan. Now you were somewhere in North Texas, inching closer to the Oklahoma border with a dog in the passenger seat and absolutely no idea what your life would look like in a week from now.
It should have terrified you.
Maybe it did.
But every mile that appeared in your rearview felt a little lighter than the one before it.
The radio crackled, filling the car with a burst of static before cutting out completely.. "Of course! Just what I was wanting to happen." You smacked the steering dashboard. Nothing. You smacked it again. Still nothing. Murphy picked his head up from the passenger seat, watching you with a tilted head, "Don't judge me.” His ears went up. With a sigh, you reached over and switched the radio off entirely. The silence was somehow worse. At least the static had been something. Now all you had was the steady hum of the engine, the occasional rattle from somewhere in the backseat, and your own thoughts were so determined to be the loudest thing in the car.
The road stretched endlessly ahead of you, surrounded by fields that seemed to go on forever. Darkness swallowed everything beyond your headlights, leaving nothing but empty highways and the occasional road sign to remind you civilization still existed. There wasn't another car in sight. Then you gas light came on. You just stared right at it, “No”. the little orange light remained illuminated. “No, no, no.” As if arguing with the machinery would somehow make it disappear. The dashboard, unfortunately, wasn’t interested in negotiations. You tightened your grip on the steering wheel. “Dont do this to me.” You let out a frustrated groan. You glanced back at the gas gauge and immediately regretted it.The needle was hanging on for dear life.You were running on fumes, blind optimism, and whatever prayers your grandmother had taught you as a kid."Okay," you muttered, sitting up a little straighter. "That's fine. Totally fine."
It was not fine.
Not even a little.
By the time you were able to make out what appeared to be a gas station, your engine was sputtering every few minutes and your gauge had been in the red for about 30 miles.Your road map wasn’t much help anymore either. Somewhere between Odessa and wherever the hell you were now, it had become covered in coffee stains, crumpled corners and muddy paw prints courtesy of Murphy. At this point, your best course of action was prayer. And maybe a little luck.
The gas station slowly came into focus as you pulled off the highway. The building looked ancient, illuminated by a handful of flickering lights. You rolled into your pump and killed the engine. The sudden silence was almost deafening. For a moment, neither you or Murphy moved. Then you look across the car at him and he looks back, you sigh and grab your purse, “Okay Murph, please protect the car. Its a very important job” His tail thumps on the leather seat. Leaning over, you pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head before climbing out of the car.
You glanced toward the gas station and silently prayed there was something inside worth eating. You wandered aimlessly through the tiny gas station, dragging your feetin down each aisle as you searched for something that could remotely qualify as dinner. Your stomach growled, loudly. At this point Murphy’s dog food was starting to sound appetizing. With a sigh, you made your way over to the hot food station, if you can even call it that. The ancient roller grill spun beneath a heat lamp that looked older than you. A handful of hot dogs rotated endlessly while several corn dogs sat beside them, looking like they;d been in rotation since the Clinton administration.
You stared at the selection. The selection stared back.
“Wow”
A hot dog or a corn dog. How nutritious. How balanced. How absolutely terrible. The hot dog won. Mostly because it looked less likely to kill you. You grabbed a pair of tongs and inspected it suspiciously.
“Congratulations,” you mutter to yourself. “You’ve officially hit rock bottom.” The hot dog, thankfully, offered no opinion. You dropped it into a paper tray and headed toward the register.
“Hey, Hon. Whatcha lookin’ for?” the older gentlemen behind the counter looked up from a crossword puzzle, glasses perched low on his nose. You answered with a shrug. You set your hot dog on the counter, going back to the cold freezers for some water and a coke. “You don't happen to have any maps, do ya?” The man chuckled. “Maps? Now there’s somethin’ I haven’t heard somebody ask for in a while” He bent down behind the counter and rummaged through a drawer. “Course I got maps. Where ya headed?”
“Chicago, I think.” The cashier let out a low whistle. “Chicago?” you nodded in response, ”Thats’a long drive” Something about the old man reminded you of your dad. Maybe it was the concern in his voice, the deep set eyes or mauve the way he looked worried instead of judgmental. Either way it made your heart ache. “I'd be careful out there in I were you,” the man slid a folded road map across the counter.
“Well,” you said, lifting up the hem of your shirt, barely enough to show your small black handgun tucked into your waistband, “my daddy made sure his only child had some protection”. The cashier nodded approvingly, “Smart man.” The man behind the register shook his head in approval, “Total’s $6.12, girlie”. You handed over the cash, gathered your map, drinks and hot dog. As he handed over the receipt, his expression was soft. “Whatever’s waiting for you up there,” he said softly “ I hope it' s kinder than whatever you're leavin’ behind.”
For a moment the air felt thick. You had forgotten about your face, the bruise that's slowly taking over your left cheek. You just nodded.
“Me too”
Instantly, the summer air hit you. Thick and swampy. The parking lot wasn't empty anymore, you in your accord, a black sleek car and a rusty van all gathered. You make your way to your accord, trying to balance the drinks while managing to fish your keys out of your pocket. The second the doors unlocked, a large head popped up from the passenger seat, "There's my good boy” You let Murphy out, letting him stretch his legs trusting him to still remain by you.
You poured him some water in a makeshift bowl you made out of a saucepan you found while you were throwing all of your belongings into your car. You set the water down and scratched behind his ears, then focused your attention on the gas pump. The nozzle had set in place. You barely had started pumping when the side of the van slid open. Three men climbed out, the immediate sensation of your hair standing up and shoulders tensing puts your nervous system into over-drive. “Well look’it over here” You kept your eyes locked on the gas pump, why can't these things go faster? Another one of the men laughed, “You look a little far from home, ain’t ya?” You ignored them. You would rather die than give any men like them a lick of attention. Years of being a woman taught you a lot of things, one of them being that usually no response, is the best response. Apparently, they didn't appreciate that.
They inched closer, so close you can smell the cigarettes and cheap beer leaking from their clothes. The one closest to you narrowed his eyes at you “Jesus.” You stiffened, Murphy attending your side, eyes locked on all three men. He pointed at your face, “What the hell got ahold of you?”
Instinctively, your hand traced your cheek. The bruises had faded from the angry fist print to a bruise beginning to form. Your left cheek was already swollen, you can feel heat radiating on the side. The question alone made your stomach turn, not because of them asking but from how interested they seemed.
You dropped your hand, “Mind your fuckin’ business.” The first man held up his hands. “Sorry lady, just askin’” you cross your arms, leaning on your car. “Then stop.”
For a split second you recognized his facial expression, you learned it long ago, the kind when a man wasn’t getting the reaction he wanted. “Feisty bitch.” he muttered. Another one laughed, “maybe thats how she got the black eye.”
Murphy jumped up from sitting onto all four paws, a low growl penetrated from his chest. The men all shifted their gaze to him “Aw thats cute” and the three men laughed, “Damn dog thinks its so scary.”
You shift your weight in your heels, “I would be careful y’know.” Your grip on the gas handle gets tighter and tighter. “My dog bites.” You said evenly, trying to be unaffected. Murph’s ears go flat, another deeper, more threatening growl rumbled. The tallest man took a step towards the car, immediately Murphy lunged at him, he would have bit the poor man if he wasn't so glued to your hip. Dog would never leave your side. “Jesus Christ” all three men take a few steps back.
"Yeah," you said dryly. “I told you he bites.” The tallest man, who had previously tried to take a step towards you twitched his head, “you mouthy fuckin’ female.” your stomach twisted, you hated that sentence, that tone, the cocky-ness. All of it just reminded you of the horror movie you just ran from. “Why are you alone anyways? Pretty thing like you, with nobody to watch you.” he licks his lips. As if being alone pumping gas was some kind of invitation.
You looked away to the gas pump, focusing solely on the numbers climbing up. Almost done, almost at a full tank. Then you can get the hell out of here.
“She’s not alone.” the voice came from somewhere beside you, all three of those men turned around, facing the accusation.You looked between the gas pump and the trio to see the black car you’d taken note of earlier. Two men were standing outside of it now.
One was tall, really freakishly tall, shaggy flat hair that pressed down to his brow. He held a bottle of water in one hand and was staring daggers through each of the men in front of you, thoroughly unimpressed.
The other one, leaning so casually against the drivers side door, blondish hair and green eyes sporting a leather jacket. He was relaxed, like he couldn’t care less about this situation at all.
“Murphy, get.”
You swing the driver's side door open, and Murphy immediately obeyed, assuming his position in the front seat. The second he was settled, the dog planted himself behind the wheel, ears pinned and teeth bared through the window. The tallest man scoffed, finally taking a step back from your car. His attention shifted past you and toward the two strangers standing near the black impala. “And who the hell are you?” he asked.
“Sam.” the taller one answered, so matter of fact, so simple.
The men looked between themselves, “yeah, and what about you?” chin gesturing to the driver.
“Dean.” The driver said, smiling.
Something about the way he said it made it sound like you were supposed to know him instead of complete strangers standing in a gas station parking lot.. Judging by the confused look on the other man's face, y'all were total strangers. Dean whistled dramatically, “Yeesh, alright i think it's pretty obvious our friend here wants nothin’ to with y’all. Now go.”
His green eyes flickered towards you for a second, just long enough for your spine to be on fire. He looked back at the trio.
He saw it, the bruises. The bright lights above the gas pumps were definitely not doing your face any favors.
“I think y'all should do everyone a favor and get back in your van.” He dipped his head and adjusted his stance on the car, standing up fully.
“Or what?”
Dean’s smile sharpened, not enough to be threatening but enough to make you think it wouldn’t be a hard switch to turn on. Dean tilted his head towards your car. Murphy immediately lets out a string of barks, deep and throaty. “Or he gets a chance to properly introduce himself.” Murphy punctuated that statement with a bark that echoed in the lot. The trio of men lingered before finally backing off, “Whatever” the tallest one muttered. Dean nodded,”good choice.”
The van doors slammed shut one after another, the engine roaring to life as the vehicle pulled out of the station. You didn't realize just how tense you had gotten until those particular taillights disappeared down the highway. The parking lot fell into silence again, Murphy let out a grumble as he made himself comfortable in the passenger seat.
“Y’know that dog thinks he just saved your life.” Dean chuckled. You spin towards him. Dean had moved closer to you, sliding his hands into his leather jacket. Somehow relaxed, not a single indicator of being fresh out of a confrontation. “He did save my life,” you smile. Dean just raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips together. “No, I'm pretty sure all he did was yell.”
“Suprised a man like you doesn't know intimidation is a skill.” Your head sits cocked to the side. The gas pump clicked, signaling your tank was finally full. A filthy grin spread on his face, “Trust me, sweetheart, I know.” Sam groaned from across the car, rolling his eyes “Here we go.”
You couldn't help the laugh that slipped but looking down at the total of your gas bill you winced, forty-two dollars. Bye-Bye the rest of your gas budget. With a sigh, you face back to Dean and Sam. “Are you really driving all the way to Chicago?” Dean asked, watching you. Eyebrows raised “How’d you know that?”
“Cashier talks.”
You groaned, “Yeah, of course he does.” Dean grins even wider, "that's one hell of a drive,” he walks his way around to you, closing the distance between yall, “You're not driving alone, are you?” You nodded. His expression changed for a slight moment, a short flash of concern. But replaced quickly just as soon as it appeared. “That’s one hell of a drive.” Sam shifted his weight and offered a small smile, first time the kid looked at you in the eyes, “yeah, tell me about it.” Sam gestured towards Murphy. “Well uh, least you got him.”
You shook your head.”Yeah” you said smiling looking over your shoulder at your boy. “Hes not exactly incognito.” Dean laughed and flashed his teeth. You could tell what kind of man he was, a charmer. A man used to getting everything he wants handed to him. Something about these boys seemed dangerous.
As you tossed your map onto the dash, you noticed out of the corner of your eye the men standing up straight. Sam’s phone was ringing. Sam glanced at the small screen before passing a look to Dean.
Someone serious must have called. Dean sighed, “Damn it,” Neither one of the two looked amused. Whatever they had going on clearly wasn’t something they shared with strangers, so when you looked back, Dean was already climbing into the drivers side but he paused. “Well, Chicago.” You frowned. “My name isn’t Chicago.” Dean just smirked. “I think it suits you.”
Before you could stand any sort of protest, he slipped into the car. Seconds later the car's engine screamed alive, Sam gave you a small wave and a smile before climbing into the passenger seat before peeling out of the station and disappearing onto the highway.
Only when the headlights became faint little twinkles did you climb into your Accord. Murphy immediately shoved his head onto the arm rest. You gave him a big pat on the butt and started your engine. You looked toward the empty highway.
As you drive, you relax. The pain of your cheek and eye throbbed. The warmth of the bruise stretching across your face.
Thats all you could feel as you passed through the deserted highway. You adjusted your grip on the wheel. Just twenty-four hours ago, you were in your apartment. You were coming home from work. Murphy was waiting by the door. You knew every pothole, every streetlight, every short cut. Now, that was all in your rearview mirror.
Just keep driving.
The words repeated in your brain like a prayer.
Just keep driving.
You had your plan: Chicago, apartment, fresh start. That was all you needed. A city where nobody knew you. An apartment where nobody could hurt you. A life without living on egg-shells. The bruise on your face throbbed. The bruises hidden beneath your clothes hurt worse.
You swallowed hard.
No. You couldn't do this.
The second your mind drifts back to him, back to your ex, you immediately try to show those thoughts away. You weren’ t doing this tonight, especially when you're driving at 85 miles per hour on the darkest stretch of highway. You’d spent enough nights crying over him. Enough nights curled up in bed wondering why everything hurt so much. Enough nights staring at the ceiling trying to convince yourself that he really didn’t mean to hit you, that he does love you, and somehow he would be different tomorrow.
Just keep driving.
Everything hurts. Your back hurts, your neck hurts, and your wallet definitely hurts. Two days after you left Texas, you were beginning to understand the deep hatred people have for road trips.And if you had to eat one more gas station hot dog, you were fairly certain it would send you into the ER.
Above you the motel sign flickered overhead as you pulled into the parking lot.
VACANCY!
One of the letters buzzed more aggressively than the others, threatening to give up at any moment. The perfect establishment a woman traveling alone should be staying in! “Oh, don't look at me like that,” Murphy glanced up from the passenger seat.”You don't get an opinion. You didn't have to spend forty-three dollars on gas today.” His tail thumped against the seat.
The motel itself wasn’t better than the sign. A long row of identical doors stretched across the building, each one painted a faded shade of blue. The parking lot was half empty, illuminated by the buzzing yellow lights. This whole place looked sick but still, a bed and shower. Standards were rock bottom.
Twenty minutes later, your standing inside room fourteen. Murphy immediately claiming the bed nearest the window, the entire bed. The oversized shepherd mix spun in three circles before going onto his back. “Thats my bed.” Murphy stops, turning over to look at you, tail wagging. “Move” you pointed towards the second bed, “That one is literally empty.” Murphy just rested his head on his paws. Conversation over.
Somehow the motel room looked exactly how you;d expected, the floral comforters, questionable artwork, a television that only works on two of the channels. Home sweet home.
After grabbing some clothes and dog food from the car, you were finally able to shower. The motel bathroom wasnt much to look at, cracked tiles and a mirror with a weird ring of brown around it. For twenty glorious minutes, you stood beneath the steaming water and let it wash away two days worth of road grime, sweat and exhaustion.
Your eyes drifted toward the mirror.
The bruising on your cheek had started to fade-ish. Yellow, purple, and green stretched across the left side of your face like someone had taken a paintbrush to your skin. The swelling had gone down some, but it was still there. Still visible, still a reminder.
You looked away, putting your oversized hoodie and sleep shorts before stepping back into the motel room. Murphy was already waiting by the door. The second he saw you his tail was thumping against the carpet. You huffed, “Fine.”
Ten minutes go by and you found yourself wandering across the motel parking lot while Murphy sniffed every square inch of grass he could find.
The motel wasn't exactly bustling with energy, a few scattered cars, a flickering neon sign and the sounds of a television from someone's window. You shoved your hands deeper into your hoodie pocket, then froze.
A black car sat parked three doors down. You stared at it. The longer you looked at it the more familiar it felt. Black paint, chrome and a long body.
“What the hell?” Murphy lifted his head while you stood and stared at the car ,then the motel, then the car again. "Looks familiar don'it?"
@ashlizabeth - hope you enjoy!! part two is coming sooner than you think!! *wink wink nudge nudge*
/̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ⠀.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⌖ ₊ mdni, u will be blocked.
cw: gunz, sb teaching u and not keeping his hands off you, some explicit content. not proofread ahhh. wc: 2.4k~
— ᨳଓ⋆˚࿔.
he’d driven you out to a private forest clearing, with a lake nearby. a little spot he knew. the two of you sat with the roof of his vintage black classic down, the breeze brushing through the trees and against your hair.
beside you in the driver’s seat, ben licked the edge of a small, cherry-flavored rolling paper. he focused on securing the joint he was fashioning for the two of you. he was nearly finished, already packed the weed in snug. you couldn’t help but smirk at his posture: his back hunched over as he zeroed in on his task. his aviator sunglasses rested atop his head, pushing his hair back and out of the way, nearly a headband. the lenses reflected the sun. a meteor could strike and he wouldn’t notice until he was done.
feeling bored, you tapped your nails against the door armrest. you looked around at the trees. you sat up to see the lake in the near distance, the sun glistening off the ripples. you poked the fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror. you rummaged through his glove compartment…
… and your brows shot up upon seeing a black pistol buried under documents and condoms.
you glanced over to see if he’d caught you snooping. his brows were still furrowed as he rolled the joint over the steering wheel. utterly enraptured by his weed. you smirked, feeling suddenly mischievous. with great care, you gently retrieved the firearm.
“put it down.” his voice rang beside you.
you tensed, suddenly feeling like a scolded child, then smiled faintly. you didn’t put it down. you treated it delicately, of course, purposely avoiding the trigger as you examined it. the metal was cool and heavy in your hand. “why is it in here?”
“needs to be,” he said simply. then, he took the gun from you, grabbing it by the barrel. he set it muzzle down in the empty cup holder between you before focusing his attention back to the blunt.
you tilted your head, unsatisfied, and stated matter-of-factly, “you’re indestructible.”
“you’re not.”
you raised a brow again, intrigued. “so it’s for me.”
“for assholes.”
“my hero.”
ben looked over at you then, sizing you up, half impressed, half perpetually annoyed.
“have you ever even been this close to a roscoe?”
you looked through your lashes. “… once or twice.”
that got his attention. he lowered the unfinished joint in his lap, looking you over again, his keen green eyes following a steady path down your figure. ben paused for a long moment, as if he was assessing you.
“when?”
“fourth of july.”
“what’d you shoot?” he sounded nearly fascinated. never in a million years would ben have guessed you did something like that. you were always such a sissy.
“the ground,” you confessed timidly.
the sharp sound of his laughter broke the peacefulness of nature surrounding you. his shoulders bounced, he tipped his head back against the headrest, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. he licked his lips and muttered something like jesus christ as he settled down, shaking his head and bringing the joint back up to work on again.
“you’re a card.” he stated. he gave the joint a final lick, pressing the paper down flush with the pads of his thumbs. he inspected it carefully before tucking it in his shirt pocket. he pushed his aviators back down, wearing them properly, hiding his eyes. “get out.”
you blinked, watching him open his door, grab the pistol, and step out of the car all in one motion. after a moment of hesitation, you followed.
he beckoned you over with a finger, his gun in his back pocket. ben’s hand snaked around your waist when you were close enough and he leaned against the hood of his car. he thumbed your hip and raised his hand, moving it to follow the horizon.
your eyes followed. the lake’s shore lapped at the dirt a few respectable paces away, the water slightly murky. surrounding you, conifers and hardwood cast sparse shadows. their leaves occasionally swayed with the soft breeze, and the unmistakable smell of sap comforted you in a strange way.
his voice recaptured your attention. “pick a tree.”
you looked over at him, a surge of disbelief passing through you. he really trusted you enough to do this?
you shook your head. “i don’t wanna shoot a tree.”
ben rolled his eyes. “hippie,” he muttered, reaching into another pocket of his. he pulled out his cherry rolling papers and ripped two out- then crumpled them into little balls. you blinked in surprise at the sacrifice of two perfectly good rolling papers.
“put these in your ears,” he commanded. and so you did. the sounds of the lake’s waves, the chirping of the birds, the swish of tree branches brushing against each other muffled.
without warning, he grabbed your waist in both hands, and yanked you in front of him. with his chest flush against your back, he wrapped an arm around your middle and fished his pistol out of his pocket. he brought it out to show off.
you knew not to reach for it. he turned it in his hands. his chin brushing against the back of your head. “this bitch’s no joke, you hear me, doll?”
you nodded. he grunted in approval, then flipped the gun back, left side up. he flicked the safety off, keeping the nose pointed to the ground.
gently, ben’s hand smoothed across your stomach, to your hip, and up your side. he trailed his palm over your forearm and down to your hand. being this close to him, you could hear each little inhale and exhale of his. you could feel his breath brush against your ear. you fought the urge to shiver, especially when his hand found yours. he lifted it and guided it to hold the grip of the gun, adjusting your fingers to stay clear of the trigger.
his hand wrapped firmly around yours, keeping your fingers temporarily disabled, the gun still pointed to the dirt. he squeezed your hand, and you felt something click beneath your palm. your heart raced.
“that was the grip safety,” he said, his voice calm. you nodded once, relaxing.
his other hand gestured in front of you, to a dead tree stump about sixty feet away, maybe four feet tall. it sat unimposing at the opposite shore of the lake, gray and peeling bark, surrounded by its living kin.
“see that stump?”
you nodded.
“aim for that.”
“… okay.”
his grip around your hand on the gun remained. you felt the grainy surface of the grip on your skin. his other hand moved, guiding your left hand to the gun in the same fashion he did the other. ben hummed in approval as he fixed your hands over the grip.
wordlessly, he guided your arms up, the gun still snug inside your fingers. he straightened your arms outright, then maneuvered your right index finger to rest gently on the trigger guard.
“don’t move your finger yet,” he said, his voice in your ear. you swallowed.
his hands left yours, leaving the breeze to brush over them, the coldness emphasizing the loss. he ran his hands slowly up your wrists, to the sensitive skin of the inside of your elbows, and he stopped to hold your biceps. he kept his feet planted firmly outside yours, his broad chest flush against your back.
you pressed your thighs together, his touch molding, and you avoided exhaling too shakily. though, you were almost certain he could hear your pounding heart. just the thought of his awareness made your cheeks flush.
“now…” he let go of one of your arms, his chin by your ear. he gently tapped the small, triangular-shaped bump on top of the pistol once, the one closest to your eye; then the bump further away, on the very tip of the barrel.
“sights. front and rear. as you can see, front is a post, rear is a notch. you line ‘em up both horizontally and vertically, at the center of that stump… and you’ve got your aim.”
you squeezed one eye shut to line the sights up, doing your best to center them as he instructed on the awaiting stump. he shifted, leaning over to look at your face, assessing briefly. he smiled faintly.
“now, i know that might feel right, sweets, but it’s better to keep both those pretty eyes open.”
his voice was cogent. you quickly reopened your eye, exhaling. you could hear the faintest of chuckles leave him.
he licked his lips and slid his hands up back to yours on the gun. one held both of yours in place securely, and the other reached to grab his gun by the barrel, between the sights. he slid the slide back, exposing the metal barrel underneath, and it made a clicking noise that made your brows furrow. he let it go, covering the barrel once again.
“she’s cocked. don’t you move a muscle till i tell you to.”
he found his place behind you again, his chest against you. he squeezed your shoulders gently before he smoothed his rough hands down your upper back, over the ridge of your bra, down to the dip of your waist. you blinked slowly, your eyes darting momentarily to the ground, then back up. you knew you needed to focus, not let his carnal touch divert your attention.
he ran his thumbs back and forth over your waist. his hands were warm and unmoving, and you couldn’t help but notice he kept your ass pressed firm against his hips, the print of his dick faint but felt. it made your breath hitch, but you remained planted against him. and when you heard a rough, faint groan leave his lips right in your ear? you wanted to ditch this whole shooting lesson.
when he spoke again, his voice was considerably softened. but it still made your heart skip. it pulled you back into what this was supposed to be. “you can put your finger on the trigger now, but do not put pressure on it.”
you swallowed again, nodding, regrouping, and you moved your finger carefully off the guard and onto the cool trigger. it was a strange sense of power. one pull and a killing stone would come out at 800 feet per second.
“atta girl. don’t pull yet. take your time, give yourself at least half a minute to aim. then you fire.”
you held the gun pointed where you wanted, taking slow, shuddering breaths, heeding his words. he trusted your judgment, the good head on your shoulders. you’re not so reckless to fire when you’re not confident. and you’re listening so well to each of his instructions.
you lined up the sights, acquiring yourself a good shot, but damn if his closeness didn’t make you blush. as if sensing your temperament at the moment, ben nuzzled his half hard cock against your ass with a slow exhale, causing you to gasp faintly.
your chest sank, about to lower the gun. but he spoke again, this time whispering gravelly. “now… shoot when you want. it’s gonna recoil, and it’s gonna recoil pretty fuckin hard, so be prepared for that.”
he lowered his hands from your waist to grip your hips. the feeling made you breathe uneven, just one short breath that didn’t escape his notice. he smiled, but for once didn’t point it out. not now. he held you tight, not letting you move even an inch away. having your precious self this close was too good to not take advantage of. just feeling your body heat seep into his sent blood straight down. he breathed heavy through his nose, right in your ear, and he gave your hips a gentle squeeze.
you pulled, and a loud bang- one you didn’t anticipate to be so booming because of the rolling papers- rang out when you applied pressure to the trigger. and not even half a second later, the sound of the bullet hitting the stump met your ears. just as he said, the recoil shoved you back. right into him.
tree branches shook as birds fled from them, and you gasped loud. his arm came around you immediately, and ben snatched the gun from your hands harshly by the barrel, quickly flicking something on it down with a click. you heard his laughter in your ear, your heart pounding.
“ha-ha! fuck, baby, you hear that? you hit that shit dead fuckin’ center. that’s my girl.”
he tucked the gun away, adjusting you forcefully to face him. his grin was unmoving, plastered on his face shamelessly. he gave you a shake as he laughed, and after getting your bearings, you finally sighed in relief. you smiled coyly, your hand bracing against his chest. and when you saw your stunned reflection in his sunglasses lenses, you finally laughed alongside him.
“i hit it?”
“did you hit it? yeah, you fuckin’ hit it,” he rubbed your arm, ruffling your clothes. he pointed to the stump. “see for yourself.”
you looked over, narrowing your eyes to see better. sure enough, near the center of the trunk, a hole from the bullet was marked. you picked the balled up rolling papers out of your ears. you let out a disbelieving laugh, grinning, feeling a twinge of pride for yourself. you just shot a gun and hit your target.
you were pulled out of your thoughts by a large hand smacking your ass, the slap causing you to freeze. his laugh deepened by your ear, his arm around you caging. he adjusted you in front of him, practically manhandling you, your hair catching in the wind.
your face fell at the proximity. your chest pressed flush against his made eye contact difficult. but ben hooked his finger under your chin, his other hand sliding down to grip your ass and pull you even closer. that’s when you registered it. him, the hard bulge of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing into your hip. your eyes widened.
“my little sharpshooter,” he said fondly. he leaned in to kiss you roughly, his teeth knocking against yours. it was as brief as it was aggressive, and it left you breathless and squirming.
he grinned, plucking the joint he rolled out of his shirt pocket, taking it between his lips. his other hand found your ass again, and with half lidded eyes, ben rutted his cock against you, just once. enough to make you gasp.
“now, why don’t you be a good girl and bend over this hood for me?”
a/n: can u tell i’ve missed the shooting range. if sb was my instructor id never miss a lesson. ugh this is soooooo dialogue heavy i don’t usually write like this i hope it lands well. as i said in a previous post, fighting through my feeling of un-motivation. this was fun to write tho. more content to come, ily guys~~~
lowdown ☆ soldier boy discovers a deeply effective way to ruin your ability to form a coherent sentence. butcher discovers a deeply effective way to ruin everything else.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2574 ride style ☆ smut!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, pet names, hair-pulling, thigh-gripping, light restraint, possessive behavior, soldier boy being smug beyond reason, accidental supe yeeting
liv's log ☆ ya'll are getting fed. you're welcome 🤒
𐚁 .ᐟ masterlist ☆ join the taglist ☆ listen to the playlist ☆ support my work ᢉ𐭩
“jesus fucking christ, ben.”
your voice breaks around his name, which is humiliating enough without the low sound of satisfaction that answers it.
morning has been trying to happen outside the room for a while now. thin light slips through the blinds in pale, uneven lines, catching the heap of discarded clothes on the floor, the belt hanging half-off the chair, one boot abandoned near the edge of the bed like it made an attempt at escape and failed.
somewhere beyond the walls, the safehouse has started waking in pieces—pipes knocking, footsteps passing faintly down the hall, a cupboard opening and closing in the kitchen. none of it matters. not with soldier boy between your thighs, committed to making sure you never contribute a useful thought to society again.
he’s been down there for what feels like forever and somehow not long enough. the sheets are pulled over his head and shoulders, turning him into a broad, shifting shape beneath the fabric. you can feel every movement—the slow drag of his tongue, the press of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way his big hands hold your thighs open to prevent you from closing them.
you fist the pillow above your head, back arching when he licks a slow, filthy stripe from your entrance up to your clit and sucks gently.
the wet heat of his mouth is obscene.
he groans against you like he’s the one getting devoured, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.
“ben—” you gasp, hips twitching.
he doesn’t answer with words. instead he slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his tongue flicks fast and relentless over your clit. the dual sensation makes your toes curl.
you bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying not to moan too loud, but it’s useless. the sound slips out anyway, breathy and broken. under the covers he makes another low, satisfied noise. he’s fucking enjoying this. you can tell by the way he keeps pressing closer, nose buried against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough. his shoulders shift as he works you open, fingers thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays glued to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that has your thighs trembling around his head.
“you taste so fucking good in the morning,” he mutters, voice muffled under the sheet. he drags his tongue through your folds again slowly, collecting every drop of wetness. “could stay here all goddamn day.”
you reach down blindly and grip his hair through the fabric, tugging. just enough to tell him you’re losing your mind. he chuckles darkly and rewards you by sliding a third finger inside, stretching you open while his tongue circles your clit faster.
your legs shake harder. the coil in your stomach winds tighter with every wet stroke, every curl of his fingers against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.
you’re panting now, chest heaving, free hand clutching at the sheets beside you.
he senses it. soldier boy already knows exactly when you’re about to fall apart. he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and humming while his fingers fuck you deeper, faster, slick sounds filling the quiet room.
your body tips over the edge with an ugly, breathless gasp you barely manage to bury against the back of your wrist. every muscle draws tight at once, then breaks apart beneath the force of it. the sheets twist under your fingers. your head pushes back into the pillow. your legs clamp around his shoulders before you remember that breathing is generally considered useful.
ben keeps you there through it.
not stopping. not letting you squirm away even as you’re twitching and oversensitive, he keeps licking slow, lazy stripes through your soaked folds, fingers still buried inside you. gentle now, but insistent. like he’s not ready to let the moment end.
“ben… fuck, i can’t—” your voice is wrecked.
his mouth brushes your thigh once more.
“you can,” he answers, voice rough and smug under the covers. “give me one more, baby. i’m not done with you yet.”
you stare at the ceiling, hair messy against the pillow, chest rising hard beneath the shirt you never bothered pulling off. “you are so incredibly pleased with yourself right now.”
he pushes the sheet back just enough to look up at you. his hair is a mess, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark with pure hunger. the sight alone makes your stomach flip. he looks like he’s having the time of his life down there, cheeks flushed, stubble wet with you.
“you say that like i didn’t earn it.”
you let your hand fall over your face. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
he presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your soaked folds before crawling up just enough to rest his chin on your lower stomach. the sheet pools around his shoulders now, revealing the broad expanse of his back, the thick muscle shifting as he settles between your legs again.
you peek at him from beneath your arm, still trying to catch your breath. your body feels liquid, humming, but the ache is building again under his gaze. soldier boy looks up at you through his lashes, green eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening with your release. he looks obscene. beautiful. entirely too proud of himself.
he turns his head and presses a slow kiss to the inside of your left thigh. his stubble scrapes gently against the sensitive skin, sending a shiver racing up your spine. then another kiss, higher this time, closer to where you’re still throbbing and slick. his rough thumbs stroke soothing circles on the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you exposed.
you can’t look away.
his eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, watching every flutter of your lashes, every small twitch of your mouth. it feels more intimate than it should—the way he studies your face while his mouth worships your skin. like he’s memorizing how you fall apart for him.
“ben…” you whisper.
he answers by dragging his tongue in one long, slow stripe up your inner thigh, tasting the mess he’s already made of you. then he dips lower again, nose brushing just above your clit as he kisses the crease where your thigh meets your body. his breath is hot against your soaked center.
you feel yourself clench around nothing, aching for more.
finally, he lowers his mouth again. this time it’s gentler. almost reverent. his tongue slides through your folds in one smooth, unhurried drag, collecting the fresh wetness that’s leaked out of you since your first orgasm.
he groans quietly.
his thumbs keep stroking your thighs, rough pads pressing into soft skin, grounding you while his mouth works you open again.
you let out a shaky breath, fingers threading back into his hair. he hums in approval and pushes his tongue inside you.
the sensation is overwhelming in its softness. he fucks you with his tongue in slow, deep strokes—pushing in, curling slightly, dragging back out. wet, filthy sounds fill the room as he laps at you, savoring every drop. his nose nudges against your clit with every forward thrust, giving you just enough friction to make your hips twitch.
“fuck, ben…” you moan softly.
his eyes flick up to yours again. they’re half-lidded, drunk on the taste of you. he holds the eye contact as he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two thick fingers, sliding them in easily. then his mouth returns to your clit, licking slow, broad circles around the swollen bundle of nerves. the combination is devastating.
he doesn’t rush. every movement feels luxurious. his fingers pump in and out of you in a steady rhythm while his tongue traces lazy patterns over your clit—circling, flicking, then pressing flat and dragging up. every time your breathing hitches, he adjusts, finding the exact angle that makes your thighs start to tremble again.
you’re so wet it’s embarrassing. you can hear it. the slick glide of his fingers, the obscene sounds of his mouth devouring you.
your arousal coats his chin. drips down toward the sheets. soldier boy doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, it makes him more eager. he groans deeply when a fresh rush of wetness meets his tongue, like the taste of you is driving him insane.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against your pussy, voice thick. “give it to me, baby. let me feel you gush.”
his words send heat flooding through you. you roll your hips against his face, chasing the building pleasure. he lets you use him, eyes never leaving yours, watching with dark satisfaction as you start to lose control again.
his free hand slides up your body, pushing your shirt higher until he can palm one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between rough fingers. the added stimulation makes you cry out softly, back arching. the floorboards creak in the hallway. he pinches lightly, then soothes with his thumb, all while his mouth stays working between your legs.
you’re trembling harder now. the second orgasm is building slower than the first but deeper—a heavy, coiling heat low in your belly that threatens to drown you. your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging harder. soldier boy moans in response, the vibration making your toes curl.
he curls his fingers inside you again, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. his tongue flicks faster over your clit, matching the rhythm of his hand. the floorboard outside the bedroom door creaks a second time. closer. you can feel yourself getting wetter, slick sounds growing louder as your body prepares to give him exactly what he wants.
“ben—fuck, i’m close again,” you pant, voice breaking.
he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he presses closer, burying his face deeper between your thighs. his shoulders flex as he works you harder, fingers pumping faster, tongue relentless. his groans are constant. low and hungry, like he’s getting off just from the way you’re falling apart on his mouth.
your thighs start shaking uncontrollably around his head. your breathing turns ragged. the pleasure coils tighter and tighter until it feels almost unbearable. you’re right there— right on the razor’s edge, muscles locking up, vision starting to blur at the edges—BANG BANG BANG!
the sound tears through the room hard enough to punch every thought clean out of your head.
you jolt.
not gracefully. not in any way your body will forgive once the adrenaline wears off. one second, you’re hovering right on the edge of something devastating, fingers twisted in soldier boy’s hair, every muscle pulled tight around the promise of release. the next, panic fires through you on instinct and your legs clamp shut around his shoulders before shoving outward with considerably more force than either of you expects.
the sheet shifts violently.
the mattress jerks beneath you.
soldier boy disappears.
there’s a heavy thud beside the bed, followed by a silence so complete it feels medically concerning.
your eyes widen. your chest is still rising too fast, skin flushed, legs trembling from an orgasm you were approximately three seconds away from having before the universe decided you had experienced enough joy for one morning.
outside the door, butcher speaks with infuriating calm. “need you in the kitchen, love. five minutes.”
you stare at the empty space between your thighs where ben’s head had been moments ago.
then you lean cautiously over the side of the mattress.
soldier boy is on the floor. actually on the floor. one broad shoulder is pressed against the rug. the sheet has followed him halfway down and is now tangled around his waist in a undignified knot. his hair’s wrecked, mouth still wet, expression blank with the pure disbelief of a man who has survived bullets, explosions, decades of torture, and the collapse of several governments only to be thrown out of bed by a startled woman with questionable reflexes.
for one horrible second, neither of you speaks.
his eyes lift slowly to yours. “what… the fuck?”
you wince, still breathing hard, thighs trembling from the ruined orgasm. soldier boy is sprawled on the floor like a disgruntled greek god who just got kicked out of olympus. the sheet is barely covering his hips, doing nothing to hide the very obvious, very angry erection curving against his stomach.
“i panicked!” you whisper-shout, sitting up on your elbows. “butcher knocked like he was trying to break the damn door down.”
soldier boy pushes up on one elbow, glaring at you with pure betrayal. “you threw me.”
“i didn’t throw you.” you try, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.
he completely ignores you. “with your legs. i was two seconds from making you come so hard you’d forget your own name and you launched me like i was a fucking football.”
“you’re the one with super strength! how was i supposed to know i could actually move you?”
“i was distracted,” he growls, gesturing sharply at his glistening chin and the very obvious evidence of how thoroughly he’d been enjoying himself. “my face was buried in your pussy.”
your face burns despite the fact that modesty left this room a long time ago. “yes, benjamin. i was there.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
“oh, please. you survived.”
“barely.”
you stare at him. “you’re bulletproof.”
“not the point.”
outside the room, butcher’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. soldier boy pushes himself upright with the offended dignity of a man attempting to pretend he didn’t just get launched—nay, yeeted—off a mattress in nothing but a tangled sheet. he stands, muttering under his breath while he searches for his clothes.
you bite the inside of your cheek. “you know, training really has paid off.”
his head turns slowly. “don’t.”
“hips first,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “shoulder follows. fist last. apparently, legs are also very effective.”
“keep talking.”
“maybe tomorrow we can work on your balance.”
he catches his shorts from the floor and drags them on with an irritated movement. “you caught me off guard.”
“grandma at bingo all over again.”
his eyes narrow. “you think this is funny?”
you look at the sheet still hanging crookedly from the bed, then at his wrecked hair. “a little.”
“unbelievable,” he mutters, bending to retrieve his shirt. “my girl throws me off the goddamn bed seconds away from seeing heaven, and thinks it’s funny.”
the words pass so naturally beneath the rest of his complaining that you almost miss them. your mouth parts, but he’s already pulling his shirt over his head, too busy being insulted by the entire morning to notice the silence that follows. by the time his face emerges again, you have rearranged your expression into something far safer.
“butcher’s waiting,” you remind him.
he looks at you for a beat. then he steps back toward the bed.
“ben.”
“relax.”
one hand catches the back of your neck. he kisses you before you can argue, rough and unhurried enough to make your breath catch. the taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, warm and indecent, and the smug bastard knows exactly what he’s doing when he deepens the kiss for one lingering second before pulling away.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. “we’re evening the score later.”
then he walks out, leaving you flushed, disheveled, and staring after him while butcher calls your name from the kitchen again.
Summary: Four years after Dean disappeared, he comes back to find the life he left behind… waiting for him in the shape of a little girl with his eyes. Now it’s ghosts in the walls, love that never died and a second chance that might heal everything—or break it for good.
-requested-
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Warnings: Language
Word Count: 5353
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
The door clicked open softly, the smell of greasy fries sneaking in ahead of Sam. He was balancing a tray of drinks in one hand, a crinkled bag of burgers in the other, looking like the world’s most overqualified delivery guy.
Behind him, Lilah burst in like a firework and her arms full of a bouquet so big she could barely see over the top. “Daddy!”, she whisper-shouted, which defeated the purpose, but at least she tried.
Dean was in the armchair by the window, Henry cradled against his chest in a bee-print onesie you hadn’t even known existed. He looked tiny. Three weeks early had left him all delicate wrists and scrunched-up nose, but his little fists were pumping like he already had demands.
“Hey, Buzz”, Dean whispered back, his grin blooming despite the dark circles under his eyes. He nodded toward your sleeping form on the bed. “Shhh. Mommy’s out”.
Lilah tiptoed in dramatically. She stopped dead when she saw Henry. Her bouquet slipped dangerously sideways until Sam caught it, rolling his eyes fondly.
“He’s so small”, Lilah breathed, climbing up onto Dean’s knee without asking. Her little hand reached out, hovering, not quite daring to touch. “And he’s got bees!”. She giggled, pointing at the onesie.
Dean huffed, pressing a kiss to her curls. “Yeah, figured it was only right”. He shifted Henry carefully, angling him so Lilah could peek without squishing him. Henry squawked, tiny and impatient. Dean sighed, already reaching for the bottle he’d half-prepped on the side table. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you, kid. Give your old man a second”.
The baby squawked louder. Lilah gasped. “Daddy! He’s mad!”.
Sam set the flowers down on the counter with the food, shaking his head with a smile. “Guess impatience runs in the family”.
Dean muttered under his breath as he jiggled Henry gently, “Man’s three hours old and already yellin’ at me for bein’ too slow”.
Henry hiccupped, let out a high little cry, then latched onto the bottle the second Dean got it in place, still frowning even in his sleepiness.
Dean smirked, rocking him gently. “Attitude. Just like his uncle”.
Sam leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a faint grin. But the longer he watched, the more his brows crept up.
“You’re… actually feeding him”, Sam said, surprised.
Dean shot him a look, adjusting the bottle with care as Henry suckled noisily. “No, genius, I’m playin’ poker with him”.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean… you’ve got him swaddled right, you’re holding his head, the angle, hell, you look like you’ve done this before”.
Dean rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “The nurse showed me three times, Sammy. Three. I wasn’t about to screw it up in front of her and get that look”. He shifted Henry slightly, his palm cradling the tiny back of his son’s head, softer now. “Besides… not exactly rocket science”.
Henry let out a greedy little grunt, his eyes squeezed shut, fingers twitching like he was still arguing.
Sam grinned, unable to resist. “Still. Didn’t think I’d walk in and see my big brother like this”.
Dean glared at him, cheeks pinking as he instinctively slowed his rocking motion. “Shut up”.
Lilah giggled, leaning into Dean’s side and petting Henry’s blanket like it was a puppy. “Uncle Sam, Daddy’s the best bee daddy ever”.
Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, smile softening. “Yeah, Buzz. Looks like he is”.
Eventually you woke up slowly.
Dean caught your movement instantly. His eyes snapped up, that protective instinct kicking in before anything else, and when he saw you awake, his whole face softened. “Hey”, he murmured.
Lilah bounced once, careful not to jostle Henry. “Mommy! Daddy’s feeding him all by himself! And Uncle Sam brought fries!”. She beamed like it was the best news in the world.
Your lips curved, even through the heaviness weighing down your limbs. “I see that”.
Lilah tugged on Dean´s sleeve. “Daddy”, she whispered. “Can I hold him now? Please? Please? I’m big enough. I’m five”.
Dean glanced at you, the kind of look that said you hearing this? before sighing like a man already defeated. “Buzz… you gotta sit real still, alright? No wiggling. No spinning. He’s not a doll”.
Lilah gasped. “I know that! He’s Henry!”.
Dean chuckled under his breath, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe his life these days. “Alright, Buzz. C’mere. Sit right there—”, he nodded toward the foot of your bed, tone all mock-sergeant—“and grab that pillow”.
Lilah scampered over and plopped herself down exactly where he told her, dragging the hospital pillow onto her lap like she was preparing for a mission. She looked up at Dean with the wide, serious eyes of someone about to be knighted.
“Ready”, she whispered.
Dean’s mouth tugged into a grin he couldn’t fight. “Alright, big sis. Let’s do this”. He angled Henry carefully, cradling his tiny head with one big hand, and lowered him slowly onto the pillow in Lilah’s lap.
At the same time, you leaned back against the bedrail with your burger in one hand, fries in the other, and moaned around a mouthful. “Ohhh, Sammy, you’re a saint. Actual angel. Fries and a double cheeseburger? This is the real post-birth medicine”.
Sam smirked, flipping the top of the bag closed. “Glad to be useful”.
You swallowed down another bite and reached for a fry, your voice softer now, shy under the hum of machines and the quiet little family gathered around. “And… thanks for the flowers too, Sam”, you said, lifting your gaze to him with a small smile. “They’re beautiful”.
Sam ducked his head, ears tinged pink. “You deserve it”.
It hit you then how different this was. Lilah’s birth had been quiet and lonely, no one waiting outside, no warm food smuggled in, no laughter filling the air. Just you and a baby, scared. This time… this time you weren’t alone. And it felt like a weight had lifted you hadn’t even realized you were still carrying.
At the foot of the bed, Lilah leaned so close over Henry you were surprised her curls didn’t tickle his face. Her little hands stayed folded in her lap just like Dean had shown her, but her eyes were huge, drinking in every inch of her baby brother.
“He’s moving!”, she squeaked suddenly, looking up at Dean. “Daddy, look—his hand, it moved!”.
Dean chuckled low, crouched beside her, one steady hand still hovering under the pillow. “He’s sayin’ hi”.
Lilah’s mouth dropped open in awe. “He’s sooooo small”, she whispered, her whole voice reverent. “I can be careful. I’ll always be careful”.
-
Four weeks later, the rhythms of your life had shifted into something you never quite believed you’d have: messy and loud, freaking exhausting, but steady.
Dean was thriving.
Daycare drop-offs? He handled them like a bro. He’d walk into Lilah’s classroom with her bee backpack slung over one broad shoulder, her little hand swinging from his, and somehow leave with half the staff giggling like teenagers. Lilah loved it. “Daddy’s the coolest”, she’d declare when you picked her up later, already covered in paint and glitter.
At home, Dean had claimed the laundry like it was a hunt. Sorting loads with military precision, even if he still occasionally shrank a sweater or dyed the socks pink. Dishes? Done. Counters? Wiped. Floors? Well, floors were negotiable, but damn it, he tried.
Cooking, though? That was another story. The first two times he’d attempted a “real” dinner, anything beyond pancakes or scrambled eggs, the smoke alarm went off so loud Henry startled awake and Lilah declared, very seriously, “Daddy’s banned from dinner forever”. Dean took it on the chin, grumbling about “ungrateful critics” while you rescued the kitchen. After that, he stuck to breakfast duty and left the rest to you.
But where he wasn’t perfect, he more than made up for it with the kids. Henry, barely a month old, was already used to Dean’s arms. He’d settle faster against his chest than anywhere else. You’d find them in the recliner, Dean humming under his breath, Henry’s tiny hand clutching his shirt in sleep. Lilah, meanwhile, had her dad wrapped around her finger. Swing pushes, coloring sessions, elaborate Lego castles, he was there for all of it.
And watching him? Watching Dean Winchester turn fatherhood into second nature? It was enough to make your chest ache.
-
Today, Henry had been fussing all morning, the kind of colicky cry that made your nerves hum. Dean had scooped him up, one arm cradling the tiny bundle against his shoulder, bouncing gently while muttering under his breath about “how come I can take down a nest of vamps but one ten-pounder’s got me sweatin’”.
Meanwhile, Lilah had turned the kitchen table into a war zone of glitter, glue and construction paper. She was determined to make “welcome home banners” for Henry—never mind that Henry had been home for five weeks already. When the glue bottle clogged, she squeezed harder until the lid popped clean off. A geyser of sticky paste shot across the table. “Daddy!”, she wailed, throwing her hands up, now sparkly to the elbows. “It exploded!”.
Dean adjusted Henry with one practiced motion, the baby tucked into the crook of his elbow, bottle balanced in the same hand, while reaching for paper towels with the other. “Alright, Buzz, don’t panic. Nobody move. This is a Code Glitter”.
Henry suckled noisily, oblivious. Dean dabbed at the glue, grabbed the glitter jar before it tipped further, and tossed a fresh towel across the table toward Lilah. “Wipe what you can, and for the love of God, don’t sneeze”.
She giggled at his mock-serious tone, smearing glue across her cheek in the process.
By the time you walked in from swapping laundry, Dean looked like he’d been through a small war. Dean glanced up at you, hair mussed, chest rising like he’d just finished a hunt. “Don’t. Say. A word”.
-
Lilah stood in front of the mirror with her brand-new backpack. Bee-yellow with black stripes and almost as big as she was. Her curls were neatly braided (Dean’s work, of course; he was faster at it than you. Way faster), and she clutched Henry’s soft bee rattle like it was battle gear.
Henry babbled from his play mat, hands slapping at the toys, drool soaking his onesie. At eight months, he was sturdy and curious, already trying to pull himself upright on anything in reach, including Dean’s jeans when Dean crouched to tie Lilah’s sneakers.
“You sure about this, Buzz?”, Dean asked, his voice caught somewhere between proud and worried. “We don’t have to rush. School’ll still be there next year.”
Lilah rolled her eyes, the exact same way you did when Dean was being dramatic. “Daddy, I’m six soon. I have to go. I’m gonna learn to read big books and paint, and I already know my numbers”.
Dean’s mouth pulled into a smile that cracked at the edges. He tied the last knot and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Alright. But you better not forget about us little people when you’re famous”.
You swallowed around the lump in your throat as you helped her into her jacket. “You’re gonna do amazing, baby girl”.
The drive to school was quiet and heavy with anticipation. Lilah sat shotgun like always, her backpack buckled beside her, Henry gurgling in his car seat, kicking his feet.
When you pulled up to the school, the sidewalk buzzed with other kids and other parents. Lilah bounced in her seat, suddenly shy but determined.
“C’mon, Buzz”, Dean said gently, lifting her out. He crouched, adjusting her straps, brushing a curl out of her face. His voice cracked just slightly when he added, “Go show ‘em what a Winchester can do”.
She threw her arms around his neck, squeezing hard. “I love you, Daddy”. Then she hugged you too, carefully kissed Henry’s forehead, and marched up the steps.
You and Dean stood there long after she vanished inside. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. His eyes were damp, but his grin was boyish and so damn proud.
“She’s really growing up”, Dean murmured, forehead resting against your temple. “And we… we made it here. All of us”.
And for the first time in years, you believed it.
-
It was late-August. Your hallway smelled like coffee and pancake syrup.
“Shoes!”, you called, tying your own laces by the door.
“I have shoes!”, Henry declared, skidding in socked feet around the corner. Six now, all big opinions, he wore a tiny flannel over a animal tee, his backpack already sticker-bombed with cars and a single, stubborn bee. He held up his sneakers triumphantly and then, because he was Henry, tried to put them on without sitting down.
Dean caught him mid-wobble by the back of the shirt. “Easy there, Hot Rod. Park it”. He dropped to a knee and laced Henry’s shoes. “You gonna show first grade who’s boss?”.
Henry grinned, missing-tooth wide. “Already am”.
“Attitude”, Dean muttered, but he was smiling so hard it softened the whole line of his jaw. He flicked a glance over his shoulder. “Buzz? You almost ready?”.
Lilah stepped out of the hallway. Eleven: taller, wearing ripped jeans and bee pendant on her neck. Dean had braided her hair in two neat plaits that made her look like the exact midpoint between little-kid and almost-teen. She posed, deadpan. “Voted least likely to cry today”.
Dean pressed a hand to his heart. “Least likely to cry? You wound me, Buzz. After all I’ve done for you. Braids, rides, endless glue refills…”.
Lilah smirked, tugging her jacket straight. “Yeah, yeah. You’re slipping, old man”.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Old man?”. He shot you a quick glance. “Did you hear that? She called me old”.
You bit down on a grin. “Well… you did make that dad noise when you sat down last night”.
“Traitor”, Dean muttered, then turned back to his daughter, squinting in exaggerated menace. “Slipping, huh? You think just ‘cause you’re all middle-school fancy now, I can’t still—”.
Before Lilah could react, Dean swooped forward, scooping her up around the waist. She squealed, kicking her sneakers in the air, but he had her hoisted effortlessly. With one practiced flip, he had her upside down, legs dangling, hair flying like a curtain of curls.
“—do this?”, Dean finished, grinning ear to ear.
“Dad!”, she shrieked, laughing so hard her voice cracked. “Put me down! My jeans!”.
“You sure about that?”, Dean teased, walking in a slow circle. “’Cause I can keep this up all day. Gotta prove to you I’m not that old”.
“Mom!”, Lilah tried to appeal, upside-down face red with laughter. “He’s embarrassing me!”.
You leaned on the doorframe. “First day of school and already upside down. Pretty sure that’s a record”.
Dean patted her calf with mock solemnity. “Say ‘Dad’s not old’, and maybe I’ll let you down”.
“Never!”, Lilah yelled, still laughing, trying to twist herself right side up.
Dean just chuckled, tightening his arm around her middle like it was the easiest thing in the world to carry an almost-teenager. “Stubborn. Definitely my kid”.
He held her upside down a few more beats, her laughter shaking his shoulder. He grinned, but in his chest it twisted, because her laughter wasn’t the same high-pitched squeal it used to be. It was older now. Not the sound of a toddler or a four-year-old climbing into his lap with sticky fingers and curling up like a kitten.
“You’re heavy, you know that?”, he teased, spinning her carefully until her sneakers tapped the floor again.
Lilah staggered upright, cheeks flushed, hair half out of its braids. She swatted at his chest with one skinny arm. “You’re just weak”.
Dean caught her wrist, tugged her in, and kissed the top of her head before she could wriggle away. “Nah. I’m strong as hell. Just—”. He paused, swallowing something thick. “You’re not little anymore, Buzz”.
Her grin softened, just for a second, before she rolled her eyes in the way only an eleven-year-old could. “Duh, Dad. That’s how time works”.
Dean huffed a laugh, ruffling her hair even though he’d just braided it. “Smartass”.
But when she turned toward the mirror to fix her jacket, Dean’s smile slipped. He remembered nights on your couch, her tiny body stretched across his chest, her fists tucked under her chin, legs no longer than his forearm. He remembered her head fitting under his jaw, her weight a feather compared to the heaviness in his heart back then.
And now? Now she was almost as tall as his chest. Quick wit, her own world beginning to spin separate from his. He loved it, loved watching her grow into herself, but God, it pinched too.
“Hey”, Lilah said suddenly, catching his reflection in the mirror. “Don’t look all sad. I’m still your favorite bee, right?”.
Dean cleared his throat, his voice rough. “Always, Buzz”.
She smiled, satisfied, before starting to bounce toward Henry.
Dean reached out, hooked two fingers through the strap of Lilah’s backpack, and reeled her back in before she could escape down the hall.
“Dad!”, she squeaked, half-laughing, half-exasperated.
He ignored her protest, wrapping both arms around her in one of those bear hugs that pinned her arms. He buried his face in the crown of her hair, breathing her in like he had when she was tiny, when her curls still smelled like baby shampoo and syrup.
“Daaad”, she complained again, though there was no real fight in it. “You’re crushing me!”.
“Good”, he muttered into her hair. “Keeps you from growing too fast”.
She rolled her eyes, but after a beat, she softened in his arms. She let her head tip against his chest, her hands tugging lightly at his shirt instead of wriggling free. Sassy, yes, but still sweet. Still his little girl.
“I’m not little anymore”, she reminded him gently, like she knew exactly what he was thinking.
Dean pulled back just enough to look at her. “Don’t matter, Buzz. You’ll always be my kid. My first bee”.
That earned him a small, real smile. She squeezed him once, quick but strong, before stepping back and shrugging her straps into place.
Dean’s hand lingered in the air a second after Lilah slipped out of his grasp, the absence of her weight hitting harder than he’d admit. He cleared his throat, blinking once, and turned toward Henry.
The kid was already standing with his backpack zipped. There was no hesitation in his stance, no glance back for reassurance.
Where Lilah had always curled into Dean’s lap, Henry had been different from the start. He’d cry when he needed to, Dean had made damn sure both kids knew tears weren’t weakness, but even then, Henry cried like he had a point to prove. Quick, fiery bursts, then jaw set, fists balled, moving on before anyone could coddle him.
Dean saw so much of himself in the kid it hurt sometimes. That stubborn tilt of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked over a room like he was cataloguing exits, the quiet determination that made him seem older than six. It wasn’t that Henry wasn’t soft, he could be, especially with you, and sometimes when Lilah coaxed him into her games, but his softness was earned, deliberate. He didn’t give it away easily.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, watching Henry check his jacket pockets. “You good, Champ?”.
Henry gave him a thumbs-up, no hesitation. “Yeah. I’m gonna sit in the front row so the teacher knows I’m serious”.
Dean huffed a laugh. “That’s my boy”.
Lilah snorted, rolling her eyes but hiding her smile. “Of course you’re sitting in the front”.
“Where else am I supposed to sit?”, Henry shot back, all righteous indignation. “The back’s too far from the board”.
Dean grinned despite himself, heart squeezing tight. Lilah: soft edges, open heart, always reaching out. Henry: all Winchester grit, jaw set even when nobody asked it of him. Dean loved them both so fiercely it scared him, but in different ways.
One reminded him what he’d almost lost. The other reminded him who he’d been and who he wanted to be better for.
A few minutes later, Dean pulled onto the road.
After a while, Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel, glanced at the rearview, then at you. His grin tugged up slow, dangerous.
“You know”, he drawled, “Buzz’s got middle school now. Champ’s already takin’ over first grade. Feels like I blinked and they stopped bein’ little. Might be time we—”. He lifted his brows, eyes twinkling. “—made ourselves another one”.
You groaned, pressing a hand to your face. “Dean”.
Lilah snapped her head around, horrified. “Oh my God, Dad, ew! Don’t even say that! You’re ancient”.
Dean barked a laugh, one hand thumping the wheel. “Ancient? That’s cold, Buzz”.
Henry, without looking up from tracing the stitching on his lunchbox, chimed in matter-of-factly: “Babies cry too much. Don’t do it”.
You bit your lip to keep from laughing, shaking your head. “See? Even your son’s voting against you”.
Dean flicked a look at Henry in the mirror, mock-offended. “Traitor”. Then, softer, his hand reached over to squeeze your knee where it rested between the seats. “Don’t care how big they get, though. Always gonna be ours”.
Lilah slumped deeper into her seat with a dramatic groan. “Can you not be gross before school?”.
Dean chuckled while his gaze flicked to the mirror and caught your eyes and… winked—slow, deliberate and freaking shameless. Heat crawled up your neck instantly, and you had to look out the window before Lilah caught you turning red. Of course, she caught enough.
“Ew! Mom, are you blushing?!”, Lilah groaned, burying her face in her hands. “No. Nope. I don’t wanna know. I know how babies are made now and—ugh—I’m never forgiving health class”.
Dean nearly choked on his own laugh, coughing into his fist. “Health class beat me to it, huh?”.
Lilah shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Don’t. Don’t say another word. If you even think about talking about it, I’ll walk to school”.
Henry perked up in the backseat, curiosity written all over his little face. “What’s health class?”.
“Nothing!”, Lilah yelped, spinning back around so fast her braids slapped her shoulders. “It’s nothing, Henry. Don’t ask. Ever”.
Dean snorted so hard the wheel wobbled in his grip for a second but he recovered quickly with that boyish grin.
“Relax, Buzz. I’m not gonna—”, He leaned back more. “I’m just sayin’, me and your mom… „.
“DAD!”, Lilah shrieked, smacking the dash with her palm. “Stop! Oh my God, stop! I’m getting out right now!”.
Henry cackled from beside you, no clue what he was laughing at but thrilled by the chaos. “Buzz is mad”, he sing-songed.
Dean chuckled, but his smirk softened as he peeked back at Lilah, who had now yanked her jacket over her head like a makeshift shield. “Alright, alright. I’ll cool it”. He paused just long enough to make it suspicious. “But, you know, you’re gettin’ older. Sooner or later, we’re gonna have to have that talk”.
Lilah groaned dramatically, muffled by denim. “No. No talks. Ever”.
-
Two weeks later, the house felt too quiet.
Lilah was at Mia’s for a Friday-night sleepover with movies and nail polish, and the kind of giggle-storm that always ended with Sam texting you both “send help (kidding) (maybe)”. Henry had finally fallen asleep upstairs, warm and heavy with a little flu, the humidifier purring and the baby monitor whispering white noise through its tinny speaker on your dresser.
You were already in bed, propped on pillows, scrolling just to keep your eyes open. The bathroom door opened and Dean padded out in nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
He let himself plop onto the mattress beside you with an exaggerated groan, like he’d just hauled salt bags across three states. Then he flopped onto his back with all the theatrics of a man begging for attention. The mattress dipped, bouncing you a little.
You didn’t look up from your phone. Not once.
Dean cracked one eye at you, then huffed. “Seriously? My wife can’t even appreciate the effort? I showered”. He sniffed his shoulder pointedly. “Smell pretty damn good, if I say so myself”.
Still nothing.
“Unbelievable”, he went on, rolling onto his side to face you, towel gaping a little too conveniently. “I even shaved”.
That made you flick a glance up. His jaw was exactly as scruffy as it had been this morning. Your brows arched. “Uh-huh”.
Dean grinned. “Not here”.
Your phone slipped a little in your grip as you bit down hard on a laugh. He looked so goddamn pleased with himself, with his green eyes gleaming, waiting for you to take the bait.
When he saw you fighting that laugh, he smirked and propped himself up on one elbow. The towel slid a dangerous inch lower, his voice dropping into that husky, drawling tone you remembered from years ago. The one that used to make your knees weak back when you were too young to know what the hell to do with it.
“Y’know…”, he murmured, tracing one finger lazily up your shin, under the blanket, “all those years ago, you couldn’t keep your eyes off me either. Don’t think I didn’t notice”.
You tried to scoff, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you.
Dean leaned in, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Hell, I remember you lookin’ at me like I was already in your bed—”, his grin widened“—and we both know what happened when I finally got you there”.
Your breath hitched despite yourself.
He chuckled, low and satisfied, nipping at your earlobe before dragging his lips down your throat. “You were so sweet, so easy to ruin… And damn if you didn’t make me work to keep up after. I swear, you were tryin’ to kill me”. His hand slid higher up your thigh, warm and.. so heavy. “Still are”.
“Dean—”.
He pulled back just enough to catch your gaze. “Don´t Dean me like that. I put two kids in you, and I’m not done yet”.
Your pulse jumped.
He grinned and kissed the corner of your mouth before whispering against your lips, “Now, tell me again you don’t wanna find out how smooth I shaved”.
You tipped your head back against the pillow, glaring at him even as your lips twitched. “You’re insufferable”.
Dean grinned wider, his hand inching higher under the blanket. “Insufferable? Please. You were climbing me like a tree when you were barely legal. I’ve still got the scratch marks”.
You smacked his chest lightly, but he just caught your wrist, pressing your palm flat against his warm skin. His heart thundered beneath your hand.
“C’mon”, he drawled, his lips brushing down your throat again. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember the way I used to make you cry for it. Beggin’ me. Neighbors probably thought I was killin’ you”. He chuckled. “Turns out I was just teachin’ you how good it could feel”.
You sucked in a sharp breath, and he smiled like he’d won. “Still teachin’ you, baby. And you still can’t keep quiet”.
Aaand… you broke. You always did with him. Your phone slid to the side, forgotten, as you grabbed the knot of his towel and yanked. It fell open and Dean’s smug laugh turned into a groan as you wrapped your hand around him.
“Geez, sweetheart—”. His hips bucked into your palm before he caught himself, biting back a curse. “Fuck, I missed your hands on me”.
You smirked, kissing down his chest, and he tangled a hand in your hair, guiding you, half desperate, half reverent. “Yeah—yeah, that’s it. Damn, you’re gonna kill me tonight”.
The towel hit the floor. Dean hauled you under him, mouth hot and messy against yours, grinding into you through your thin sleep shorts. His cock pressed hard and insistent against you, making you gasp into his kiss.
“Tell me you want it”, he rasped. “Tell me you want me to put another one in you”.
Your answer was a broken moan, your hips arching into him, and that was all the permission Dean Winchester ever needed.
But when he hovered over you, one arm braced on the mattress, the other tracing down your side, from your ribs to your hip, his grin softened. His eyes roaming your face like he couldn’t quite believe he still got to be here, with you, after everything.
“You know”, he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw, “I could’ve had a lot of lives. None of ‘em would’ve been worth a damn if I didn’t end up right here”.
You swallowed, your fingers curling in his wet hair. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I let you in my bed”.
He chuckled before pressing his mouth to your collarbone. “You were way too good for me back then. Still are”. His lips trailed lower, lingering at the top of your breasts. “Guess I just got lucky”.
You shook your head at him, shy smile tugging at your mouth. “Shut up”, you whispered, and leaned up to catch his lips before he could say something else that would make your heart ache in that helpless way.
Dean kissed you back without hurry, like he had all the time in the world. His palm slid up to cradle the back of your head, thumb brushing behind your ear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his grin faded into something softer, something that lived only in the lines around his eyes.
“Not gonna shut up”, he said quietly. “Not about this”. He shifted so his forehead rested against yours. “I ain’t ever been good at the whole ‘big speech’ thing”, he murmured. “But I’ve spent most of my life running head-first into stuff that didn’t matter near as much as I thought it did. This—”, he gave a small, crooked nod toward you, the bed, the closed door, the whole life the two of you had built—“this is the best damn thing I’ve ever been part of. You. The kids. I love you, and I’m not gonna stop sayin’ it just ’cause I sound like a sap”.
Your eyes stung, but you laughed anyway, brushing your nose against his. “You really do talk too much”.
“Yeah”, he said with a huff of a laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Lucky for you, I mean every word”.
"I know", you whispered, the sound catching against his mouth as you kissed him again. “But stop talking for now”, you whispered, “and help me make another one”.
Dean’s laugh rumbled deep in his chest, warm against your skin. He brushed another kiss to your forehead, softer this time. “Yes, ma’am”.
A/N : hope chapt 2 doesn’t disappoint! (tried to get this out sooner but life kept getting in the way). also, there’s a twist i’m sure y’all won’t expect about reader but i was told i should add it into the story so hope y’all don’t hate it.
Reader’s P.O.V.
Somewhere between your past mistakes piggybacking onto your recent misery and thinking about the handsome stranger, you’re kept up for most of the night. You thought taking a cold shower would help clear your mind; It doesn’t. The only thing that brings you enough comfort to cross the bridge to unconsciousness is imagining meeting him again. So, you close your eyes and fantasize about how the end of your meet-cute should’ve gone, and it isn’t until four or five a.m. that you actually drift off. Though you were hoping that the man with whom you had a brief conversation would show up in your dreams—as if occupying your thoughts wasn’t enough—you didn’t actually think he would…
You slip from scene to scene, as if you’re Alice wandering further into Wonderland, trying to find the White Rabbit. After seeing a few things you’ll forget later, you’re back at the bar, like you’d never left. Your eyes flicker to the side of the billiard tables, but you don’t see him. Refusing to give up, you hop off your stool and weave through the crowd until it spits you out where he played before, but your luck is sour; He isn’t here. It quickly turns sticky the second you turn around and bump into a man’s chest, his beer jumping out of his cup and onto you. Are you fucking kiddin—?! Oh. It’s him, your mystery man!
“Shit, I am so sorry.”
He sets his glass on a nearby table and swipes a few napkins from the dispenser. His hand raises to clean you off, but when he sees your breasts, he pauses. His eyes widen, even more so when his gaze travels to your face. The fermented beverage slides down your chest and adds to your already drenched shirt, but you don’t seem to notice; He’s here!
“‘S okay.”
“You sure?” He discards the thin napkins before resting his hand on your lower back and pulling you toward his warm body. His eyes trail from your lips to your wet cleavage, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip before adding, “‘Cause I can lick you clean.”
Yes, please.
“O-oh?”
He smiles from ear to ear, not quite like the Cheshire Cat but just as mischievous. The man with enchanting green orbs holds you captive, and you hope to never leave. Audrey isn’t here to rip you from his trance, and you’re more than okay with it. His other hand cups your cheek, and you melt into his touch. The crowd around you fades away as his thumb separates your lips, and your heart beats faster. He leans down slowly and—
V-V-V-VROOOMM-M-MM-M-MM!
The sound of the starting engine yanks you from slumber. Your body jumps up as if someone threw a bucket of cold water on it. Panting heavily, your heart races, and your mind tries to reconnect with reality. What the?! What happened? One moment, you’re about to kiss the (new and nameless) man of your dreams, and the next you’re woken up by... Then you realize: the neighbor and his fucking car!
Audrey, whom you forgot was lying next to you for a second, groans in agony. “Is that..?”
“That jackass’s car!”
“Make it stop,” She turns away from the natural light shining in through the window, burying her head in one of your pillows. “My head’s killing me.”
“I‘ll go get you something.”
Hoping it’ll give you a distraction, you leave your room to fetch some Tylenol from the bathroom. As you open the drawer, the engine roars louder. You swear if it were any closer, it’d rattle the house. Calm down, you remind yourself as you slowly inhale. But then he goes and revs it one too many times.
“That’s it!”
You quickly brush your teeth and gather your hair into a messy bun. As you walk past your room, you blindly toss the pill bottle on the bed.
“Ow!”
Whoops.
After you storm down the stairs, your dad catches your peeved expression from the couch. “What’s up with you?”
“The guy next door,” You shout as you slip on your slides. “And his stupid car!”
“What about it?”
Huh?
Your eyebrows knit together as you try to wrap your head around his question.
“It’s loud!”
“So?”
Cue your widening eyes.
“So? You’re telling me it doesn’t bother you?”
“Not as much as it bothers you.”
“Well, I’m going to tell him something.”
You don’t wait for his response as you throw the front door open. Even when you hear his warnings to “leave him alone” and “get back here,” you pay no mind. This was the second morning he woke you up; You’ll be damned if you go through the whole summer like this. The sun is high when you step outside, and you can already feel the threat of a burn upon your exposed skin, but it doesn’t dissuade you. Your eyes land on your neighbor’s property, and there he is, in his driveway, sitting in his vintage car, revving that damn engine.
“Hey!” You shout from your yard, but he doesn’t hear you over the acceleration.
His car faces the street with the hood propped up, and his driver’s side door wide open, one foot in and one foot out. You stomp across his lawn, your rage growing with each step. The guy’s wearing jeans and boots in 90-degree weather, so you roll your eyes. He isn’t very bright, is he? Apparently not, since he doesn’t have an issue waking everyone up on a Saturday morning.
“Hey, asshole!” You stop beside the car you barely glance at, one hand resting on your hip while the other holds a fist at your side, just before he shuts it off. “Some people are trying to sleep!”
“Well, sweetheart, it’s after noon,” He gets out of his vehicle and closes the door behind him. “So I suggest, you—”
You gasp the second he turns around. Holy fuck—it’s him! Your Mystery Man. The one you would’ve let get away if you never saw him again! And given his abrupt pause and stunned expression, he recognizes you, too.
“No freaking way.” You mumble under your breath as your hand slides off your hip and your fist unclenches.
How is this possible? He’s your neighbor—and your dad’s best friend?! No, fuck no. He can’t be. After all this time...How could you not have known? How could he not’ve known?
“W-what are you doing here?” He asks warily.
“I live next door.”
“Wait, you’re not...”
Your father calls your name, and the man’s face drops before you. He really didn’t know. Unless he flirted with me anyway, knowing I was his best friend’s daughter. God, that’s sick. But it couldn’t be that of the latter; He looks as if he’s seen a ghost.
“Fuck,” he whispers.
‘Definitely didn’t know…
“I told you to leave him alone,” Your dad mutters before moving to stand between you and his friend. “Hey, man, sorry about my daughter. She has a knack for speaking her mind, even when she shouldn’t.”
“Like father, like daughter,” You mumble.
It takes him a second, but he shakes himself back into reality. “No, no. It’s fine.”
“Great, well, now that you’re both here: Y/N, this is—” Dean. “Dean. Dean, this is Y/N, my oldest.”
“Right...” He hesitates, and you wait for his next move. “N-nice to meet you.”
With a strained smile, he offers his large hand, the same one that had touched you last night. Your gaze shifts, watching it hang in the air, waiting for you to take it. All the anger you had built up has now disappeared, and in its place is amusement. You were never this lucky, yet here he was, practically at your doorstep. And with a smirk, you take his hand.
“You too.”
He could’ve confessed you two met the night prior, hell, you could’ve too, but you both knew better. Your dad would’ve killed you both on the spot if he knew of your shared conversation. It’s thrilling, really, the guy you’re interested in isn’t only your neighbor but most importantly, your dad’s best friend. The thought would’ve repulsed others, but not you, not when he looks like that. And, man, oh man, was he worth dying over.
Luckily, your father didn’t suspect a thing, even when he noticed the lingering shake. “Hey, you coming over later?”
His question distracts you from Dean’s dreamy face.
“What’s later?”
“Everyone’s coming over for a cookout.” He answers you.
By ‘everyone’ he means your family, his girlfriend, and some of her family. Great. Just what I wanted to do: socialize.Wait...if he comes over, I get to talk to him! Oh, he has to come.
“So, what’d’you say?” Your dad asks again.
“Uh...” Dean’s eyes avoid contact, looking everywhere else but the two of you. “I don't know...”
“C’mon, you’ve never turned down burgers and booze. Why start now?” Your father’s best friend glances at you, and your dad catches it. “She’ll be nicer, I promise.”
You roll your eyes, as if you were going to be mean to your hot neighbor now. Dean chuckles while shaking his head. What you wouldn’t give to know what he’s thinking. Was it good, bad, maybe both? Does he want nothing to do with you now that he knows who you are? More doubtful questions cloud your mind, but then he throws you a bone.
“Sure. Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Alright! ‘See you at 4.”
“Yeah, see ya.”
He pats Dean’s shoulder before walking back toward the house, and you follow to avoid suspicion. Like Lot’s wife, you can’t resist looking back, and you don’t regret that you do. He stands beside his car, watching you leave. You smile to yourself; Maybe you affected him just as much as he did you.
The moment you enter the house, you bolt upstairs. Audrey hadn’t moved from her spot from earlier, but that changed when you slammed the door shut behind you. She lifts her head in fright, then sees it’s only you. With a huge grin, you hop on the bed and bounce with excitement, like you were a child on Christmas morning, trying to wake up your parents. You shake her until she’s fully awake so she can give you her undivided attention. She’s alarmed as you jump with joy, but you can’t contain the exhilaration.
“Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshhhh!”
“What? What happened? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t!” You squeeze her arm and ignore her cry. “There’s no freaking way—!”
She snatches her limb away and gently rubs it. “What?!”
“The guy from the bar!”
“What guy?”
Oh...right. She was too fucked up to remember. Do I tell her the entire truth or just pieces of it? Be a good friend or rub it in her face that the hot older man shut her down and picked me instead? Decisions, decisions...
“This really cute guy came up to our table last night and started talking to me.”
Pieces it is.
“Really?!” She sits up with sudden interest. “What’s his name? How old is he? What’s he look like? Is he tall? God, I hope he’s tall.”
“I don’t know his name...or age...”
“What?!” Her eyes widen with shock. “Age, okay, maybe, but name?! How could you not know his name?”
“To be fair, he doesn’t—didn’t—know mine either. But I’m pretty sure he’s older than my dad.”
“That’s gross! What the hell did you guys even talk about then?”
You shrug as your cheeks turn pink, recounting the conversation. “We just flirted a little.”
“But y’all didn’t bother to catch each other’s names?”
”We were focused on other things.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is he even hot?”
”I’ve never seen anyone sexier than him. When I say this man could be a model...”
“Really?” Her brow raises with intrigue.
“Yes. I want to climb that man like he's a fucking tree and ride his branch until it breaks off inside of me.”
“Vivid. I’ll have to see him with my own eyes.”
“If you stick around for our cookout today, you’ll get to.”
“Oh! So you invited a complete stranger to meet your family the day after you met him? That’s bold. How would you even introduce him to everyone? ‘Hey, this is...Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. What is it?’”
“I didn’t invite him.” Before she can ask, you clarify. “My dad did.”
“Come again—Your dad did what now?”
“Yeah, turns out the man from last night is Dean.”
“Wait...” The wheels in her head turn, and then it finally hits her. “YOUR LOUD NEXT DOOR NEIGHBOR DEAN?!”
“Yes!”
“The same Dean who’s best friends with your dad?!”
“Yes!”
“You’re fucking kidding!”
“I wish I was!”
“How did you find out? When did you find out?”
“Just now. I went to yell at him about his noisy car, but I didn’t know it was him. So my dad comes out to apologize about me, then introduces us.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Did Dean say anything to you? Oh, God, please tell me he remembered you.”
“Of course, he remembered me. I’d be pissed as hell if all that talk of ‘you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,’ was just to get me into bed.”
“I think it was.”
“Bitch!” You shove her in offense.
“Ow!” Audrey laughs as she rubs her sore shoulder. “Jerk.”
You fall to your side, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. “If only he were the Winchester version.”
She lies down next to you and agrees. ”You have a (supposed) ‘hot’ neighbor named Dean. Take all the luck you can get.”
Years ago, you found a book series called Supernatural. It was a tale of two brothers who drove across the country, killing monsters and fighting evil. They were written by Carver Edlund, who, funnily enough, added himself into one of the books. Like a true fan, you had a few shelves in your bookcase filled with them. You were obsessed, even roping Audrey into the fandom.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” The doubts begin again, but you push them away as the aroma from breakfast being made fills your nose. “Let’s go eat.”
The hot air fills with the smoky scent of seared meat, the slightest breeze wafting it a few blocks down. The tiny waves the teens create playing a game of ‘Shark’ slap against the pool’s walls, hollering whenever they are or get close to being tagged. The adults stay dry on the patio and refresh with their drink of choice, finding shade underneath the canopy. Laughter fills the backyard as they wait for the food to finish, and you wish you could share their mood.
It’s a quarter to five, and everyone who had been invited showed, except for one: Dean. Your mind races with each passing minute, anticipation crawling over your skin. What was taking him so long? He lives next door! Why’s he the last to show? Unless he isn’t coming...
Panic shoots through you like it’s pain. Is he bailing because of me? Is this his way of cutting off what could’ve been something more? Wait, slow down. I just met him—but he’s so pretty to give up without as much as a taste! Get a hold of yourself, woman!
A war wages in your head, and you have half a mind to go over, knock on his front door to demand answers. Every few minutes, you glance toward his house and/or the gate to the backyard, and each time, it’s more disappointing than the last. Audrey attempts to keep you distracted. Your father even keeps you busy by tasking you with marinating the meat before handing it to him, as if you weren’t in the kitchen earlier making a series of side dishes, but you just become more anxious. What if I’m busy when Dean walks in? It isn’t as if you’d run up to him and make it obvious you want his attention, but you’re curious to know if his eyes would bother searching for you. You aren’t ready if they don’t.
“Y/N,” Your aunt calls, snapping you out of your daze. Uh oh... You walk over, more hesitant as the crowd prepares to feed off of your discomfort. Audrey follows behind, and your aunt smiles, curiosity in her eyes as she asks, “How are you? How’s college?”
“Good, really good.”
You know where this is going.
“Are you dating anyone yet?”
There it is.
Your eyes drop to the ground, hoping it’d tell you something other than the simple answer: no. “Um—”
“Hey, what’s up, man!” Your dad hollers from the grill.
Your head snaps up, and lo and behold, Dean walks into the backyard with two 6-packs of Margiekugel. His smile is hesitant as he scans the crowd, then he sees you, standing beside your seated aunt. Your heart races as his eyes linger a beat too long. Then, his gaze shifts as he approaches your father, ruining your ‘moment.’ He sets both packs on the food table, his smile growing brighter as he bro hugs his best friend.
He’s here! He came!
“That’s him!” You whisper into Audrey’s ear as your hand clutches her wrist tightly.
“Ow...” She mumbles under her breath, giving you a dirty look for squeezing too hard. You can’t help it; Excitement and anxiousness course through your muscles, making it hard to let up. She glances at the men, and the moment she looks at Dean, her eyes widen. “Holy shit, you weren’t kidding.”
“Told you.”
Now, with her free hand, she grabs your arm and squeezes just as hard, but you barely feel it.
“I can see why you want to climb him like a fucking tree. That man is hotter than a summer sidewalk at noon—and I’d still walk all over him.”
“Get bent, he’s mine,” You murmur as the guys walk over.
If a repeat of last night needs to happen for her to back off, you’re damn near confident his answer will be the same. A lopsided grin appears for a sliver of a second, recounting how he turned her down to pursue you instead. If he hadn’t already been staring at you, you would’ve flattened your prettiest dress and fluffed your hair. Audrey bumps your shoulder at both your response and your longing stare. It distracts you, making you look at her with brows knitted. She gives you a ‘can you be any more obvious?’ look. Right... You glance back just as they join, and your heart skips a beat.
“This is my good friend, Dean. Dean, this is...”
Your dad points and names each person in the backyard, beginning with the adults. Dean nods and smiles, taking in every name and explanation of relation thrown at him. You try desperately not to stare at the beautiful man, so you shift your gaze to the women who clearly had the same thoughts about him as you did. Most of them are married, and even so, you can’t blame ‘em. Your dad finally points to you, and your heart races once more, having Dean’s attention on you again.
“You remember my daughter.”
“How could I forget?”
Dear Lord...
Your smile threatens to take up your entire face, but you force it to be small, shy even.
“And that’s her friend, Audrey.”
“Hi!” She snatches her hand away from yours and offers it up to shake.
He looks at it for a moment before reaching over your dad to shake her awaiting hand. “How ya doin’?”
“I‘m fantastic. I heard Y/N’s new neighbor was stopping by. So glad you could make it.”
You throw daggers at her. This bitch! Who’s being obvious now?
“Oh, you’re their neighbor?” asks the youngest of your aunts.
He takes his hand back and stuffs it in his pocket, then redirects his attention. “Yep. Moved in last September.”
“Where are you from?” Your other aunt asks.
“Lawrence, but, uh, my dad’s a—was a marine, so we jumped around a lot. After he passed, my brother and I travelled around the states for a while. Finally decided to settle down.”
Awe.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.” “Yeah, that must’ve been so hard.” “You poor thing!”
The women poor out condolences, not saving enough for you.
“Wasn’t life on the road hard?” asks Audrey.
Your father retrieves two of the beers his buddy had brought, twisting them open before handing one to Dean, knowing he could use it.
“It had its moments, but I’m glad we did it.”
Leave it to your family to be snoops. Although, it works in your favor this time. The next several minutes are spent questioning everything about him: What does he do for a living? Where does he work? What are his hobbies? Is he in a relationship? Does he have any kids? Has he ever been married? Does he want to get married and have kids? All questions you couldn’t ask unless you were dating.
Most of the answers you already knew from your dad and brother, but the deeper questions had you on the edge of your non-existent seat. He’s a mechanic. He owns an automotive shop in town, just recently opened. He enjoys hunting and traveling. He is not currently in a relationship. He has no kids, just Miracle, his dog. He’s never been married. He was hesitant about answering the next question, and you could swear your heart stops when he glances at you. His eyes flicker away when he admits that he’s open to marriage and having children, then find yours when he says that he’s waiting for the right woman.
Holy...fuck...
Your palms are clammy, and your mouth feels dry. Was there a purpose to his look? Was he trying to tell you something? That maybe you still had a chance to go out with him despite the biggest cock block in the world: your father. Or were his glances just coincidental?
“Alright, food is ready!” Your dad hollers, breaking yours and Dean’s eye contact.
One by one, adults leave their chairs and beckon their offspring. Your cousin leaves her husband behind as she and your aunt pull Dean out of his seat and usher him toward the food table. Jealousy nips at you as their touch lingers on his arms. Though it shouldn’t have; He wasn’t yours.
They hand him a plate and don’t even ask what he likes. No, they pour him a lot of everything, telling him it’s good and that he’ll like it. Not given a choice in the matter, he nods. Your grip on Audrey had long departed, and you wring your own wrists in an attempt not to tell your family off. Luckily, your dad did it instead, shooing them away and allowing him room to breathe.
By the time they scatter, his plate is a mountain. Your father escorts Dean to the table beside you before asking you and Audrey to keep him company. He leaves you three alone, then joins the line. You gulp, not knowing what to say with everyone around. Dean sits at the head of the table, and as you take a step to sit beside him, Audrey steals your chair. Seriously? Before you can think of moving around to the opposite side, your brother rushes over and secures the spot. Seriously?!
You, too, had no choice and plopped next to your ‘friend’. Doesn’t matter, we gotta get food anyway. Jake begins a conversation with his buddy, ignoring the fact that he has a mouthful of food. Your face scrunches, ready to tell him off, but then you see Dean go and do the same thing. With a shake of your head, you dismiss the crude behavior. As predicted, your dad comes over and tells you and Aud to get food, and the moment she gets up, he takes her seat. You suppress a smile, relieved that you wouldn’t bear witness to round two of her throwing herself at him.
“Are you sure he just hit on you? Last night. He didn’t...I don’t know...flirt with both of us?”
Pretty damn sure.
“Far as I can remember,” You reply as you reach the food.
“Damn, what a shame.” She frowns before it’s replaced with a mischievous smile, singsonging, “You know, you could share—”
“Fuck off, he’s mine.”
Your voice comes out monotone, meaning the words, minus the harsh intent. She chuckles, not taking them to heart. “Okay! Got it. But just saying, if you guys ever want a third—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence, or Lord as my witness, I will throw up on you.”
“You’re fucking gross.”
“Thank you.”
You turn on your heel once your plate is full and make your way to the table, Audrey hot on your tail. The sound of Dean’s laughter fills the backyard, and it hits you square in the chest. His laugh is so precious that you could listen to it forever. You place your food beside your brother and glance at your neighbor. His smile reaches his eyes, displaying his crows feet. His grin was infectious and brought one to you. Before you can settle, your father asks you to grab a few drinks for the table.
Sure! I haven’t sat for hours, but why not?
With a sigh, you head over to the cooler, grabbing a few beers and the soda brands the table had shouted at you. You shiver, stuffing the ice-cold beverages in your arms. As you carry them back, the condensation dampens your dress, leaving you wet and uncomfortable. You bend over the table to set the drinks down, glancing at Dean in the process. His eyes peek at your cleavage, lingering for a second too long before his tongue swipes across his bottom lip. The action goes right to your core. His gaze shifts to yours, and the moment he sees you staring back, he looks away with embarrassment. Even in the shade of the canopy, you see his cheeks pinken. A secretive smile pulls at the corner of your lips, feeling a small victory.
As a distraction, the man points to his plate with a fork and compliments his friend, “This food is fantastic.”
“Thank my daughter,” your dad nods at you. “She made it. I just grilled the meat.”
You sit down, waiting for your thanks. Bet he didn’t expect that. He clears his throat after swallowing his mouthful. “‘S really good, thank you.”
“You’re so welcome.”
The moon had finally chased the sun out of town, and the stars watched over you and the guests who remained. You and Dean hadn’t exchanged a word since you ate, and it pained you more than you had imagined; You ached to speak with him, but the truth was, you didn’t know what to say, especially when others were present. Whenever the opportunity arose, someone engaged one or both of you in conversation, and you were defeated once more. Didn’t matter where you were or who you were talking to, you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him. You quickly realized you weren’t the only one. The women giggled and fawned over the captivating man, and you found yourself biting your tongue as they objectified him. The last thing you needed was to draw attention to your attraction and have your dad give you a whole ass lecture to stay the hell away from Dean.
You set your can on the table and remove yourself from the women’s circle, thankful your bladder gave you an excuse to leave. The noise from the party doesn’t dare follow you inside. Instead, it stops at the sliding glass door, anxiously waiting for your return. You glance at the stove, reading the bright blue digital numbers: 9:52. Though you hardly ever got tired before midnight, today took a toll on you. Your emotions were a rollercoaster from the moment Dean woke you up. Feelings, ugh!
Just as you exit the kitchen and round the corner into the hallway, your face is met with a broad chest. You stumble, and before you can worry about falling, hands grab your waist and pull you close. A deep voice apologizes, and you instantly clock it. You don’t have to see him to know it’s the man you dreamed about. The back of your head touches the top of your spine in order to see his face, his 6-foot-something height to blame. He towers over you, making you feel tiny yet oddly safe in his embrace.
Suddenly, the lack of oxygen within your lungs isn’t because of the collision. His darkened irises burn into you as intensely as the bonfire your dad began just before you entered the house. The goosebumps on your skin that were raised by the breeze outside now have a different reason to stand. Your heart swells as your body presses against his. His eyes trail to your lips, his own parting before he clears his throat and takes a large step backward. Without his warmth, you’re left feeling cold again.
“Sorry,” Dean repeats.
“It’s fine.”
“Right. Well, uh,” He points behind you. “I’m just gonna...”
“So that’s it?”
Dean stops in his tracks, hesitating before turning to face you. He stands there, clearly unsure of what to say, and really, you don’t either.
“What?”
What?!
“We’re really not gonna talk about last night?”
“No.”
No—ha!
“So we’re just gonna pretend like it didn’t happen?”
“Yep.”
Your eyes widen, taken aback by his reply, before narrowing in anger. This son of a bitch! His quick, confident answer slaps you across the face. You scoff as your arms cross on their own, more enraged than this morning.
The angel on your shoulder tells you not to be upset. You understand why he’d say that: you being his best friend’s daughter and all. If you guys got together and it ended horribly, not only would living next to each other be insufferable, but it would be extremely hard to look your father in the eye. There are many reasons not to hook up; the cons larger than the pros, but the devil on your shoulder said to screw every last one. You’re furious. Do you really mean so little that you aren’t worth the risk?
“Wow, okay. Well, fuck you.”
“Excuse me?” His brow muscles contract as he takes a step forward.
“You heard me.”
He snorts, nodding slowly. “All right.”
“‘All right?’ What a great argument.”
“What makes you think I want to argue with a child?”
“A child? Huh, okay, well, you wanted to fuck this child yesterday.”
He glances over his shoulder to look outside, fearful of someone overhearing your conversation. “That was...different.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. You weren’t Danny’s daughter then.”
“Right, just some random piece of ass you were trying to tap.”
“That’s not—”
“Bullshit! I bet you wouldn’t have called me after I left.”
“T-that’s not the point.”
“So what point are you trying to make?”
“Other than the fact that I’m your dad’s best friend? Your neighbor?”
“Big fucking deal! You can’t just pretend that what happened—”
“Nothing happened!” He blurts, frustration evident. He sighs, then peeks over his shoulder once again before continuing. “Look, just...we can’t, okay? Never.”
“Never?”
“Yes. Never.” You uncross your arms and lean against the kitchen island. “It’s better that way.”
“Yeah, for who?”
There’s no denying he’s thinking of your dad. Hell, so are you, but you’d be damned if you’re going to let him cock block you from having this gorgeous specimen.
“For...everyone.”
“No, it’s the easy option. You said you liked a good challenge, or was that just a lie to get me into bed?”
“That was before I knew what the challenge was.”
“No, you’re just an asshole who leads women on.”
He chuckles, but it’s anything except light. “Right, I’m the asshole who won’t screw his best friend’s daughter.”
“More like a pussy who lets others influence who he can or can’t see.”
“God—You know what? I’m grateful we didn’t fuck! I can’t even imagine the hell it would’ve been having to live next to you after. ‘Dodged a fucking bullet.”
A half gasp, half scoff falls from your lips. Your anger grows tenfold. It takes all your strength not to slap him across his pretty face. The devil shouts in your ear, demanding that you say something nasty, to cut him deep like his comment did to you. Instead, you listen to the angel, urging you not to ruin your relationship before it begins.
“Really? ‘Cause the way you’ve been looking at me all night says differently.”
“W-w-what? I—I have no—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Please!” You take a step forward, away from the island. “I saw you undressing me with your eyes.” Another step closer. You muster confidence from deep within and place your hand on his chest. “Don’t act like you don’t want me as much as I want you.”
His gaze shifts to your hand, and you hear his breath hitch. Before he can respond, the sliding glass door opens. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! His eyes widen, your hand falling to your side once he adds distance between you. He half turns, his back now touching the island like yours had, to look at who entered. With vexation, you peer around him to see who the fuck interrupted you. Your brow smoothens once you see your father. Shit.
“What are you guys doing?”
“Uh—”
“I was apologizing for earlier.” You lie.
“Really?” Your dad smirks, finding it hard to believe, yet amusing.
“Yeah,” You gesture to Dean like you didn’t just have a heated discussion and lie some more. “He was just agreeing to keep quiet until after 1 p.m.”
The neighbor’s head snaps toward you. You smile innocently on the outside, yet sinisterly on the inside, as you kill two birds with one stone.
“12:30,” He counters.
“Right,” Ugh, fine!
Your father nods slowly, and you know he’s trying to detect lies. He knew you hardly apologized. After all, you were hardly ever wrong, so there wasn’t a need to. You hold your breath, hoping he doesn’t question you two further. So, when he says, “Okay,” you exhale with relief.
“I should go let out Miracle.”
“Bring him over! We got some extra hot dogs he can have.” Your dad entices.
“‘Think I’m gonna turn in early.”
“Naaahh, I just started a fire! Everyone’s already sitting around it, having a good time. C’mon, I got a spot just for you.” He wraps his arm around Dean and ushers him outside, refusing to take no for an answer, just like you.
Once the sliding door shuts, you’re alone with your thoughts, reeling from the confrontation.
You exit the house and catch Audrey’s eye. She waves you over from the opposite end of the yard, saving you a seat around the fire. As you walk across the patio, you hear his bark before you see him. The terrier mix makes a beeline for you, springing up on his hind legs the second he reaches you. A smile lights up your face as the dog wags his tail happily, waiting to be pet.
“Hey, buddy!” You kneel, instantly ruffling his fur. “You must be Miracle.”
His paws move to your shoulders as he attempts to lick your face. You move your head, trying to avoid the slobbery kisses, but it’s no use.
“Sit!” Dean hollers, and the animal listens.
“What a good boy. Yes, you are!” You coo as your hands cradle his head, nails scratching behind his ears.
A beat passes as you shower Miracle with attention before Dean points out, “You changed.”
“Yeah,” After your bathroom break, you went to your bedroom to change into comfier clothes. “Couldn’t count on you to keep me warm, now could I?”
Dean looks around, hoping no one heard your comment. You aren’t worried; Like your dad mentioned earlier, everyone was already sitting by the fire. You stand and motion for Miracle to follow. He does and is rewarded with the leftover meat at the food table. The animal scarfs down every piece you toss at him, barely even chewing. You turn around with a piece of steak between your fingers, making eye contact with Dean before slowly pulling off a chunk with your teeth. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. After you finish eating your bite, you walk towards him, your eyes swiping over the crowd, confirming that no one else besides Audrey is watching.
You glance at the piece in your raised hand before meeting Dean’s stare. “Guess I gotta settle on other meat since you won’t give me yours.”
His lips part, like he wants to say something, but he refrains. After taking another bite, you leave him standing alone. You walk to your awaiting chair, your chewing suppressing your grin. If he’s going to give you a hard time, then you’re going to give him a harder time. He’s playing a very dangerous game, and he doesn’t even know it.
You plop beside Audrey, and she doesn’t waste a second asking, “What was that about?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“And who is this cutie?”
You hadn’t realized you had a new shadow. “His name’s Miracle, he’s Dean’s dog.”
“Well, aren’t you as handsome as your daddy!” She compliments in a baby voice as she pets the terrier mix.
Dean walks over to the only empty chair around the circle, reserved specifically for him. Your dad passes him another beer, and he accepts it with a thanks. You sit on the opposite end of the pit, having the perfect view of your hot neighbor. Part of you wonders if that’s why Audrey picked these seats. Miracle jumps into your lap, causing you to groan from the sudden surprise and added weight. He sniffs at your hand, then steals your steak, quickly devouring it.
Catching it all, his owner shouts, “Miracle, no! Get down!”
The dog ignores him. You giggle, your best friend joining in. Miracle licks your fingers clean of grease, replacing it with saliva. Gross. He settles in your lap before resting his chin on your arm. You’re touched; He hadn’t met you before today, and now he was cuddling into you.
“Miracle!”
“It’s fine,” You tell Dean with a warm smile. “We’re gonna be the best of friends.”
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DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST
✦summary: dean is strictly off limits, for so, so many reasons. It's a shame neither of you seem to care.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), dbf!Dean, angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, feral smut (blowjobs, teasing, dean's dirty talk, brat taming, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, face-fucking, Dean being a panty thief, finger sucking, jerking off, pussy slapping, lap sex, edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 12.3k✦
✦author's note: request from @circletreeme ! dean dbf for the girlies <3✦
Neither of you lasted as long as you should have.
It was something that never should’ve happened at all. He should know better, and you shouldn’t have pushed to see if he did. But Dean told you it was never going to happen, and then ten minutes later had you pinned against the wall with his knee pushed between your legs.
“Dirty girl.” He mutters in your ear, littering kisses up and down your throat. “Gonna cum on my thigh, aren’t you. That fuckin’ easy?”
You whimper, and pull at his hair. There’s a pressure, building in your lower stomach and demanding and impossible to ignore. Your eyes flutter, and you press your cheek in the side of Dean’s head. His beard is tickling and scraping over sensitive skin, his lips hot and wet. You’re barely more than a puddle in his arms.
“Deeean-“ You whine out, and he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight.
“That’s right, baby. Call my name, tell the whole house who’s got you in their lap-“
A door slams downstairs, and you shove Dean away just as fast as he rips himself back.
You’re both panting and flushed. You can see his arousal through his jeans, and your fingers are shaking too much to get a proper grip on your unbuttoned blouse.
Your father calls your name, the stairs creaking, and you shove Dean again.
He gives you an incredulous look, mouthing what are you doing?
Closet. You mouth back, pushing him again. The man is built like a fucking tree, it’s like trying to move boulder underwater. Get- “Get in the fucking closet-“
He moves, right before the door opens.
Your father smiles at you, glancing around the room. “You doin’ alright, kiddo?”
“Yep. How was work?” You bounce on your toes, shooting tiny looks to the closet.
He has no reason to check anything. It all looks perfectly innocent. There’s no clothing scattered across the floor or stench of sex in the air. Dean hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and the sweater that he’d ripped from your body is allowed to be on the bed, because it’s your room.
And it’s not like you’ve been known to do this kind of thing.
Sleep with older men.
Sleep with anyone.
You’re pretty sure if your father had to gamble on it, he’d put down money that you were going to die alone. Which isn’t entirely unfair. You speak to men like they’re dogs—because they are—and the last time someone asked you on a date, you spent the whole time staring them with an unimpressed expression and your arms over your chest.
It’s not that you’re rude. You just refuse to lower yourself just to please someone who can’t even do their laundry without Mommy’s help. And most college boys don’t even know their food groups. There’s protein, and green stuff, and candy. That’s it. It makes you want to bash your head into a wall.
But that’s how Dean got you.
Stupid, handsome Dean and his big hands and don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. Dean and the way he picked you up like you weighed ten pounds not to show of how much he can bench, but because you’d been standing in his way teasing him, and he’d needed to move you.
He’d placed you onto the counter of the kitchen with such care, and a stern, amused look. You’d gaped at him, heat flooding your cheek and all the blood in your body confused about if it should be curling in your fists and swinging, or pooling between your legs to help you hump him like an animal in heat.
“Not so mouthy now, are you.” Dean had drawled, and that’s when you’d known.
You were a goner. He had you in the palm of his calloused hands.
It worked, because you had him wrapped around your finger.
But neither of you were supposed to be close enough to even touch.
Dean’s your father’s best friend. They met in some old man club for people who like saws and drills or whatever. Maybe it was just a workshop. Or he fixed your dad’s car, and the dumbass fell just in love with him as you were.
Dean’s great. Dean and I got coffee. Dean showed me this new Thunderbird, think I’m gonna buy it. You can drive it, when you get home, maybe we’ll put the deed in your name. I’ll ask Dean if he thinks that’s a good idea. Dean thinks it’s a great idea.
Most of your Senior year had been spent getting calls and texts from your dad about how perfect and amazing Dean was. If he knew that the man was in your closet fighting a boner right now, he might end up more jealous than angry.
It still doesn’t feel like an experiment you want the results of. Some things are better left to the imagination.
“Work was good.” Your father shrugs. “You eaten dinner?”
“Um- No.” You need to stop looking at the closet. It’s suspicious. “I was actually going to go out, and- Eat there.”
“Do that tomorrow.” He waves a hand. “Dean’s coming over tonight, we’re gonna fire up my new grill, see how she cooks.”
“I know, I just- I wanted like Chinese or something.”
“Then get Chinese and eat with us-“ Your father pauses, and you swallow. “How’d you know Dean was comin’ over?”
Shit. You can almost feel him glaring at you through the closet. You’re supposed to be the smart one, sweetheart.
It’s his fault. You can still feel where he’d been teasing your sides, and it’s making your brain all stupid and fuzzy.
You know because Dean showed up early and cornered you in the living room. Because you’d done the stupid dance where you both pretend you’re not going to cave. You’d asked why he was here. He said he didn’t need a reason. You said he did, it wasn’t his house. He’d teased that he was always welcome. You’d rolled your eyes, and asked if he was sure about that. He’d leaned over you and murmured that you sure as shit seemed happy to see him. You’d just glared, because if you spoke you would’ve started to drool. He’d muttered that, for the record, he’d been invited for the drill. But that he was really here because he needed to see you.
Then he’d shoved his hand under your shirt and kissed you stupid.
You can’t tell your dad that part.
“You told me.” You say lamely.
You can almost hear Dean’s groan.
“Oh. Huh.” Your dad shrugs it off. Why wouldn’t he. “Alright. You gonna stay?”
It’s a horrible idea. If you stay, you’re going to spend the whole time grumpy because you’d been so close, and now Dean was feet away and unable to touch you.
“Sure.”
Fuck.
Your dad takes the victory. In his eyes, you’re sure he thinks it’s a miracle that his daughter wants to hang out with him and his friends instead of going out and doing young people things. You think he forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never been all that good at young people things.
And you’re certainly not going to burst his bubble by reminding him of that. Or the fact that of course you want to hang out with his friend. Sex on Legs Winchester. Even if you didn’t have something halfway started with him, you’d stick around just to ogle the eye candy.
“Am I just a sack of meat to you, princess?” Dean mutters when you tell him as much.
You bite back your smile, and shrug. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it?”
He fixes you with an almost awestruck stare, before chuckling and shaking his head.
“You’re trying to get me killed.”
“No, I’m not-“
“Yeah, you are. I pop a boner now, your old man is gonna rip my head off.”
“So don’t pop a boner, dumbass-“
Your words fall off in a tiny squeak, as Dean grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a deep, long kiss.
It’s far from the first time you kissed. That had been a night only a week after you’d moved back home—a long, torturous week of staring at massive biceps and imagine them wrapped around your neck, or beating yourself up in the sheets as you got off to the idea of Dean and his stupid, cocky smirk—when he’d been staying over so his house could get gassed for bugs or something. You’d smiled at him too sweetly. All his touches had lingered too long. You’d gone downstairs to get some water, and ended up on top of him on the couch.
You still haven’t slept together. Every time you get close, fucking something has to happen, and you stop.
But you’ve kissed so much you think your lips are molded to shape his.
You immediately turn to slack putty, in Dean’s arms. Kissing him back with frantic passion, leaning over his chest and moaning openly into his mouth. Your fingers find their way to his belt, then lower. Dean tips your head back further to deepen this kiss, and you paw at his bugle with a tiny whimper.
He hums, squeezing the back of your neck. “Behave.”
“Don’t want to.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.
“I know.” Dean pulls back, kissing one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You need some motivation, baby?”
You nod, fixing him with your best, doe-eyed stare. It’s the one that always makes him cave, even when he says he knows he shouldn’t.
But you both know you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing any of this. There’s a long list of reason that starts with your father’s best friend and ends with massive age gap that could be followed to prevent all of this. But you both seem to get a little blind, when you look at each other. Suddenly you can’t read and Dean—a man who’s all self-control and smooth, cool collection—stumbles over his feet like a highschooler.
He says that’s how he knew this was worth it. That you do things to him that no one else ever has. You blush and giggle and press your face into the crook of his neck, and for a little while you both forget the whole world. Sometimes you whisper that he does things to you as well. You’ve never wanted to wrap around someone like this and never let go.
And that overrides all logic and reason. It doesn’t matter what kind of rules there are. You want to break all of them, just to be closer to him for a few moments longer.
“You play nice tonight.” Dean whispers in your ear, tracing lazily up and down your spine. “Then I’ll help you sneak out. Back to my place.”
“Your place?” You sound a lot more pathetic than you want to be. You really don’t know how to help it.
“Mhm. And you know what’s at my place that ain’t here?”
You shake your head, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. It scrunches up, and his eyes shine with adoration. You’re never going to get sick of him looking at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Peace and quiet.” He mutters. “Just you, me, and nothing else.”
Your eyes widen, as you realize what he means. “Oh- Okay.”
“Okay?”
There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Like he needs to be sure you really mean it, even when you’re slack and folded into his arms, digging your nails into his biceps like you’re trying to leave a mark.
You nod frantically, and his shoulders relax.
“Okay.” He mutters, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You smile at him, and his throat bobs. “Behave.”
“I always behave.” You tease, and Dean snorts.
“Yeah. Alright.”
“I do. I’m very well trained.”
He chuckles, kissing you light and soft. You push up on your toes, trying to chase a little more, and Dean lets you. He always lets you.
“Don’t think you’re the one on the leash, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips, and you giggle.
“Dogs train their owners sometimes. With feeding habits and walk schedules.”
“Hm.” He leans back, a smile twitching on his lips. “Is this feedin’, or walkin’?”
And this is your favorite expression on his handsome face. The one where you can tell that he’s really trying to be annoyed with you, but can’t stop himself from enjoying your company. From looking at you like he wants to just lock the door and pin you to the bed until you’re giggling and beaming all the time. You’d be all for that plan, if your father wasn’t probably waiting downstairs, wondering why Dean’s running late-
Shit. Right. Your father.
“Actually.” You kiss over his beard, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s fetch.”
Dean snorts, and ducks down to kiss you again. You push him lightly back, and he stumbles like he’s been shot.
“Out the window.” You say sternly, pointing at the roof.
Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, one more-“
“No.”
“But-“
“Behave.” You mock, and he scowls.
“Son of a bitch.” He grumbles under his breath. He’s making a face like a toddler who just got his favorite toy truck confiscated for bad behavior. It’s rather adorable. “Gonna be the death of me, woman. Can’t believe I’m so in love with a fuckin’ brat.”
“Aw, you love me?”
You say it like it doesn’t still make your heart skip to hear it. Dean sighs like he let slip some grand secret, instead of something that he’s told you countless times in dark corners and in booths of bars.
He looks at the window. He’s back to pouting again.
“It’s gonna hurt my knees.” He whines, and you laugh, closing the space between you once more.
“Tough shit, Winchester. Should’ve tried to keep it in your pants.”
“But you make it so hard-“
“I know.”
That earns you a glare, and you giggle again.
You’re both so very bad at this. Dean should already be downstairs. You shouldn’t be goading him into saying longer, but you can’t help it at all. This is your favorite kind of teasing. The one where you end up folded under him with his pretty lips wrapped around your nipples and thick fingers stuffing up your pussy and toying with your clit until you’re whining his name.
Dean’s looking at you like that’s exactly what he wants to do with you. You’re smiling at him like you’re begging for it, and neither of you ever back down from the challenge.
Then your father calls your name from downstairs. And it’s like a bucket of ice water is poured over both your heads.
“Dean’s runnin’ late!” He shouts. “You should go get your Chinese now!”
You sigh, and Dean grimaces. The urgency doesn’t stop him from grabbing your face between his hands, and kissing you one last time.
“Tonight.” He mumbles like an oath. “Just you and me.”
You hum. “Only if I behave, right?”
“Sure. Only if you behave.”
And he says it like that because you both know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter how you behave. You could sit on his lap or rub your foot on his crotch under the table, and he’s still going to open the door when you sneak over. If anything, the question is just how big a price do you want to pay tonight. How far are you willing to push him, how greatly do you want him to snap once you’re alone.
You think you want him to lose it. He’s always extra pretty when he looks like he’s about to cry from frustration, and he’s never hotter than when there’s that dangerous gleam in his eyes that reminds you he could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.
God, it sounds nice though. Being Dean’s sack of potatoes.
He sneaks out the window, and flips you off after you laugh at him for groaning the whole time. He has to sneak down the block to get his car, and you won’t be here when he arrives. You have to go get your Chinese.
But after that, all bets are off.
Dean is worse at this than you are. The sneaking around.
You get stupid and nervous when your dad is around and Dean is hiding. You told me wasn’t your best moment, but it also wasn’t that far from your worst. And you know your dad. You know that he’s not really going to question most things he tells you, because even your more obvious excuses aren’t that suspicious.
But Dean’s a fucking dumbass.
He’s your dumbass. Your old, grumpy idiot who’s some kind of genius with a wrench and a circuit board and an engine, but who stares at the crossword puzzles you do and mutters that all those letters look fake. He could find his way home if you dropped him in the middle of the woods—you call him your pigeon, and he doesn’t think that’s half as funny as you do—but he also thinks that Michaelangelo is the Ninja Turtle and needs your help writing emails. One time you asked him when he’d last gone to the doctor, and he said some time in ’07. You’d smacked him upside the head and dragged him by the nape of his neck.
Later that week, he’d been grumbling to your dad about how the doc was making him cut back on steak. His cholesterol had been through the roof. He’d protested and bitched, but you’d grabbed his jaw and snapped that if he died, you were going to leave him.
So now he’s down to only two burgers a week, and you’re very proud of him.
Which is what he’d told your dad.
Not the you part—he wasn’t that stupid—but the doctor part. And how he’d been bargained down to two burgers in exchange for other things.
Blowjobs. You might not have fucked yet, but you’d done most everything else, and you’d talked him down from a three burger a week deal with the promise of blowjobs.
Which he’d told your dad.
Because he’s an idiot.
“You’re datin’ someone?” Your dad had said in surprise, and Dean had frozen.
On the couch, you’d rolled your eyes. God, he was so lucky you loved him to death.
“I- I- Uh-“
“Why didn’t you tell me? You coulda brought her over, I wanna meet the lady who finally got you to settle.” Your dad had snorted, his voice dropping so that you probably weren’t supposed to hear it. “Hell, if she gives good enough head for you to drop burgers, I gotta meet her.”
You’d felt sick. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, Dean had looked sick.
His eyes had flitted to yours in panic. You’d given him a tight, prompting look, and his throat had bobbed.
“She, uh- She’s real busy-“
“I got time.”
“Right. Good.” Dean had looked trapped. This was the only time you saw him really stumble over his words. When it came to you.
It would be sweet, if he wasn’t a few wrong words from getting shot in the head.
“She, uh- She’s just- You know- Women-“
“Where’s she work.” Your dad had asked casually.
Dean had gone pallid. “The… Place.”
“Place?”
“Bookshop.”
“Oh.” Your father had called your name, and Dean had looked seconds from passing out. “You know any ladies at the bookshop Dean’s age?”
You’d hummed, pretending to examine your nails. “Um… Maybe Matilda.”
Matilda is the lovely old woman who you share all your shifts with. She has five cats, two grandchildren she loves more than her dolt of a son, and knows that you and Dean are dating because she caught you making out in the nonfiction section a month ago.
Dean had glared at you, and you’d just smiled back. The fuck was I supposed to say? You’d tell him later. There’s only four of us, and two are high schoolers.
He’d gotten out of the bookshop jam by saying that she worked at a different place. Your father had bought the lie, but never dropped it. He never drops any of Dean’s slip ups.
Because every time you’ve almost been caught, it’s been Dean’s fault. There was the time your bra got found in the Impala, and when Dean’s brother knew about you before you were formally introduced, and when you’d been on a date and your dad had walked into the bar. You’d shoved Dean under the table, and the fucking dumbass had decided to kiss your thighs the whole time he was down there. You’d kill him if you didn’t love him. But you also think he’d kill himself if he ever really pissed you off.
But now your dad thinks Dean’s sneaking around with some lady from out of town, and you go to bars by yourself when you said you were going out with friends. And he’s a nice, nosy man, so he hasn’t let go of either fact at all.
“How’s your girl, Winchester?” He asks Dean over dinner, and Dean grunts.
“Good. Pissin’ me off, but good.”
You stick your tongue out at him behind your dad’s back. He’s just grumpy about the couch thing.
Your dad had gone to check on the grill, and you’d put your feet in Dean’s lap. He’d grabbed your ankles and hissed for you to behave. You’d smiled at him and moved them, before immediately crawling over him. You’d had a hand resting right against his crotch, and another grabbing at his chest. You’d kissed his cheeks and neck while he just grabbed your waist for balance.
“’M so wet, De.” You’d whispered, sucking a kiss right under his jaw. “Need you so bad.”
He’d made a strangled, almost pained sound. His cock had twitched under your hand, and you’d pressed down harder.
Dean’s fingers had flexed on your waist. You’d dropped your weight onto his thigh, grinding down and moaning against his skin.
You think, if your dad hadn’t come back the next second, he would’ve flipped you over and ripped off your skirt. But you’d heard the door open, and pulled easily away. Dean hadn’t been able to stand up for five minutes. You’d giggled and run your fingers through this hair, before following your dad out on to the porch.
So he’s a little mad at you.
You hope he stays mad at you. He always kisses you like an animal, when he’s a little pissed. Then he presses your face between your breasts and mumbles about how it’s not fair that he can’t stay mad at you, and it’s a better feeling than any high in the world.
Your goal for the night might be driving him so up the wall that when he finally fucks you, he rearranges your guts in his name.
It’s not going to be that difficult to do.
“What’d she do to piss you off?” Your dad asks, and Dean makes a face.
“Nothin’. Just- She gets mouthy.” He’s still glaring at you. You pretend not to see it. “And she likes to push my fuckin’ buttons.”
“You’re fun to rile up, buddy.” Your dad shrugs, totally oblivious to you and Dean eye fucking across the room. “Just take a deep breath and tell her she’s making you mad.”
Dean snorts. “Trust me. I think she knows.”
You beam at him and flutter your lashes. His eyes narrow, his grip on the counter going white knuckled.
He is fun to rile up. You hope he never works on that.
“You know who I saw at the store today?” You dad asks you, and you hum, poking at your chow mein.
“Who?”
“Gordon.”
“Oh, shit.” You look up. “How’s he doing?”
“Alright. Think he’s livin’ at home too. Surprised you didn’t know.”
“Well, we don’t talk that much anymore-“
“He asked about you.” Your dad shrugs casually. Too casually.
You know where this is going.
“Gave me his new number, to pass onto you. Said he missed you, all four years-“
“Dad.” You sigh, giving him a flat look.
He raises his hands. “I’m not sayin’ anything-“
“Yes, you are.”
“Well- Nothin’ that we gotta read into, but you two were always so close-“
“Dad-“
“Who the fuck is Gordon.” Dean grunts, and you flush.
He looks pissed. And not you just flashed him and he’s got a boner at the table pissed.
Really pissed. Like he wants to bite someone’s head off, but hasn’t figured out who yet.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“He’s- He’s just my childhood friend-“
“Childhood best friend.” Your dad corrects, and you’re going to fucking kill him and then yourself. “They were little bandits together, we all thought they’d end up datin’, but I guess they both got sidetracked.”
“We didn’t get sidetracked.” You mutter, staring at your plate.
You can feel Dean’s gaze burning into you. It’s almost impossible to look him in the eyes.
“We just- It was never like that-“
“Didn’t he take you to prom?”
“As friends-“
“You didn’t come home ‘till the morning-“
Something cracks, and you and your dad both fall silent.
Dean’s broken his mug. With his hands. One hand.
Oh, God.
You’re worried that if you stand up, there’s going to be a slick stain on your chair.
“You alright, buddy?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean stares at you, nostrils flaring. “You gonna call the boy?”
Boy. Not man, boy. And he says it so mockingly, it makes you feel buzzy and faint.
“No.” You try to sound normal, but you’re sure it comes out pathetic and dazed. “I- Um- We never-“ You glance nervously at your dad, and clear your throat. “Gordon actually ditched me for Anna, on prom night. That was- It was why we stopped talking.”
“Oh.” Your dad makes a sour face. “Well, I always knew he was gonna be bad news eventually. You deserve better, kiddo, and if I see him again I’ll give him a piece of my mind- I’m sure Dean will too.”
And you have to agree with that.
Dean looks like he’s about to go and smash Gordon’s head against the curb. Your dad keeps rambling about Gordon and kids not knowing what they want and how both he and Dean will make sure you never settle for less than you deserve. Dean keeps staring at you, and you’re sure that part is true as well.
Dean’s not going to let you settle for anything less than what you deserve at all. If he can help it, he’s never going to allow you to settle, period.
You really hope he knows, that it’s him and nothing else. Never anything else. Whatever confusing feelings you had eventually developed for Gordon had vanished when you were a teenager. You’d barely had a college boyfriend—more like a few loose options you’d kicked to the curb once you decided they’d lead to pallid and sickly futures—and no one in your life has ever made you care about a relationship the way Dean does.
And you really worry sometimes, that he doesn’t understand that. You try to remind him, but the age gap hangs over your heads like a sword of Damocles. He’s said before that there has to be better boys for you. Boys your age.
You don’t want a boy your age. You want a man.
You want Dean.
And from the look of him, you’re not sure he’d be able to stomach you with anyone else.
“I’m not going to call Gordon.”
Dean looks up from the sink. You’d followed him into the bathroom while your dad cleaned the grill, desperate to make sure he understood. You like him a little grumpy and mocking. It makes everything in your chest feel wrong, when he really seems upset.
“Alright.” Is all he mutters, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.
“Dean-“
“What?”
He gives you a challenging look. You swallow, and lean back against the door.
“I love you.”
The first time you’d said it had been all romantic and dumb in the rain. It had fumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he’d kissed you until your legs gave out. Even now, months later, it has the safe effect. Dean’s shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. Everything in him softens. Just for you.
“I love you too, princess-“
“No.” You whisper, pressing your lips in a tight line. “I really love you.”
Dean frowns. “Yeah, I know-“
“Dean.” You push off the door, your eyes locked onto his. “I love you.”
No one else, is what you tell him with your eyes. Just you. Always just you.
Dean blinks, his gaze raking over your body, then darting to the door. He rasps your name, because he knows you too well. He knows that glint in your eyes, he knows the sweet smile playing on your lips. He tells you all the time, that it almost gives him a heart attack. You close the distance in small, cautious steps. Dean clears his throat, looking almost desperate for you to take mercy.
You won’t. You need him to understand.
“Sweetheart, you can’t-“
“Yes I can.” You sink to your knees, and Dean grabs a fistful of your hair.
Your drag your hands over his thighs, and his swallows hard, a vein in his brow ticking as he tries to keep still.
“Come on.” He rasps. “This ain’t behaving.”
You shrug, slowly undoing his belt buckle. “Oops.”
Dean’s chest heaves, and a small groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss his crotch. You watch him under hooded lashes, pulling down his pants and taking his underwear with them.
He’s already hard. Thick in your hand and weeping from his slit, the angry red of his cock demanding your attention, even as he tries to talk you out of it.
“Baby, you- You don’t gotta-“
“But I want to.” You murmur, slowly pumping his cock with a light grip.
Dean grunts, bucking into your hand. His head is tossed back, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in pants. You stop stroking him, and he immediately looks back down.
“What’re you-“
“Can I?” You press your cheek into his thigh, letting your warm breath fan over his balls. “Please?”
You pout, just to be sure he knows. Dean never likes making you do this. He always whines on and on about how it should be about you, not him. He says he gets off just fine tasting you and making you cum on his fingers. You’re still trying to make him understand that just the thought of him fucking your face like a toy ruins your underwear.
You’ll be sure to show him after.
Dean stares down at you, gripping the bathroom sink and petting the top of your head. He lets out a ragged breath, closes his eyes, then drags them back open. You think he might be checking that you’re still there.
You’re about to suck his soul out of his cock. He’s not going to get rid of you that easy.
“You sure?” He mutters, and you nod eagerly.
“Please.”
A feral sound rumbles from his throat. His dick twitches, and he gives the tiniest nod.
“Is that-“
“Go for it.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, baby.”
You give him a flat look. He knows damn well, what you’ve got. And you can see him smirking, opening his mouth to say something cocky and smug about you biting off more than you can chew.
You don’t give him the chance, before you’re wrapping your mouth around his head and swirling your tongue.
Dean groans, his blunt nails scraping against your head as his whole body tenses. You hum around him and repeat the motion, again, and then one more time for good measure.
“Jesus-“ He chokes out your name. “Warn a guy- I- Wasn’t fuckin’ ready-“
You smile, pushing further down. You suck lightly, taking his base into your hand and pumping it in time with your mouth. Dean makes a sinful, deep noise that comes straight from your dreams. He croaks out your name, bowing his head and tugging on your hair as his cock pulses in your mouth.
“Baby- Fuck-“
You take your free hand and grab his balls, slowly massaging them as your mouth picks up the pace. Dean’s looking down at you like you fell from Heaven, right onto your knees for him, and him alone.
“You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that? Just- Lookin’ at me and- Shiiit-“
He’s losing composer. It’s what you live for. The way his eyes roll back and he starts to shallowly thrust between your lips, letting drool slip down your chin and pre-cum leak over your tongue.
“Mouth was made for me.” He grits out, his teeth bared and voice tight. “Pretty little slut, know you love this shit. You’re wet, aren’t you. Drippin’ all over the floor for me.”
You moan in agreement, and Dean slams his hips forward. His cock bruises the back of your throat and you have to relax your jaw to stop yourself from gagging. Dean tenses, his voice raw and strained.
“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“
You’re not having any of that.
Dean cuts himself off with another guttural sound as you push yourself forward. Your nose brushes his abdomen, your jaw unhinged to take all of him, and it’s still not enough. You stick out your tongue, flicking the underside of his cock as you squeeze his balls.
“Son of a bitch- You-“
You suck, letting your throat squeeze around the head of him. He makes another, feral sound, and tugs at your hair.
“Baby, shit- You’re so fuckin’ warm, and- You gotta get off or-“
He almost whimpers as you pull back, sliding off his cock with a pop and stroking it as you leave an open-mouth kiss on the swollen head. Dean’s fingers flex, and you know he wants to shove you back down.
You give him a soft smile, kissing down his shaft, then over his balls. You suck there for a second, still jerking his cock in your free hand, and he finally snaps. Pulling you back by your hair and giving you a wrecked, hopeless look. He’s trying to use his listen to me voice, but he seems to know it’s a lost cause. You’ve got him exactly where you want him.
He says your name like a prayer, and you open your mouth. Stick out you tongue, fixing him with a challenging glare.
Dean swallows. “You sure- Fuck-“
You flick your tongue over his head, squeezing the base of his dick tight.
Dean shakes his head, looking up like he’s praying.
“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, and you know you’ve won.
You keen as Dean’s grip on your hair tightens. He shoves you right down his cock, pushing against the back of your throat before yanking you back. You moan around him, your eyes watering from the overwhelming taste and force. You’re barely more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure, and that’s exactly what you wanted.
Dean barely able to think outside of where he’s fucking your mouth, making broken and worshipful sounds, calling your name with every thrust.
“Fuck, baby- Takin’ it so good, love you like this, choking on my cock. Look so pretty for me, wish I could take a picture- Fuuuckkkk-“
He tosses his head back, still watching his cock pump between your lips. He gets transfixed and babbles, coming apart above you as you just keep smiling and taking it.
“Pretty girl,” he grits out. “My pretty fuckin’ slut, sucking dick like a damn vacuum- Crying for me, baby girl, you need this cock that bad-“
You mewl in agreement, dizzy from the praise. You do need his cock that bad. If the thoughts weren’t being fucked from your head, you whimper that no one fucks your mouth like he does. No one makes you feel so holy and used all at the same time. You’re so wet you feel it every time you shift, so wet you’re worried he’s going to be able to smell it. But you love this. The taste and weight of him, and how no one gets it but you.
It’s almost pornographic, the way he’s taking your mouth. Your lips shine with spit and pre-cum, tears pour down your cheeks as his thrusts become jagged sharp, and sweat shines on Dean’s thighs as you keep working his balls. They’re getting tight and heavy in your hands. He’s about to loose it.
“Baby-“ He taps your cheek, words pushed out between moans. “Baby, I- I’m gonna-“
You sink your nails into his thigh. You’ve never failed to swallow before, and you’re not starting now.
Dean hisses out your name, but doesn’t stop. You moan around him, sucking as hard as you can to shove him over the edge.
He cums hard, shooting thick ropes of release down your throat. You unhinge your jaw, and manage to get most of it. But he always lets out so much, and a fair amount ends up smeared with your tears and dripping down his legs.
You pull slowly back, and start to lick up what you weren’t able to get on your first try. Dean hisses, sensitive from the orgasm, and strokes his hand through your hair. His gaze is fixed on where some had dripped down to your tits. You have a feeling that if you were really, truly in private, he’d shove his face into your chest and clean you up himself.
“You are-“ He lets out a broken laugh, as you smile up at him. “Something else.”
“You’ve told me.” You tease, and Dean rolls his eyes.
“Too proud of it.” He grumbles. “Like you want to be over my knee later.”
You shrug, eyes sparkling. Dean’s jaw ticks.
His thumb swipes over your cheek, where a little bit of the cum is still stained.
“Open.” He mutters, and you obey.
He presses his thumb between your swollen lips, and you take it with a happy hum. Dean groans, watching you suckle his release of his finger. You flutter your lashes at him. He pulls out, smearing spit over your cheek.
“I’m goin’ in an hour.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it. It sends an excited, electric thrill between your legs. “You better follow, or I’m comin’ here and fucking you in your daddy’s house.”
You nod like a bobblehead, unable to even find the words. Dean laughs and pulls you to your feet, kissing you harshly. It’s messy and open, possessive in a way you’d never found hot before you had him.
Other boys being possessive had seemed like they thought of you as a nice little toy they threw a tantrum over having to share. With anyone, even your friends.
Dean being possessive makes you feel priceless. Treasured. He’s yours, and he doesn’t want you to forget it. You can do whatever the hell you want, just so long as you remember that he’s yours.
Your dad is calling for you again. Dean slips out of the bathroom first—he doesn’t have cum and drool to clean off his face—but not before kissing your cheek and slapping your ass.
He says you’re going to be the death of him, but he’s bouncing around like he’s ten years younger. You’re the one who needs to clutch the railing as she walks downstairs. He didn’t even fuck you and it’s hard to walk from the throb between your legs.
You’d been right. You’d completely destroyed your underwear, turning it to just a soaked scrap of lace.
And Dean might have you begging at his feet, but you don’t roll over that easy. You pulled off your panties before you left the bathroom. You keep them bundled in your fist while Dean talks to your dad for the last hour, sitting on the counter with your legs crossed. When it’s time for him to go, he wanders over to give a perfectly innocent goodnight.
His eyes are gleaming, as he drawls see you around, kid.
Kid.
He knows you hate it when he calls you kid. And suddenly, you don’t feel bad anymore.
“Night, grandpa.” You say lightly, and Dean laughs, but it’s rougher than before. You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s planning out every single way he’s going to make you pay for that.
Then you stick out your hand, and he blinks. There’s a confused, cautious shadow over his face as he takes your hand and shakes it. You cover it with your fist, and slip your panties into his grip.
Dean pulls back with a frown, looks down, and coughs so loud he staggers. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Your father looks up from the sink with a worried face.
“You alright, Dean?”
“Yeah, uh- Yeah.” He stares at you, working his jaw. His words are pushed through his teeth, and you can see his cock, already straining through his jeans again.
His closes his fist around your panties, and shoves them into his pockets. Your dad asks him something else, but you don’t hear it. You’re fully fixed on Dean. On the dangerous promise in his eyes.
You’re in trouble.
Good.
Dean lives more than twenty minutes away, but you make the drive in fifteen.
You’re desperate, and past denying it. You’ve got the hottest man alive waiting for you and finally about to fuck you, anyone else would be breaking traffic laws as well.
It wasn’t hard to sneak past your father, especially because you failed to sneak past him. You got downstairs and found him watching TV. You’d thought he was in bed, and the blood had drained from your face.
“Dad, uh- You’re-“
“Just watchin’ Jeopardy.” He’d said, not looking away from the screen. “You going to Dean’s?”
You’d tripped over nothing, and choked on the air.
“I- I don’t- I’m not- What-“
“Don’t insult me, kiddo.” He twists, giving you a flat look. “I ain’t blind and stupid. He had a hard on the whole night.”
“Um-“ You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should run or just drop dead. “That’s- Maybe he was texting his girlfriend-“
“He never texts his girlfriend. He just texts you.”
You open your mouth, then close it. You’re dead. Dean’s dead. Your dad is going to kill him and you’re never even going to get to have sex, and that’s such a huge bummer because you’re just going to sit at his grave forever, and turn into a tree like some old myth, and then your dad is going have no one to talk to sports about. Everyone is losing in this scenario. It’s awful.
“Was it his fault?” You say, because it’s all you can think of. “That you realized?”
Your dad snorts. “Oh, yeah. I had suspensions-“
“Suspicions-“
“I caught you on a date.” He says your name dryly. “You said you were there alone, but his car was in the lot. He said he was datin’ a girl who worked in a bookshop. You’d been wearing his shirt to bed.”
Your mouth falls open, your cheeks burning.
“Oops.”
“Yeah. Oops.” Your dad sighs, turning back to the TV. “Realized when he let me call you on his phone. Dumbass opened the message thread for me and everything.”
Oh. Oh no.
Again, there wasn’t much outside of sex that you and Dean hadn’t done. Which, tragically, included sexting.
A lot of sexting.
Photos of you in lingerie and dick pics and voice memos and a lot of videos, and you’re going to throw up-
“You- You didn’t-“
“Saw more of Dean than I ever wanted to.” Your dad mutters, making a face like he’s also going to be sick. “Was about to punch him for sending that shit to you, but there was a voice memo with it. Listened for about ten seconds, almost got sick, realized it was at least mutual.”
You cringe. You remember that voice memo and photo, just as well as you remember your dad calling you on Dean’s phone because his was dead. You’d thought he sounded weird. You wished you hadn’t been so right.
“I’m so sorry-“
“He treat you well?”
You blink. You almost don’t understand the question.
“Of- Of course he does.”
“Hm.” Your dad frowns at the TV. “He gonna marry you?”
“Dad-“
“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugs. “If he’s puttin’ us all through this, he better hope he doesn’t break your heart. You know I was in the military.”
You almost laugh. “He was in the military-“
“I was ranked higher.”
“Dean was a marine-“
“You think I couldn’t kick his ass?”
You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you don’t have to, because he won’t break my heart.”
For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your father huffs, and slumps back into the couch.
“Good.” He waves a hand. “Have fun.”
You nod, then go still.
Have fun.
That’s… Approval.
Your dad knows about you and Dean, and he—begrudgingly, but that’s the best you can hope for—approves.
So that should be the first thing you tell Dean when you get through the door. That you don’t have to keep hiding. You’re rehearsing breaking the news your whole drive over, mumbling the speech under your breath when you knock on the door.
But then Dean opens it, and suddenly there’s only one important thing in the world.
Greetings are forgotten, as Dean wraps an arm around your waist and drags you into his chest. You whimper as his mouth slams over yours, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him further down.
“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left.” Dean groans, pulling your jacket off with scrambling hands. “Got in the car and wanted to turn around, sneak back through the window like a fuckin’ teenager- Jesus, you don’t know what you do to me-“
You surge up on your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulder and kissing him until you’re breathless and swaying.
“I- I know.” You whisper. “God, Dean, I know-“
He makes one of those deep, hungry, rumbling sounds, spinning you both around so he can kick the door close. You stumble closer, pressing him back against the wall as your pull his upper lip between your kiss. Dean grunts and crashed forward, grabbing your face between his hands and pressing back.
“Needy.” He mutters between open mouth kisses. “Needy fuckin’ girl, can’t even let me take a breath, can you?”
You tip you head back, your words breathy and high as Dean starts to kiss over your neck.
“You- You kissed me first.”
Dean hums, nipping at your throat. He’s dragging his hands down your sides, slipping one under your shirt to caress your spine while the other gropes at your ass.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Mhm.” You mumble, lost in the heat of his mouth. He’s sucking on a sensitive pulse point, letting his tongue flick over the skin, and he knows what that does to you. “De- Dean-“
“Guess I’m the one who couldn’t wait.” He says, but it’s mostly to himself. “Been dreamin’ of this for so long, sweetheart. You here.” He kisses further down, pulling down your shirt to get access to the top of your chest. “’Bout to be in my bed.” He bunches up the fabric of your shirt, and only his arm around you is keeping you upright. “’Bout to be on my cock.”
He hisses the last words before rushing back up into a starved, sloppy kiss. He rips off your shirt in the same second, before smoothly unclipping your bra. You gasp as the cold air hits your nipples, nails scratching at Dean’s neck.
“Shit- Dean-“
“I’ve got you.” He scoops you into his arms, kissing your cheek.
“Do you-“ You swallow at his flat, amused look. “Sorry.”
His lips twitch, and he doesn’t break your gaze as he walks down the hall. “You know, you always get mouthy when you’re horny.”
You scowl. “I do not-“
“You do-“
“No, I-“
Dean cranes his neck, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You respond in a second with a light tug of his hair, eliciting another pleased, low rumble from his chest.
He pulls back, and you chase him. Getting one more, quicker kiss that he melts into within a second.
“You do.” He rasps, nipping at your nose. “You turn into a real brat.”
You glare, ready to snap something that would only prove his point. But Dean grins, and suddenly you’re being dumped down onto his bed. You yelp at the sudden movement, wiggling and holding him tight enough to strange. Dean grunts, falling forward and barely managing to brace himself over you as you both crash down to the mattress.
“Jesus-“ He mutters your name, and you shove his shoulders.
“You surprised me-“
“You almost killed me-“
“Oh, you’re fine-“
“I’m old, that coulda broken my knees-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his face, pressing up for another stumbling, frantic series of kisses. You’ve kissed Dean pretty much everywhere—on his body and geographically—but this is always your favorite place. On his pretty mouth, under him in his bed. There’s nothing around you that isn’t Dean, and it’s intoxicating. The pine and spice scent of him, the heat of his body, the fact that he just lay here by himself sometimes. Thinking of you, the same way you think of him.
Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you up off the mattress. You hook your leg over his waist, flipping you both over so you’re straddling his lap and kissing him everywhere you can reach. You grind down onto his sweats, and he moans shamelessly, his fingers digging into your hips.
“You- You’re not wearing your fucking panties-“
“I gave them to you.” You mumble, pressing your ass down against his thickness. The fabric scrapes against your bare pussy, offering perfect friction, and you start to hump him like you’re in heat.
Dean drags his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up his chest. He lets you keep working yourself down on his bulge for a few seconds longer, moaning into your mouth as you tease him.
“Dirty, dirty girl.” He scolds, the mocking tone in his voice just spurring you on.
He knows you love it. That’s why he likes it.
“Walkin’ around in just a skirt.” He dips a hand under your skirt, palming at your bare ass cheeks. “Should’ve folded you over the couch to see it. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, bet it’s already nice and wet for me.”’e
He reaches further down, and you gasp as his fingers brush your cunt. He’s right. Of course he is. Dean might know your body better than you do.
“Shit- Dean-“
“Shhh.” He splits two fingers, rubbing them over the outer lips of your pussy before pinching them together.
You whine, trying to hump up into his hand, but he splays his palm on your lower back and presses you back down.
“Behave.” He grunts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fuck you how I want?”
He squeezes harder, his thumb grazing over your clit. Your whole body tremors, and you press your face into the crook of Dean’s neck.
“Ye- Yes.” You pant. “But- You’re not fucking me- You’re just- Oooh-“
He flicks his thumb this time, and it’s like a tiny electric shock. You don’t know how he always does this. It doesn’t matter if he’s got his hand between your legs or your pussy right on his face, he plays it like an instrument. It would make you scream if it didn’t feel so good.
“Well,” Dean muses, dragging his thumb in slow torturous circles as he starts to rub your pussy again. “I told you to behave earlier. And did you?”e
You shake your head, almost so overwhelmed from the attention on your core that you forget how to speak. “N- No.”
“That’s right. So I’m gonna fuck you,” he pulls his hand away for a second, landing a sharp slap on your ass before pushing it back. “When you remember how to be a good girl.”
You whimper, but don’t argue. This is what you’d asked for, with all the teasing.
You’d just thought he’d give it to you rough. That’s what behave usually meant. An invitation for you to test the line, if you wanted him to pin your on his mouth and make you cum under you were begging him to stop. Once it meant lying over his lap while he fingered and spanked you, and you’d cum so hard you saw stars.
But that’s not what this is.
You’re melted over Dean’s chest, and he’s being lazy and mean. He keeps playing with your pussy like it’s a cute little toy. Just brushing it and rubbing your clit with barely any pressure.
“Mo- More.” You plead. “I need more-“
You almost sob, as he pushes one finger just into your entrance before taking it away. You hug him so tight you think it must hurt, but he doesn’t even grunt.
“Look at that.” He coos in your ear, smearing a little bit of your arousal on your thigh. “You’re making a mess on me, baby. Just from a little bit of touchin’.”
“Was- Was not a little bit-“
“Wasn’t much.” Dean muses, landing a sharp slap on your swollen pussy. “But it never takes much to get my girl wet, does it.”
You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. You’d beg if you had the words, but right now you’re just trying to hold on.
“Everything makes you so horny.” Dean drawls, going back to rubbing his big, warm hand over your pussy. “Remember when we got ice cream? Had to fuck you in my car, ‘cause you couldn’t even wait to get to the damn house.”
“You- You were- You were wearing a really nice shirt-“
“Sure, princess. It was the shirt.”
“It was-“
Dean slaps your pussy again, and your words fall into a whine.
“You ashamed of the truth, princess?” He teases, right in your ear. “How you really wanted me to stuff you up, fuck you and fill you like the cumslut that you are?”
You keen, and you can’t stop yourself from humping his hand again. This time, Dean lets you. He knows you need it.
“That’s right, baby girl. I know you like that.” He bites your ear, and you wiggle your ass right onto his fingers, trying to force one or two inside you. “I remember how I came on your thighs. You almost got me to put it in that day. One more of those pretty pleases and I woulda caved.”
“De- Deeaan-“
“Kept those panties too. I got a whole drawer for them, just for when I miss you.” He kisses the side of your head. “And I always fuckin’ miss you.”
The tears start to flow, half from the debaucherous sweetness of Dean’s words, and half from desperation. If you don’t cum right now, you’re going to explode.
And you’re close. You’re so close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, but you’ve gotten the tips of Dean’s fingers to press onto your clit, and the sensitive little button is going to be enough to get you over the edge. He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it up, forcing you to meet his eyes as you work down onto his fingers. You sob in desperation, lips quivering and tits bouncing. Dean groans, pushing up to kiss you as hard as he can. And you’re so close.
Then the asshole stops.
He pulls his hand away, slaps your pussy, and stops.
You make a strangled, broken sound of defeat, and Dean just chuckles. He makes you both sit up, massaging your ass and kissing away your tears.
“Nice try.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “You think you earned bein’ able to cum?”
“Ye- Yes.” You pout hopefully, and Dean chuckles.
“Aw, sweetheart. You ain’t even mouthy anymore.”
You swallow. “I- I can be-“
“Jesus.” Dean laughs, and that pools right in you tummy, the embarrassment stoking an already raging fire.
Dean’s rubbing your sides, kissing all over your shoulders as breasts as you just try to breathe. You earned this. You really did. But god, it’s a perfect torture. He’s just kissing and touching you, in a way that would almost be innocent if you weren’t soaked wearing just a skirt and leaving a stain on his jeans.
“’M sorry.” You breathe out, wrapping your arms around Dean’s head.
He hums, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes flutter, and it’s hard to stay focused. He’s so warm, his tongue dragging in little circles. You swallow, your voice getting higher as he starts to suck.
“I- I’m sorry I teased you, De- I- Pleaseeee-“
Dean moves away, grabbing your jaw and holding it back for him to inspect. You give him your best, pleading expression and pray it breaks him.
He taps your lips with his thumb. “Open.”
You obey in a second, and Dean’s lips twitch. He leans down, and spits right into your open mouth.
He’s done this before. It practically makes you gush every time. And it doesn’t help that he’s wrapped all around you, watching you with such teasing affection as you take it so easily. You swallow, and blink up at him with a fucked out, dazed expression.
“Good girl.” He mutters, and you beam up at him. “Yeah, I know. You like bein’ a good girl.”
God, you do. And from Dean’s lips, the words feel like a rush of adrenaline.
“But you’re not gonna learn, are you?” He drawls. “Gonna keep me on my toes, running around trying to find places to fuck you that won’t get us arrested.”
“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you like me like that.”
That makes him laugh again, before he pulls you into a shockingly sweet, slow kiss.
“Damn right I do,” he mutters, before pulling back way. “Alright. Up.”
You blink at him. “Huh.”
“Stand up.” He nods to the foot of the bed. “Take off your skirt, ‘n come back.”
“But- You’re- You’re still-“
“Trust me, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the tip of your nose. “If I keep these pants on longer, Little Dean is gonna suffocate. I’ll take care of it.”
You giggle softly, and obey the command. The air feels cold, without Dean there folded over you. It’s just further motivation for you to push down your skirt and wait for his next request.
And you’ve been naked in front of Dean before. Many times, to varying degrees. But you’ve never done it like this.
Just… Bare. Wearing nothing and standing for him to see so clearly, as he pulls off his jeans and shirt then settles at the headboard. He’s taken his cock in his hand, and started to stroke it slowly. Looking you up and down with a lazy grin. Your skin prickles with anticipation, and with anyone else you’d try to wrap your arms around your stomach or shrink back and hide. And the first time you tried that, he’d pinned your hands over your head and fingered you until you squirted.
So maybe you should try it.
“Don’t even think about it.” He growls, when you move. “Wanna see you, baby.”
You swallow, shifting on your feet. “You can see me.”
“Hell yeah, I can.”
Dean’s gaze is burning into you. And it’s the most impossibly sensual thing you’ve ever see, Dean’s massive cock in his hand. The way it twitches and jumps as he touches it, as he watches you. He grunts, his hand staring to beat harder, and you press your thighs tight together.
It’s just you, that’s making him all flushed and hard. You almost start to drool again, thinking about crawling down the mattress and taking him back in your mouth. How he’d probably let you, with how he’s got lidded eyes and making low, rough grunts.
It’s a powerful, beautiful feeling.
But unfortunately, not enough to stop you from scrambling forward the moment he stretches out a hand.
Dean laughs, spinning you around so your back is tucked into his chest. His hand that hand been on his cock hitches up your leg, and the other wraps around your stomach, his fingers grazing under your breast. You tip your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and getting lost in the feeling. Dean, wrapped so fully and completely around you, keeping you nice and warm in his massive arms.
“Look at you.” He kisses along your jaw, fingers dragging over your sensitive inner thigh. “Nice and stupid for me already. Ready to be a pretty doll and take this cock.”
“Need it.” You breathe out, grabbing his forearm. “Pleeease, Dean, I’ve been waiting so long-“
You moan as he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, letting his cock slip and rub between your folds.
“I know you have.” He mutters. “Been waitin’ longer. Almost lost my mind, knowin’ how tight and warm you were but not being able to fuck you. Fuck you right, fuck you properly, fuck you ‘till you ain’t ever gonna remember another mans name.”
“Just you.” You manage to whine out, pushing your hips up to get a little more friction. “Always just you, Dean, don’t want anyone else, never wanted anyone else- Fuuuck-“
He pushes inside. It’s slow and careful, deft fingers rubbing your clit to help you relax. It’s not like much help is needed, though. He’s so big you can’t close your fingers around him, but he slips into your cunt like a glove.
“Shit-“ Dean groans in your ear, lips hot and wet on your skin. “Greedy pussy swallowing me up, baby, knew you’d take me so good, take me perfect-“
He bottoms out, pressing against a gooey spot deep inside you body. Nobody’s ever really hit it before, let along split you open so well it gets a consistent, throbbing pressure. His tip kisses your cervix, his breathing ragged in your ear, and you both need a few seconds to adjust.
You turn your head, trying to chase his mouth, and find Dean already there. He kisses you slowly, open mouthed with his tongue mapping every inch of your mouth. His arms are fully wrapped around your stomach, and you cling to them like a seatbelt. You’re lightheaded in the best possible way. Dean hums against your lips, and the sound vibrates inside of you.
You mewl, tossing your head back and clenching down. Dean hisses, and pulls you further back into his chest.
“Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“
“Sorry.” You whine out, turning your face to hide in his neck. “Just- ‘S big, Dean. So big.”
Dean chuckles. It doesn’t help.
“Big, huh?”
“Don’t milk it.” You grumble, and he laughs fully.
“I don’t think I’m the one that’s gonna be doin’ the milking, princess.”
He thrusts up, and you whimper.
“Dean-“
“That’s right.” He repeats the shallow thrust, and your moan gets loud. “Sing for me, baby, show ‘em who owns this pussy.”
“Y- You.” You stutter out. Your head is empty. You don’t think you can fit Dean’s cock and thinking at the same time. “Dean- Deeean-“
He attaches his lips to your neck again, sucking and kissing as he pushes you further down on his cock.
But he stops thrusting. He just has you… sit there.
On him. So full you can barely breathe, every nerve in your body stimulated but being offered no relief.
“What- What’re you-“
“Wanna keep you’re here for a while.” He murmurs, his kisses slowing. Becoming lazy and over attentive again, without giving you what you really need. “Just like this. My perfect fuckin’ girl, look at you.”
He taps your clit, and you try to arch up into the touch, but his hold is too strong.
“Fuck- Dean-“
“Just a little bit, baby.” He coos, rubbing your clit with the very tip of his fingers. “Just hold it for me.”
And God, you try. You sit on Dean and let him tease and touch you however he wants. He drags circles around your clit until you’re panting and whining, then moves his attention back up to your nipples. Tweaking and rolling them between his fingers, kissing over your neck and shoulders as his cock twitches inside of you with every lewd moans of his name.
“You like that?” He murmurs, and you nod.
Then he stops it, kissing the sob out of your mouth and moving onto something else.
He’s done this to you before. Had you in his arms and teased you until you couldn’t take it, then let you cum. But he’s never done it while sheathed inside of you. It heightens everything, making it impossible to think outside of his hands and lips and cock. His thick cock, not pressing against your ass, but buried in your cunt and still hitting all those sensitive places.
You’re on fire, and Dean’s just letting you build and build and build up to an explosive pressure. There are spots dancing behind your eyes, when he starts rubbing your clit in fast, brutal circles, then stops just before you can fall over the edge. You claw at his arms, wrecked beyond words, sobbing and trying to get away and get him closer.
For a second, you make the mistake of bowing your head. Your eyes flutter open, and you get a full view of Dean’s cock settled inside you. His balls pressed right against your ass, the way he almost fit everything in, but there’s still a bit of his base that didn’t make it. It’s slick with your arousal, dripping right out of your pussy as you whimper.
“De- Deaaan-“ It’s all you’ve been moaning, for who knows how long.
You’re so overstimulated, time is starting to blur. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe only five minutes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.
“Please- Please-“ You blubber, leaning back to look at him under tear-stained lashes, the words falling from swollen lips. “I- I’ll do anything, oooooh- Fuck-“
Dean gives a shallow thrust, and your whole body spasms. He’s watching under hooded, lust blown eyes. And if the starved, animalistic look in his eyes is any clue, if he doesn’t cave for your sake, he’s going to cave for his.
“You gonna be good for me?” He rasps, and you nod frantically.
“So good- Please-“
Dean kisses you again, but this time he shifts you in his arms. His arm wraps around your neck, pinning you fully to his chest in a headlock. Your eyes roll back, a dazed smile covering your face.
His movements are relaxed and controlled, but you can see the feral glint his eyes.
You won.
“Perfect fuckin’ pussy, making a mess all over this cock.” He grunts out, bending his knees so you’re fully folded into his lap. “Could die here, baby- Fuucckkk-“
He seems to lose his own voice, the second he starts thrusting up into you. A beautiful moan rumbles in your ears, and Dean presses his nose tight against the side of your head. You whimper, holding onto him tight, mostly to try and keep grounded.
Dean’s fucking into you at a rough, snapping pace, and this is what you’d expected, but it’s better than you could’ve dream. The feeling of every vein and inch of him being pushed though your cunt. The obscene sounds of his cock slamming into you cunt, his arm around you forcing your head back onto his shoulder, giving you a full glimpse of Dean as your pussy strangles and squeezes him.
He looks destroyed, panting broken praise in your ear as his lips droop and his mouth hangs open.
You push up a little, managing to get his attention with a whimper. He gives you a curious look, then understands in a second. His lips mold over yours, and you babble some cockdrunk nonsense against his mouth. You’re fully crying again, so lost in the pleasure that you can’t even find the shame to care. Dean’s drilling up, pushing every thought in your head away into a pleasurable haze.
He pulls your knees up higher, letting him hit even deeper than before. Each stoke is deep and rough, and you’d been worked up so well that your pussy is just weeping and taking him like you’re a fuckdoll. You feel like one, in the best possible way. Stuffed up and pounded with abandon, slicking Dean’s cock so that it drives right back into your like a toy.
You moan, letting your eyes close and drowning in the impossibly good feeling. You can’t believe you waited this long. If Dean fucks like this, you might never get off his cock again.
“That’s it,” he squeezes your breast before moving those sinful fingers back down to play with your clit. “Takin’ me so perfect, baby girl, just gotta cum for me- Cum all over my dick, show me how much you love it- Come on-“
That’s really all it takes. Dean’s everywhere around you, his cock bullying into that gooey spot, and your orgasms hits you so hard you think you black out. The heat that had pooled in your stomach explodes and floods all your senses, pouring out of your pussy as your hips buck and you squirm in his grip.
Dean groans your name, and his thrusts get tighter. Faster and more brutal as he chases his own release. It prolongs your own orgasm, forcing it to drag out as you vision dances with spots.
Dean slams home, turning your head to find another, bruising kiss, and now you might be ascending. He’s cumming deep, deep into your pussy, and the sounds get better as he fucks it back into you. Everything in you is so full, you think you might be about to burst with light.
You get a soft kiss on your brow, as his grip loosens around your neck. When he finally settles and tries to pull away, you fumble to grab his wrist, fixing him with a pleading stare. You don’t ever want to be empty again.
“Gotta take care of you, baby.” Dean mutters, kissing the back of your hand. “We can do more later. When you’re talkin’.”
You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, booping your nose. You wrinkle it, and he kisses the angry pout off your lips.
“Silly girl.” He murmurs, and just like that you’re melting again. “Like I could live with myself if I didn’t fuck you again.”
You flush, and roll over to hide it in the sheets. Dean laughs, kissing the base of your spine and slapping your ass before fully standing up.
And you learn another difference between boys and men. All the douchebags you’ve slept with before rolled off of you and started smoking or talking about something unimportant.
Dean gets you water, and coaxes it down your throat. He draws a bath and carries you into it, but not before making sure you pee. He changes the sheets and gets you clean clothing and brings you a snack, smiling at you and kissing the top of your head every single time.
“You’re like a maid.” You mumble once you’re back in bed, curled into his chest.
He laughs, grinning down at you. “Only for my favorite girl.”
“I’m your favorite?”
“Don’t be a brat.” He gives you an amused look. “Don’t think you’d be able to handle another round, honey.”
You sigh dramatically, flopping fully onto his chest. You prop your chin up, watching him watch you. There’s that quiet, unending adoration again. You wish you could see it every second of every day, instead of sneaking out and-
Oh.
“Shit.” You sit up, and Dean grunts, grabbing your waist to keep you steady.
“What, what’s wrong-“
“I- Um- You can’t get mad.”
Dean says your name in a low warning, and you swallow.
“My- My dad- He, um-“
“Sweetheart-“
“He knows!” You blurt. “He’s known for a while, actually, and it’s- It’s actually your fault, you showed him that dick pic and voice memo you sent me-“
“I what-“
“You did it by accident! But you still did it, and-“
“Which one did he hear?” Dean demands, and you cringe.
“The one about- About tying me up.”
Dean goes pale. He groans, tipping his head back and grabbing onto you like he thinks someone’s going to rip you away.
“God fuckin’- I’m dead-“
“No!” You grab his face with a smile. “You’re not! He’s fine with it!”
Dean blinks. “He is?”
You nod. “He- Well, he wants to know when you’re going to marry me, but- Um-“ You laugh nervously. Dean’s older. You just had sex for the first time. He probably doesn’t want to think about that yet. “You know. He’s chill.”
“He’s chill.” Dean echoes.
“Mhm. Except for- The marriage thing.”
Dean hums. He’s relaxed again, dragging his palms in slow circles over your ass. His lips pull into that lazy, satisfied smirk. You flush just from the sight of it.
“What?”
“Nothin’.” He squeezes your waist. “Just tell him to give it a few months.”
“A- Give what-“
Dean raises his brows. Your mouth falls open.
“A few months-“
“I know what I want.” Dean shrugs. And you can see it. Him watching you so, so carefully.
And you smile.
Because you do to.
“Yeah?” You whisper, leaning down to hover your lips over his.
“Yeah.” He mutters. “That alright with you?”
You answer with a kiss, and Dean grunts, immediately rolling you over. And this sweet, slow moment feels like it’s going to last forever.
You hope—you pray—that it does.
✦End note: honestly this might be one of my favorite i hope you enjoyed it.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Summary: Eighty-five years after Soldier Boy left you behind, he finds you frozen, kept as leverage, and drags you back into a world you never got to live. Far from Vought’s spotlight, you and Ben try to stitch a marriage back together from ash.
(sequel to "the softest thing")
Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader
Warnings: Language, angst
Word Count: 6657
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Seven months later, the quiet still felt borrowed. But it had held.
You and Ben lived in a small town outside Oklahoma where the roads ran flat and long under a wide white sky, where people still waved from pickups and left pies cooling on windowsills and minded their own business with the kind of stubborn politeness that passed for mercy. Vought barely existed there except as a name some folks had maybe heard once on a television they didn’t trust much anyway. Supes were city nonsense. News was what happened to other people.
So you got your quiet.
A rented little house with a porch. A kitchen with too much morning light. A bedroom where the dresser drawers stuck in damp weather. A church three streets over with white clapboard siding and a bell that sounded thinner than the one you remembered from home, but near enough.
You and Ben had built a routine because routine was safer than promises.
Coffee. Groceries. Laundry. He fixed things badly at first and better after you made him do them twice. You learned which modern food brands were edible and which ones tasted like punishment. He drove into town for hardware and came back with tools, soap, canned peaches, and once—absurdly—a bouquet of grocery-store carnations he shoved at you like he was handing over ammunition.
You had not let him kiss you much. Not really. A few quiet ones. Careful ones. Mostly when emotion got too large for words and both of you were tired enough not to fight it.
Touch had been slower still. A hand at your back crossing a street. His palm hovering at your elbow when the steps iced over. Fingers brushing yours over a grocery list.
Sex was nowhere near the table. He knew better than to push, though that didn’t stop him from trying his luck now and then in that shameless, infuriating way of his.
He was trying, though. God, he was trying.
With all the charm he’d still somehow kept. With all the rough-edged patience he’d had to teach himself. With all the, "But I’m your husband", he could pack into one glance, one muttered comment, one hand lingering a second too long at the small of your back before he made himself step away.
And every Saturday for the past seven months, Soldier Boy had gone to church.
Because you had insisted.
“You need to wash yourself clean”, you had told him the first week, standing in the kitchen with your arms folded while he stared at you like you’d announced he was joining a convent.
He had barked out a laugh. “Sweetheart, I don’t think a Baptist church in Oklahoma has enough holy water for me”.
“It isn’t funny”.
“No Baby”, he’d said, still grinning a little. “No, it really isn’t”.
Then he went anyway.
The first time, half the congregation had turned to look because even in a town that didn’t care much about the outside world, Ben looked like trouble in a dress shirt . Broad shoulders, hard face and too much confidence even when he was trying to sit still. He had looked personally offended by the hymnal and deeply suspicious of the potluck sign-up sheet. But he went. Sat beside you in polished shoes he hated and listened to the pastor talk about repentance while his jaw worked like he wanted to argue with God directly.
Now it was habit.
This morning, sunlight striped the bedroom floor through the curtains while you got dressed. The air already held the dry warmth of early day. You slipped into your long soft satin skirt, the pale cream one that moved quietly around your legs when you walked. Then you buttoned your blouse and tucked it in with careful fingers, smoothing the fabric at your waist the way you always did. Old school, Ben had called it once, half-teasing and half-awed, watching you pin your hair back at the vanity like the whole century ought to slow down and take notes.
Now he sat on the edge of the bed in dark slacks, bare-chested still, because he had not yet bothered to pull on his shirt. One elbow rested on his knee. He had been pretending to lace one shoe for the last minute and a half, but his hands had gone still.
He was just watching you.
You caught his gaze in the vanity mirror. “What”.
Ben blinked once, as if remembering his own face. “Nothing”.
“Benjamin”.
That made one corner of his mouth twitch.
“You want the truth?”.
“I assume I’ll regret it”.
His eyes moved over you again, slower this time. Not vulgar for once, not even really hungry, though that lived under his skin often enough. Something softer and fuller. The kind of look that made you feel seen in places you weren’t sure you wanted seen.
“You look beautiful”, he said.
The words came plain. No clever line. No grin built around them. Just the truth, and somehow that made them land harder.
You looked back at yourself in the mirror instead of at him. The blouse was modest. The skirt fell nearly to your ankles. Your hair was pinned simply, the way the older women in town wore theirs, though yours always came out a little softer around the face no matter how neat you tried to make it.
“It’s for church”, you said.
“As if that changes anything”.
You almost smiled.
From the bed, he exhaled and finally bent to finish with his shoe. “You know”, he muttered, “this has gotta be some kind of crazy ass joke”.
You reached for your earrings. “What is”.
“Me”. He tugged the lace tighter than necessary. “Sitting in a bedroom in Oklahoma on a Sunday morning—”.
“Saturday”.
He pointed at you without looking up. “That too. Getting ready for church while my wife looks like…”. He stopped, then glanced up with that familiar rough heat in his eyes. “Like that”.
You put one earring in and gave him a warning look through the mirror. “Behave”.
“I am behaving”.
“That was not behaving”.
“That was admiration”.
“That was trouble”.
His mouth twitched again. “Yeah. Maybe”.
You turned from the vanity to reach for your cardigan, and the movement made the satin shift around your legs with a soft brush. Ben’s eyes dropped to the sound. He looked for one second like a man remembering far too much all at once. Then he checked himself.
That part still struck you sometimes. The stopping. The fact that he could now. The visible act of reining himself in not because he feared your anger, but because he had learned, finally learned, that wanting something did not entitle him to reach.
He stood to pull on his shirt. White, clean, sleeves rolled once before he shoved his arms through. On anyone else the motion would have been ordinary. On Ben, even dressing looked faintly combative. Buttons did not deserve that much force, but he gave it to them anyway.
When he was halfway done, he looked at you again and said, quieter now, “You sure I’m not gonna burn alive in there one of these days?”.
You slid on your cardigan and picked a speck of lint from the cuff. “One can hope”.
That got a real laugh out of him.
Then, because he was still Ben and because every so often sincerity came out of him before he could catch it, he added, “I go because you ask”.
You looked up. He was standing at the foot of the bed with his shirt open at the collar.
“I know”, you said.
His expression shifted a little. “And because I like sitting next to you while you sing”.
The room went still for a beat. You hadn’t expected that. Maybe he hadn’t either.
“You sing loud”, he added, with a shrug that tried and failed to make it casual. “Not good. Just loud”.
You stared at him. Then you picked up the nearest hairbrush and threatened to throw it.
He held both hands up at once, laughing properly now. “All right, all right. Beautiful and loud”.
“Awful man”.
“Your husband”.
That could have irritated you. Some days it still did. But this morning the words landed softer than they once would have.
You adjusted his tie when he couldn’t get the knot right.
Neither of you commented on the intimacy of that.
Your fingers worked at the silk while he stood very still above you, looking not at the tie but at your face. You could feel his gaze there.
“Don’t”, you murmured without looking up.
“Can’t help it”.
“Yes, you can”.
“Not this one”.
You tightened the knot a touch more than strictly necessary.
He made a face. “Cruel”.
You smoothed the tie flat against his shirtfront. “Clean enough for church”.
Ben looked down at where your hands rested for the briefest second against his chest, then back to your face. Something warm and almost wondering moved through his expression.
You stepped back before it could become too much. He let you. Then he reached for your coat from the chair and held it open for you without a word.
Small things like that had become the shape of this new life. Not declarations. Not grand speeches. Just a thousand ordinary gestures done a little more carefully than before.
You slid your arms into the coat. He settled it over your shoulders without touching more than he had to. When you turned toward the door, he caught your wrist lightly and you looked up.
His fingers loosened at once, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours in that old restless way of his, hope and apology and want all mixed together.
“Can I kiss you before church”, he asked, “or is that sacrilegious?”.
You shouldn’t have laughed. You did anyway. And it surprised both of you.
Then, because he had earned at least this much, you tipped your face up. Ben kissed you softly. Just once. Brief and careful. His hand never left your wrist. His mouth was warm and familiar and still capable of stirring old grief and newer tenderness in the same breath. When he pulled back, he looked steadier somehow. Less haunted for the moment.
“There”, he said quietly.
You smoothed your skirt once, though it didn’t need smoothing. “Try not to fight with the pastor today”.
“No promises”.
“Benjamin”.
He sighed like the burden of righteousness had once again fallen unfairly upon him. “Fine. I’ll behave”.
You gave him a look. He reached for the front door before you could say anything else, opened it, and stood aside for you to step out into the Oklahoma morning first.
-
Over the next few weeks, you started fitting into the town a little better.
Not into the century. That still felt unlikely. But the town, yes.
You learned which grocery store carried decent flour, which older lady at church made a pie crust worth respecting, and which roads Ben should avoid if he didn’t want to get trapped behind tractors for twenty minutes and come home muttering about “agricultural tyranny”.
You also learned, unfortunately, that the world had invented something called smart TVs.
Which was how, on a Tuesday afternoon, you walked back into the living room carrying folded laundry and found Ben sprawled on the sofa, one arm slung over the back, watching the sort of thing that made you drop a dishtowel in pure outrage.
“Benjamin”.
He jerked like he’d been shot. Not because he was ashamed, exactly. More because your voice had hit that sharp note he had learned to fear. He grabbed for the remote. The television went black.
You stood there with a pillowcase over one arm and stared at him.
His expression shifted through guilt, annoyance, and the faintest trace of a grin he was trying very hard not to let happen.
“What", he said, too casually.
You pointed at the television. “In my living room?”.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s our living room”.
“That makes it worse”.
Ben rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Sweetheart, I was alone”.
“You were not alone. The Lord was here”.
That finished him. He bent forward with a laugh he tried and failed to hide in his fist, and you marched across the room and smacked the back of his shoulder with the pillowcase.
“This is not funny”.
“It is a little funny”.
“You need help”.
“I’m aware”.
You stood over him in full offended-wife splendor, cardigan buttoned, hair pinned up, and gave him a lecture so pointed that by the time you were done he had actually muttered, “Yes, ma’am”, just to get you to stop.
You did not stop.
But later that night, when you found the television parental controls mysteriously switched on and Ben acting like it had happened by divine intervention, you had to bite the inside of your cheek not to smile.
Another day, you discovered TikTok. This happened by accident, which somehow made it worse.
A woman from church had said, “Oh, honey, you should look up recipes on there” and you had nodded politely, only to discover three hours later that modern people apparently took cooking instructions from dancing girls, shirtless men, and women narrating casseroles in voices too cheerful to trust.
You were scandalized.
You were also fascinated.
So the next morning you announced, with great dignity, that you were making “that baked feta pasta everybody seems possessed by”.
Ben looked up from the newspaper. “The what”.
“Don’t mock. It has millions of views”.
He lowered the paper slowly. “You know what, that sentence alone tells me this century was a mistake”.
Still, he hovered in the kitchen doorway while you worked, arms crossed, watching you treat the whole absurd thing with way too much seriousness. Cherry tomatoes. Olive oil. A block of feta you regarded with suspicion. Pasta boiled properly because no internet person was going to tell you how to salt water.
When it came out of the oven and you stirred it all together, Ben leaned over the pot, sniffed once, and said, “That actually smells pretty good”.
You gave him a smug look. “I know”.
He took one bite that evening, chewed, and pointed his fork at you.
“Don’t get cocky”.
“You ate half the pan”.
Also, your mouth had grown back. Just in little flashes. A comment under your breath. A look. A soft answer with enough edge tucked into it to make him blink, then grin despite himself. Ben had started to live for those moments in a way he would never have admitted plainly. You could tell. Especially when you caught him off guard.
One Saturday after church, while he was trying and failing to fix the porch step without swearing in front of Mrs. Tallou next door, you stood in the doorway and said, “You know, for a man who spent years being called a hero, you are surprisingly bad with a hammer”.
Ben looked up from where he was crouched with the toolbox at his feet.
Mrs. Tallou covered a laugh with one gloved hand.
“You trying to embarrass me in front of the neighbors?”.
You folded your arms. “No. I think you managed that on your own”.
He stared at you for one beat, then laughed hard enough he had to sit back on his heels.
That night, he kissed you in the kitchen while the dishwater cooled in the sink and murmured against your mouth, “You’re getting brave”.
You had looked up at him and answered, very softly, “Maybe I’m just remembering myself”.
That had shut him up in the best possible way.
You baked more too. Partly because it calmed you. Partly because baking still made the house smell like something stable and decent and yours. Partly because in a world that had become almost too strange to hold in your head all at once, flour and butter and sugar still obeyed.
You made banana bread from another TikTok recipe and declared it “acceptable, though overpraised”. You made cinnamon rolls one rainy afternoon that had Ben standing in the kitchen pretending not to hover while they cooled. You learned that modern ovens ran hot and modern measuring cups were somehow more annoying than old ones.
And then one day, without telling him why, you made his favorite cake from the fifties.
Yellow cake. Chocolate frosting. A simple one. The one he had once loved so much he used to eat ate night in the dark kitchen while you were asleep. The one you’d made for his birthday the year before Vought gave him Compound V, when he’d come into the kitchen behind you in his work shirt, stolen a fingerful of frosting, and kissed your temple while you pretended to be annoyed.
He came in from the yard that afternoon smelling like cut grass and stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. For a second he only stood there.
Then he looked at the cake. At you. Back to the cake.
“No”, he said quietly.
You looked up from the counter. “No what”.
“That’s not fair”. His voice had gone rough in a way that had nothing to do with humor.
You wiped your hands on a dish towel. “Do you want a slice or not?”.
Ben crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough that you could smell sunlight on his skin and the faint soap from his shower that morning.
“You remember that?”.
“Yes”.
Something moved over his face too quickly to name.
When you cut him a piece, his hand brushed yours taking the plate. He looked down at it for a second like he was afraid of what it might do to him.
Then he took one bite. Closed his eyes. And had to set the fork down before he said, very low, “Jesus”.
You smiled a little. “Still good?”.
He looked at you over the plate, eyes too bright for something as ordinary as cake.
“Yeah”, he said. “Still good”.
It was a few nights after that when he asked about the baby.
The question came out of nowhere and yet, somehow, not out of nowhere at all.
You were in bed with a book open and unread in your lap. Ben sat on the edge of the mattress. He said your name first. Just your name. You looked up.
“I saw it in the file”, he said.
Your chest tightened before he even finished.
“The medical records”.
You closed the book carefully and set it aside. Your fingers stayed resting on the cover for a second longer than necessary. “I didn’t know for sure”, you said after a moment. “Not really”.
Ben didn’t move.
“I thought maybe”, you went on quietly. “I’d been late. Tired. But then… then it happened”.
He stared at the floorboards.
You looked down at your own hands in the blanket.
“For over two years before that, it never worked”. Your voice thinned around the old shame, still somehow alive enough to sting. “I used to cry in the bathroom so you wouldn’t hear me. I felt like…”. You let out a small breath. “Like a terrible wife”.
Ben’s head came up so fast it almost startled you. “No”.
The word came sharp. Immediate.
You looked at him.
“No”, he said again, softer now but no less certain. His jaw flexed once. “That was never on you”.
The old grief shifted inside you, surprised to find itself contradicted so forcefully after all these years. You looked down. “I know that now”, you murmured. “Mostly”.
For a few seconds neither of you spoke.
Then Ben rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, glanced at you sideways, and because he was still himself enough to reach for humor when the pain got too close, he said, “Well”.
You blinked at him.
He looked almost cautious now, which on Ben was a strange enough sight on its own.
“I’m just saying”, he muttered, “if we ever wanted to… take another crack at it, I do still remember the basic mechanics”.
You stared at him. Then your cheeks turned hot all at once. “Benjamin”.
He held up both hands. “What? I’m trying to raise morale”.
“You are impossible”.
“Not impossible”. His mouth twitched. “Motivated”.
You pulled the blanket higher though it did absolutely nothing to hide your face. “That was indecent”.
“Probably”.
“You should be ashamed”.
“I usually am”, he said, and then, because he saw the way your mouth wanted to soften despite yourself, he added more gently, “I meant someday. If you ever wanted. No pressure”.
The room settled around that. Your face was still warm. Your heart too. Because the truth was, for all your modesty and all the hurt still sitting between you, you had missed him. Not just the idea of him. Not just having a husband in the house or another body in the bed. Him close. His weight of attention. His mouth at your temple. His hand at the small of your back. The private softness that had once belonged only to the two of you.
You looked at him for a long moment.
Then you said, quietly, “You talk too much”. That made him grin.
But only a few nights later, it happened.
You had been lying awake listening to him breathe. You turned toward him first. His head shifted on the pillow, eyes finding you in the dim.
“You all right?”, he asked, voice rough with sleep.
You nodded once.
Then, because the words felt old and tender and humiliating and true all at once, you whispered, “I want my husband again”.
He went completely still.
Your hand found his wrist over the blanket. Warm skin. Steady pulse. “And I want”, you said, softer now, “to be your wife again”.
Ben made the smallest sound in his throat. He turned onto his side slowly, like any sudden movement might scare the moment away. Even then he didn’t touch you yet.
“Yeah?”, he asked.
You looked at his face, half-shadowed on the pillow beside yours, and saw how hard he was trying not to rush even this. “Yes”, you whispered.
His hand came to your cheek. When you leaned into it, his eyes closed for one beat, like that small permission had hit him harder than anything else.
Then he kissed you.
Slowly. Like he had all the time in the world to relearn you right. Your hand slid up into his hair. He shuddered at that, the reaction so immediate and honest it made your own eyes sting.
When his hand moved to your waist, it stayed light until you pulled him closer. When his mouth found your throat, it was with reverence instead of hunger first. When the old want came into him stronger, sharper, he held it back with visible effort until you asked for more in your soft, shy way that had always undone him worse than anything bold ever could.
It was not the same as before. It could never be. It was gentler. Sadder. More careful. Full of pauses and quiet checks and his voice rough in the dark asking, “Like this?” and “Feels good?” as though he needed every answer from your own mouth before he trusted himself to keep going.
And when you finally let yourself have him again, it was not because you had forgotten anything. It was because, for the first time in a very long time, he was loving you like your heart and body were both things worth protecting.
By the time it was over, you were utterly spent. You lay half across him with your cheek on his warm chest, one leg tangled weakly with his under the sheets, the summer-dark room smelling like cotton, skin, and the open window where the night air still moved the curtains in slow, lazy breaths. Ben’s heart beat strong and steady under your ear. Sweat cooled along your spine. Every muscle in your body felt loose and heavy, the kind of deep exhaustion that only came after being held too close for too long in the best and worst ways.
He had not stopped after the first time. Or the second.
By the end of it, more than an hour had slipped by in pieces too soft and blurred to count properly, and now you could barely lift your head. Your fingers rested uselessly against his chest. Even your scolding energy had mostly gone thin. Mostly.
Ben, unfortunately, looked far too pleased with himself.
His hand moved lazily up and down your back, broad and warm, while the other rested at your waist beneath the sheet. Every now and then his fingers flexed there like he still couldn’t quite believe you were really in his arms letting him hold you like this.
Then, in that low, rough voice that always sounded like trouble when it dropped into a tease, he said, “You alive there, sweetheart?”.
You made a faint, exhausted noise against his skin.
He chuckled under you. “Thought I might’ve fucked you tired”.
You lifted your head just enough to give him a glare. It was not your strongest glare. You knew that. He knew it too. That only made his mouth twitch.
“Don’t you start”, you murmured, voice breathy and ruined with tiredness.
“There it is". His grin turned lazy and shameless. “That face”.
You narrowed your eyes. “What face”.
“That offended little look you get when I say something, in your words, filthy”. His thumb brushed once at your side, absent and warm. “Cute as hell”.
Your cheeks heated at once. “Benjamin”.
The satisfaction on his face was immediate. He loved this. You could tell he loved this. Not just teasing you, but specifically getting you just scandalized enough to lecture him. Over the past months it had become one of his favorite games and he played it with the delighted patience of a man who had discovered a private treasure.
“You hear your voice when you scold me?”, he asked, entirely too smug. “All soft and breathy”.
You tried to push yourself up straighter and failed halfway, your arm giving out and dropping you right back onto his chest. Ben laughed outright then. Not cruelly. Warmly.
“You’re impossible”, you muttered.
“And you married me anyway”.
“I was young”.
“You still like me”.
That earned him another look, weaker than before but no less sincere.
Ben only smirked and brushed your hair back from your face. His touch gentled almost immediately under the teasing. That was the way of him now more often than not, mouth shameless, hands careful.
“Go on”, he said. “Tell me I’m indecent”.
“You are indecent”.
“Mm-hm”.
“And vulgar”.
“Sure”.
“And entirely too full of yourself”.
That actually made him grin. “There she is”.
You tried to stay stern. You really did. But exhaustion and warmth and the steady rise and fall of his chest under your cheek made it difficult to hold onto proper outrage for long. Your eyelids had gone heavy again. The room had softened at the edges. His hand kept moving in that slow rhythm over your back, making it even harder to remember why you were meant to be offended.
Ben noticed the exact moment your body started melting back into him.
His voice changed with it, dropping lower, softer. “Tired?”.
You let out a tiny hum that was probably yes.
He pressed his mouth to the top of your head. “Yeah. Thought so”.
-
Over the next few months, Ben stopped pretending he could keep his hands to himself. And you stopped pretending you wanted him to.
It was small and constant. His palm on your lower back when you passed him in the kitchen, his mouth finding the back of your neck while you stirred a pot, his fingers sliding into your hand like he owned the right to comfort now and wasn’t wasting it. He was still cocky about it too, because of course he was.
You’d be rolling dough, flour on your cheek, and he’d lean in and murmur something filthy-soft in your ear just to watch you freeze, scandalized. Then you’d swat him with the dish towel and hiss, “Benjamin”, and he’d grin like that was his favorite hymn.
He stayed gentle with you. Always checking without making a big show of it, always in control in a way he hadn’t been decades ago. But he was still so… him. All muscle and heat, that masculine smell of soap and sweat and sun, shoulders filling doorways, voice so deep when he was amused. It made it easy to be soft again. Easy to be your feminine self, not because he demanded it, but because he made room for it like it was precious.
Some mornings you didn’t even make it to coffee before he’d catch you around the waist, pull you back against him, and mutter, “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart”, like you were the problem.
And you’d roll your eyes and say, “Then go be strong somewhere else”.
He never did.
He took you shopping in the next town over like it was a mission.
He was weirdly into checking the modern world’s lingerie while you stood in front of a rack of ripped jeans looking like you might faint.
That made his mouth twitch. “Try ‘em on”.
You did, because he was your husband and because, annoyingly, the jeans fit. You came out of the dressing room stiff as a board, tugging the hem of the too-short shirt downward.
Ben leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, eyes dragging over you like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah”, he said, smug. “You look hot”.
You narrowed your eyes. “I look like I’m auditioning for sin”.
“Same thing”.
You threw the hanger at him. He caught it and laughed like he’d won.
Then you found a little 50s-style dress with soft fabric, modest neckline and a nipped waist. You stepped out and immediately felt like yourself again.
Ben stopped talking. For a beat, he just looked at you like the air had changed.
Then he cleared his throat and said, rougher, “That one”.
You tilted your head. “You like it?”.
He blinked like you’d asked whether he liked oxygen. “Yeah, I like it. Christ”.
He bought it without checking the price, then acted annoyed about the whole thing in the parking lot because being openly tender still embarrassed him.
He learned to do small domestic things without acting like they were beneath him. He replaced a broken hinge. He even installed a smoke detector and complained the entire time.
“Why’s it gotta beep.”
“So we don’t die.”
“I’m not dyin’.”
“I am.”
He stared at you.
Then he installed two.
At night, he’d pull you into his lap on the couch like it was casual, like it was nothing, like his hands hadn’t once been the reason you feared beds. He’d watch whatever you put on. Old movies, sermons or the news he pretended not to care about, and he’d keep one hand on your thigh under a blanket with his thumb moving slow over your skin.
And when you scolded him for the way his mouth worked, for the way he teased, for the way he’d whisper something indecent at the worst times, he’d grin and say, “You’re cute when you’re mad”.
“I am not cute”.
“You’re fucking adorable”.
“You need prayer”.
“I need you”.
That shut you up every time, because it sounded too honest to fight.
Then days were passing.
You were tired in a different way. Hungry, but picky. Your temper a little shorter. Your body softer around the edges.
One morning you were folding laundry and Ben leaned in the doorway watching you like he was doing math.
“You’re late”, he said.
You blinked. “Late for what”.
He stared at you like you were joking. “Your period”.
Heat rushed to your face. “Benjamin”.
“What? You are”.
“That is not your business".
He walked over and took the calendar off the kitchen wall with one finger like it had personally offended him. Flipped the page. Counted silently.
Then he looked at you, brows lifted, mouth already twisting into that smug, dirty humor.
“Sweetheart”, he drawled, “you are so bad at that simple women stuff”.
You grabbed a dish towel and snapped it at him. “Stop talking”.
He caught your wrist gently and his eyes went bright in a way you recognized instantly. Not fear, not even shock. Something that looked suspiciously like excitement, filtered through Ben’s ego like everything else.
“We’re goin’ to the store”, he said.
You frowned. “For what”.
He smirked. “For the little stick that tells you whether you made me a baby”.
Your mouth fell open.
At the pharmacy he bought two tests. Back home, he hovered so hard you finally snapped, “Do you want to come in with me too?”.
Ben leaned on the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed. “I’m your husband”.
“You are not watching me take a test”.
He looked mildly offended. “I wasn’t gonna watch”.
“You’re literally standing guard”.
He shrugged. “Habit.”
You shut the door in his face.
From behind it, you heard him mutter, “If it’s positive, I’m naming it John Wayne”.
“You are not!”. A pause. Then, quieter: “Okay. Maybe we talk about it".
When you finally opened the door, he tried to look casual and failed completely. His eyes went straight to your hands. You held up the test with a palm that had started shaking. Ben went still. Then his face changed.
“Yeah?”, he whispered.
You nodded once, breath catching.
Ben exhaled hard through his nose like he’d been punched, then stepped forward and stopped himself halfway, hands flexing at his sides.
“You okay?”, he asked, too careful for a man like him.
You swallowed. “I think so”.
He nodded, eyes bright, and tried to make his mouth work around something cocky. Something dirty. Something that wouldn’t show how much it meant.
What came out instead was, “Holy shit”.
Then he cleared his throat and recovered just enough to add, “Guess I’m still good at my part”.
You smacked his arm. He laughed and finally, finally, he reached for you. Slow. Asking with his body first. When you didn’t pull away, his arms came around you like he’d been holding his breath for months. “I got you”, he murmured into your hair.
-
The morning you told the pastor, the sun came up clean and gold over the little town like it didn’t know anything about the years you’d lost.
You sat on the porch step afterward with a glass of water sweating in your hand, watching dust drift down the road behind an early truck. Ben paced the yard, then stopped and pretended he wasn’t pacing by “checking” the fence post for absolutely no reason. He’d been doing that a lot since the test. Hovering, without admitting it. Like if he kept moving, the joy couldn’t turn into fear.
You watched him for a moment.
“Ben”, you called.
He stopped instantly. Looked at you like you’d snapped a leash. “What”.
“You’re wearing a hole in the grass”.
He blinked. Then that crooked little grin tried to show up and couldn’t quite find its place. “Habit”.
“You’re allowed to sit”.
He hesitated, then came over and dropped down beside you with a heavy exhale, shoulder brushing yours. His knee bumped yours and stayed touching, as if he’d decided he didn’t want any space left between you today.
You held your water with both hands, staring out at the quiet street.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Ben said, rough and oddly careful, “You want tea?”.
You almost smiled. It was such an ordinary question. The kind of question a husband asked in the morning in a small house on a quiet street. The kind of question you’d once answered without thinking.
“Yes”, you said softly. “Please”.
Ben nodded like he could do that at least. Like tea was something he could make right when so much else had been ruined. He stood to go inside, then paused and looked down at you. His eyes moved to your hand. To your wedding ring. To his ring on his own finger. He reached out, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted, and tucked one loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles barely grazed your cheek.
“Still can’t believe you’re here”, he murmured.
You leaned into the touch before you could stop yourself. “Neither can I”.
He huffed a breath through his nose and left his hand there for a second longer than necessary. Then he went inside.
You listened to him in the kitchen: cabinet doors opening, the old kettle filling, the low curse when he bumped his hip on the counter because he still hadn’t learned that small houses didn’t move out of the way for big men.
The sound settled something in you. It reminded you, painfully and sweetly, of another small house. Another quiet street. Another kitchen where you used to sit with a mending basket at your feet and listen for footsteps that didn’t come.
Back then, you had waited in silence. Now, you didn’t have to.
Ben came back out with two mugs. He’d even put a spoonful of sugar in yours the way you liked without asking. That made your chest ache in a small, secret way you didn’t name.
He sat beside you again and handed you the mug carefully, then stared out at the street.
After a minute he said, “You scared?”.
You glanced at him. He didn’t look at you when he asked it. He was looking past the fence line, past the mailbox, out at nothing. The question sounded like it had cost him.
You blew gently on the tea. “Yes”.
Ben nodded once. Like he had expected that. Then he finally looked at you. His eyes were too honest for his own comfort. “Me too”, he admitted.
You shifted your mug to one hand and reached for his other on the porch step. His hand was warm, callused and heavy. He stiffened for half a second, then let your fingers lace with his like he’d been waiting for permission.
“You know”, you said softly, “in the beginning… I used to sit and sew and listen for you”.
Ben’s mouth tightened. “I know”.
“I stayed up because I thought one day you’d walk through the door and be him again”.
Ben’s gaze dropped to your joined hands. For a moment you saw the old shame try to rise. The old instinct to get mean or dismissive to escape it. But he didn’t. He stayed. You watched the choice happen in his face, and it made something in you loosen, just a little.
“I’m… sorry”, he said, quiet as breath.
You didn’t answer with forgiveness. But you squeezed his hand. Ben’s thumb moved across your knuckles.
“You still gonna make me go to church every Saturday?”, he asked.
You tilted your head. “Yes”.
He sighed like a man enduring terrible hardship. “Unbelievable”.
“You need it”.
“You need it too”, he grumbled, then added, quieter, “I’ll go”.
You smiled into your mug. "I know".
———————————
A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 AND I may have a surprise for you 🙈
synopsis ٠࣪⭑ you were captured by a Djinn and now you’re mourning a life that wasn’t real
contents ٠࣪⭑ Dean Winchester x reader (f), non-explicit, age gap implied cause why not?? innocent/shy!reader implied, mentions having curly hair (can totally be ignored, it was entirely self-indulgent), soft angst, unrequited love (but it’s actually not), yearning!dean, 3.8k word count
notes ٠࣪⭑ This is my first ever fic, please be kind (constructive feedback welcome). I actually had a lot of fun writing this, it was just for myself but I liked it so much that I decided to share it! Also sorry if the lores not right, I haven’t watched the Djinn eps in a min and I was too lazy to confirm every detail
It was days after the Djinn case. The one that had Dean scouring some nowhere town like a madman looking for you, his chest twisting with guilt, the fact you were taken right under his nose settles like an incurable chill in his bones. But it was possibly worse seeing you there, hanging by tied up wrists, body limp and frail, the tube of the blood bag sticking out of your arm like you’re some monster's prepped and ready buffet.
Sure, you were alive and he didn’t have to wonder anymore, but the sight didn’t serve as much of a relief.
Dean cradled your bruised frame so gently in his arms, despite the rage and worry clinging to his insides, as he and Sam took you down. Murmured apologies leaving his lips as he carried you back to the impala, not caring if his little brother or your half out-of-it self can hear him, all he cares about right now is you.
The days following were quiet, you’d tried to bounce back, really tried— but the illusive life promised to you by the Djinn, plagued every thought and every moment of every day.
You could still feel the comfortable weight of the ring on your finger, the feeling of Dean’s rough hands gently caressing your soft skin, you could still hear the sounds of peace and cicadas becoming the soundtrack to your life, only being interrupted by the sweet giggles and babbling of your baby. A baby girl, named Layla Mary Winchester, Dean didn’t even have to convince you to name your first child after an old rock song, you loved it the second he suggested it.
She was all Dean, from the green hue of her eyes, to the freckles on her nose, the plump and pink little lips that could make any grown woman jealous, and the devious little smirk they wore, but the hair, that was all you— her ringlets almost so perfect it’s as if God hand curled them around His own finger. You could see how Dean's face went all soft whenever he touched her hair, so reverently, his mind no doubt going back to the first time he ran his hand through your curls.
You could still remember bath times and teaching Dean how to do pig tails after he failed horribly the first time. You can still smell the home cooked meals mixed with the strong scent of motor oil and that sweet sweat that clung to Dean's skin after working on the car all afternoon, under the warm sun. You’d gotten used to telling him to wash his hands before picking up Layla or trying to steal a bite of whatever was on the stove.
Layla clung to him anyway, that was probably what you missed most. The way Dean had looked at this little version of the both of you with so much love, the way he was always so gentle with her but also teaching her to be tough without dismissing that softness that came from her mother, he’d held her when she cried and contorted his features into the stupidest faces just to hear her laugh.
Stop it, you had to remind yourself, because none of it was real.
Dean wasn’t yours, you didn’t have a cozy little house in a rural area, there was no dancing to oldies on Sunday mornings, no bedtime stories or nap time cuddles, there were no rings or kisses or home cooked meals. It was just another cruel form of torture in your horror-filled lives, one a monster cooked up just for you.
You hate to even think it, but you almost wished Sam and Dean had never found you… just so you could stay in that perfect little dream world, just a little longer.
The boys didn’t know what to do because you wouldn’t tell them, you’d barely said anything other than “sorry”s and “I’m fine” since they found you.
There was no way you could look Dean in his face and tell him that the Djinn looked in your head and found that your dream world consisted of being his wife and the mother of his non-existent daughter, with no monsters and no blood and no hunting.
Not when he didn’t see you that way, not when you were exactly what he didn’t want— a non-confrontational, soft, criminally un-sexy, doesn’t drink or smoke or sleep around, wants something real, girl— to admit that would be a suicide mission.
Sam might understand if you told him. He sees the way you look at his brother, the way you laugh at Deans jokes even if they’re not funny, he catches the way your face heats when Dean calls you “sweetheart” and every excuse you make just to stand or sit a little closer to him. He also sees the wrecked look on your face when Dean leaves with random women, no matter how hard you try to mask it, Sam sees the way you go quiet when a pretty girl slides a hand down Dean's leather-clad bicep, the way you laugh it off when he calls you “kid” as if the word doesn’t feel like a punch straight to your chest. But just because Sam is an observant know-it-all doesn’t mean you are going to tell him about this little dream life you’re mourning.
“Go talk to her” Dean whisper yelled at his brother, the two watching you from across the diner, you still haven’t opened up about anything involving the djinn case.
You’ve been stepping back during hunts, never talking his ear off with your excited rants anymore, and he swears he’s seen more fake smiles on your face in the past week than he’s seen your real smiles the entire time he’s known you.
He’s sick of it— he’s sick of not seeing you light up over little coffee shops or stray alley cats, he’s sick of not hearing your voice quietly singing along to the radio then acting like you weren’t when he caught you, he’s sick of you avoiding his gaze, of ignoring him almost completely. It’s even worse that you’re not cold about it, you’re just… pulling back. He hates how much it affects him.
“Why do I have to talk to her?” Sam whispered back, tearing his eyes away from where you were sitting at the booth across the diner, looking at the raindrops fall down the windows, your untouched coffee going cold in front of you.
“Because—“ Dean started, fighting the urge to pull the older brother card and just say cause I said so.
“Aren’t you like best friends or something?” He decided on instead, crossing his arms over his chest like a child.
“Just because we’re friends doesn’t make it okay for me to say ‘hey you’ve been acting weird since you were kidnapped and slowly dying the other week, everything alright?’” Dean's face fell a little, just a microscopic change in his expression at the reminder of what happened, but he brushed it off.
“that’s not what I meant and you know it” He added, less humor laced in his voice now. Sam sighed, knowing Deans also just worried, it’s just so unlike you to not talk about something. To not even tell Sam anything that’d happened.
You had just gotten out of the shower, pajamas laying on your damp, freshly lotioned skin, your body going through the motions of your somewhat of a night routine, as if you hadn’t just cried under the warm spray at the thought of you never kissing your daughter goodnight again and never falling asleep in Dean’s arms like you had every night in your dream world.
You almost made it to your bed before Dean cornered you, making you look up at him because of his sudden change in proximity.
“What’s going on sweetheart?” he murmured in that undeniably soft voice of his, your chest now clenching at the petname, rather than blushing like before.
“What do you mean?” You replied, voice quiet and thick, probably from the stifled sobs you let out just moments ago.
“Don’t— don’t do that, just talk to me” he said before you could even say anything else, his voice almost pleading, desperate even, but you shook the ridiculous thought away.
“Don’t do what, Dean? What do you want me to say?” You’re playing dumb, doing a good job at it too in your book, because you knew Dean didn’t really care enough to push much further.
“Anything— just say anything at this point, because it’s not like you to be like this… you’re not yourself” his voice came out just a tad firmer, and as if to prove his point you replied with “not myself?” You scoffed lightly.
“Well sorry it’s a little harder for me to go back to normal after what happened, not everyone gets the pleasure of being so resilient as you and Sam.” Your tone was defensive, the tone he only really heard during stupid arguments or research debates, but you never fought, especially not with him.
He was a little taken aback, mouth opening to argue a rebuttal but he bit his tongue— this definitely wasn’t like you, meaning something was up, and it’s not just him being overly protective again. So instead he brushed it off, didn’t take it personally.
“What happened?” He said your name so gently it made your chest twist with guilt already, you just shook your head.
“It’s nothing, I’m f—“ you started again, only to be cut off, “stop it— stop saying you’re fine, you’re not” your resolve started breaking. You turned your head away, throat burning and eyes stinging, all of the emotions you’ve been pushing down for days suddenly starting to bubble up with extra force.
“What do you want me to tell you, Dean?” You cracked, voice louder than before, words tumbling out before you could carefully curate them, “you want me to say I miss it? That I miss the made-up reality that was slowly killing me— you want to hear how I can’t stop thinking about it? You want me to tell you how I almost wish you guys never rescued me?” Your voice broke into a whisper at that, but you still refused to break down in front of him.
The look on his face was almost devastating, the way his confusion turned into shock, and the shock almost turned into sadness, or anger, or both? “You don’t mean that” his voice came out soft again, disbelieving.
“Yeah, well I do—“ you looked away from him, heart hammering under your chest, the burning your throat feeling now as if it was replaced with shards of broken glass. You don’t know how much longer you can hold everything back.
Dean went from disbelief to outrage in a matter of seconds, “what the hell did you have to say something like that—“
“You!” Your voice roared out before you could think about it, eyes burning with the tears you refused to let fall pooling in them, his face dropped but you continued before he even had a chance to blink “I had you, Dean! You were mine, and I was yours— and w-we had this little house in a little town, and the most perfect little girl—“ you’re voice fully gave out at that point, but you were too far gone to stop now. “No monsters, no motels, just us and our stupid little family—“ you choked on your own sobs, your hands going up to cover your mouth as if you were trying to save the shred of dignity you had left.
Dean hasn’t said anything, hasn’t moved, hell— you don’t even know if he’s breathed yet. Here you are, spilling your guts in front of him, the ones you tried so desperately to keep securely in place forever, and he’s just standing there.
“I’m s-sorry—“ you choked in another sob, unable to stop despite the embarrassment clawing at your skin, “I’m sorry— just g-go… please” you pleaded pitifully. That made him move, you closed your eyes, preparing for the sound of the slamming door, but it never came.
Instead, you were surrounded by a firm pressure, with the warmth that can only come from another body, Dean’s unique scent— the musky sweet bergamot and leather smell that you’ve become addicted to— engulfed you, the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around you finally registered in your scrambled brain.
He was hugging you, no not just hugging, he was holding you… in a way he never has before, in a way that you always secretly wished he would. You didn’t know what to do but your body reacted anyway, melting into his touch like this was normal, the moment only pulling more soft sobs out of you.
“Breathe, sweetheart” he murmured into your hair, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable but still held that gentle authoritative tone of his. Eventually your breaths slowed, listening to him despite everything, your lungs burning and your brain screaming at you, yet you couldn’t find it in you to care. Especially when you’d registered his rough hand moving up and down your arm, the other tangled in your hair holding your head to his chest.
Another moment of silence passed before you tried to speak, “m’sorry—“ you murmured but he just shushed you, “what did I tell you about apologizing too damn much?” He murmurs, but his tone lacks the humor that statement usually holds, instead it’s still so gentle for him, like pouring honey over rough gravel.
You fought the urge to reply with an apology, instead opting for silence, but only for a moment longer.
Your head throbbed and your throat ached yet you continued, “why are you doing this?…” your voice so small and quiet, Dean's chest ached.
He hated that this was so foreign to you, hated that you felt like you had to apologize when you’d done nothing wrong, and he hated that you’ve been hurting and keeping it all in.
“Cause I want to, sweetheart” is all he could come up with, his own voice wavering just a little with emotion.
“Y-you’re not mad?…” you continue, even quieter than before.
His heart couldn’t take it, “why would I be mad?” He said, trying to still sound gentle despite the guilt crawling up his throat. Guilt for every moment he was ever a part of that made you think he’d be mad at you for something like this.
“Because I just blew everything up…” you breathed out, trying not to well up with tears all over again, you wanted to move away but you selfishly didn’t want this to end, either. You didn’t want to look him in the eyes, you didn’t want to escape his warmth, you didn’t want the moment to end, because you were already preparing how you were going to have to walk away from this, from them, from this little friendship that provided the only solace in your life.
You knew it was the beginning of the end; Dean didn’t see you that way, it would be endlessly awkward if things stayed the same, he wouldn’t be able to help you, and you’d rather walk away that make him feel obligated or guilty to try and fix things when you’re the one that fell for him, even if it feels like ripping a vital organ from your own body.
Dean didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t good at this, never has been. He feels things deeply but he’s never been allowed to express them, or share them, or talk about them, or let others share too. So he just keeps holding you, because he wants to get it right. He wants to comfort you, he wants to hear you say what you feel about him, he wants to try and tell you what he feels for you.
He’s been holding it in for months, maybe even longer, and it’s been fine. Sure, he always took a good look at you when you weren’t paying attention, and he’d make stupid jokes just to hear your laugh, or how he’d put on songs he knew you liked just to hear you quietly sing along. Sure, maybe he felt guilty for letting his eyes fall to your sparkling glossy lips and wonder what it’d be like to just kiss you. Even if he just got to do it once, it’d be enough (it probably wouldn’t be but he’d risk it anyway). But you were a little younger, less experienced, such a sweet ray of sunshine, and oh so shy, but secretly a total badass— none of that made him want you less, but it did make him want to be careful. He didn’t just want you the way he’s had other girls, he knew you didn’t deserve that, you deserved so much more than he could give you, and he’d never forgive himself if he was the one to muck you up. So, he still picked up random girls, still flirted, still kept the no-strings-attached bad boy hunter façade alive and well. You were a risk too important to take, even for the thrill-seeker he is.
But now? He knew he couldn’t keep it all in, not when you were saying things like this, not when you had tears covering your cheeks and apologies on your tongue, he couldn’t let you keep thinking this was one-sided, he couldn’t let you think you had to walk away all because you’d admitted things he’d been too chicken to say himself.
“You didn’t ruin anything” he murmured after a moment, snapping himself out of his own thoughts. Your head was still cradled to his chest, he adjusted his grip to hold you just a little closer.
You could feel the tears prickling in your eyes just at his touch, instinctively melting more into him, even if your brain calls you idiotic for doing so. Before you could retort with how he’s wrong and how your relationship has changed forever and apologize for having feelings, he’d pulled back just enough to look at you.
“Tell me about it…”
You were taken aback, your eyes puffy and your heart thumping so loud you’re sure the people in the next room could hear it. You stayed quiet for a moment, processing if you’d heard him right, but the look on his face was so earnest he didn’t need to confirm with words.
So you told him— all about it. The rings, the giggles, the house, the gorgeous kitchen, the little girl that permanently etched herself into your heart even though she doesn’t exist. You talked about the way you’d danced to music in the kitchen after bedtime and how you’d bring him sweet tea while he worked on the car, you talked about how much Layla was like him and how you adored her for it. You could’ve sworn you saw a glimmer in his eye at that.
You were soft and emotional but passionate, he’d had to tell you to keep going a couple times when you got flustered, and he’d wipe his thumb under your eye when a tear would escape. He never called you stupid or reminded you that it wasn’t real or shamed you. He just listened.
“Do you know how wrecked I was when we found you?” Dean had whispered a while later, after you ran out of things to tell him, after you’d moved to sit together, after you finally accepted he wasn’t upset with you.
You swear you could see him get a little flustered, but you were more interested by his words.
Before you could ask him what he meant, he continued, “you uh…” he looked down before meeting your eyes again, “it didn’t look good… I thought-“ he didn’t say it, instead scrubbing a hand over his stubble, but you knew what he meant.
“What I’m trying to say is—“ he paused again, just trying to find the right words even though he’s terrified. He looked in your eyes, “I don’t want you to think that this is all just one sided…” he looked so shy you almost didn’t recognize him in the moment. But his words still stopped you in your tracks.
“What do you mean?…” you asked carefully, voice barely audible, pulse accelerating within seconds. He tentatively reached over and took your hands in his, they were tough and warm and yours fit perfectly in them. You swear you almost choked on your own breath.
“I’ve uh… I’ve been trying to push it down for a while now…” his eyes flicked to yours again, and you could’ve sworn they landed on your lips for a split second, “I didn’t want to be the one to uh, mess you up I guess.”
Your brows furrowed a little at his words, unable to take your eyes off his face, giving his hand a mindless little squeeze to urge him on, or to comfort him, you don’t really know. “You’re scarin’ me” you murmured with a little nervous laugh that fell flat.
He couldn’t help the way his heart fluttered even at that, he was more far gone than he admitted to himself. One of his hands left yours, tucking a loose curl behind your ear, his thumb gently grazing your tear-stained cheek. Your breath hitching, heart beating impossibly faster.
“You don’t need to be in a dream world for me to want you” he finally admitted, voice so stupidly soft but so sincere.
Before you could pass out he continued, “now I can’t promise you a kid” that pulled an amused and shocked little chuckle out of you, “but I do know that these feelings scare the crap outta me, and I can’t let you sit here and continue to beat yourself up for this, like I don’t feel the same.”
Dead. You’re pretty sure you are— is this another djinn? Is this real, you genuinely don’t know at this point. You’re pretty sure Dean knows you’re freaking out by the look on your face, so in an attempt to confirm everything he just said, his hand by your cheek moves to your jaw. Tilting your head up with his finger, just a little, giving you enough time to stop him, and then he just kisses you.
You’re still shocked for a moment, so still that he almost pulls away, but then you just melt, eyes shut, hands reaching up to clutch themselves into his shirt. It’s better than anything he’s dreamed up, and the same goes for you. Who knew just an innocent little kiss could be so blissful.
His thumb gently caressed where it rested on your chin, smiling into the kiss as his other hand made its way into your hair. It wasn’t rough, or quick— it was soft and full of feelings they’ve both buried for far too long, his lips are soft and he can taste the minty toothpaste on your breath. You both pulled away just enough to breathe, chests rising and falling in tandem.
“You believe me now?” He murmured with that little smirk of his. Your smile widened and before he could make another sarcastic remark you pulled him in for another kiss as an answer.
summary: dean accidentally finds your vibrator and decides an official witness interview is the perfect time to test your self-control. good luck pretending to be a professional federal agent.
content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. sexual content. vibrator play. public stimulation/overstimulation. mild risk of getting caught. teasing & denial. established relationship. dean being a cocky bastard. no use of yn. pet names.
word count: 3.1k
Dean was practically tearing the small motel room apart, flipping over stained couch cushions, checking under the cracked coffee table, and grumbling under his breath.
"Babe, do you know where Baby's keys are? I can't find them anywhere!" he shouted toward the bathroom, his voice cutting through the sound of the rushing water.
"Check my bag! The black duffel near the closet!" you yelled back, completely forgetting what else was tucked away in the bottom compartment under your spare jeans and blouses.
Minutes later, when you finally stepped out of the bathroom with your skin glistening and your wet hair dripping onto your shoulders, you found Dean lounging across the mattress, propped up on one elbow.
"So, did you find them?" you asked, wiping a stray drop of water from your collarbone.
The words practically choked in your throat. Dean wasn't holding his car keys. Instead, dangling between his thumb and forefinger, was the tiny, unmistakably pink bullet vibrator. He was twirling it by its little cord, a massive, wicked grin spreading across his face.
"Found the keys," Dean chuckled, his green eyes flashing with pure mischief. "But I also found a little bonus. I figured you for a classic black or maybe a fierce red, but pink? Really, sweetheart?"
"Give that back." Your face instantly caught fire, a wave of intense defensiveness taking over. "Why are you digging through my bag anyway? That's a total invasion of privacy, Winchester!"
Dean didn't even look guilty. Instead, he let out a low, rough chuckle and twirled the device by its cord. "If you want it back so badly, you're gonna have to come over here and take it from me." he winked.
That did the trick. You lunged forward, literally climbing into his lap to snatch it back. You were entirely aware—and yet completely disregarding—the fact that you were only wearing a damp towel. Dean, anticipating your move, easily used his size and strength to cage you against his chest, locking one massive arm around your waist while holding the toy high out of your reach.
"Whoa, easy there, tiger," Dean teased, his chest vibrating against your bare front as you squirmed. "I was just looking for the keys, I swear. Didn't know you were hoarding contraband."
Your brief, breathless tussle ended the moment his grip shifted, his free hand cupping the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp hair to pull you down into a deep, dizzying kiss. The sheer warmth of his lips instantly melted away all your frantic protests, leaving you sighing into his mouth as your hands came to rest on his broad shoulders.
When he finally pulled back, his breath hitting your lips in short puffs, his smirk had softened into something a little more complex. He looked down at the pink device in his hand, then back up at you, a tiny line forming between his brows.
"What do you even need this for anyway?" Dean asked. His tone was light, but there was a distinct, vulnerable flicker in his eyes that completely gave away his bruised ego. "Am I really slacking off that badly lately? Because I thought last night was pretty damn good."
"What? No, Dean," you softened immediately, your heart melting at how ridiculously insecure he could get over the strangest things. Reaching up, you framed his face with both hands, forcing him to look right into your eyes. "Baby, no. You know it's not like that at all. You're incredible, okay?"
To prove it, you leaned down and kissed him again—sweet, lingering, and reassuring. Dean instantly melted into it, his arm tightening around your waist like a vise.
As you parted, he murmured, still a bit stubborn, "Then why do you have it?"
"It was from before we started dating, you know," you mumbled, your cheeks burning hotter by the second. "It was just... for those long solo hunts when you and Sam were halfway across the country."
Dean’s grin turned insufferably smug as he processed the timeline. "So… you've been thinking about me while using this?"
You swatted his shoulder playfully, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck. "Oh, shut up."
"No, no, I am flattered. Extremely," he laughed, his deep voice rumbling against your collarbone. His hand slowly began to wander, his large, calloused palm sliding beneath the damp edge of your towel, tracing the sensitive curve of your hip and moving down toward your thigh. He brought his lips back to yours, whispering a downright scandalous proposition against your mouth. "Although… since we're a team now, I think I should test the machinery myself. Make sure it's up to standard."
You rolled your eyes, thinking he was just talking dirty to rile you up. "Haha, very funny."
But when his gaze remained locked on yours, intense, dark, and unwavering, reality set in. He wasn't joking.
"Absolutely not," you said firmly, trying to slide off his lap.
"Absolutely yes."
"Dean, no."
"Why not?" he pouted, his hand gently squeezing your hip to keep you anchored.
"Because we have a serious case to solve tomorrow," you countered, trying to sound convincing as possible. "You'll get distracted."
"Oh, c'mon, sweetheart," Dean purred, his thumb caressing your skin beneath the fabric. "Where's your sense of adventure? We can just keep it on low. A little background music just between us two."
Defying his charm, you gave a firm push against his chest and successfully slid out of his lap, tightly clutching the top of your towel.
"Where are you going now? The fun was just starting," he groaned, throwing himself backward onto the pillows with an exaggeratedly miserable face.
"I'm gonna get dressed, and you're gonna forget you ever saw that thing," you threw over your shoulder, walking toward your duffel.
Even as you pulled your clothes from the bag, Dean tried his luck one more time, propping himself up and giving you his best puppy-dog eyes. "Pretty please? Just a trial run?"
You turned around, shutting him down with one final, utterly definitive, "I said no, Dean."
The next morning, you were sitting in a booth inside a local, dimly lit diner with squeaky vinyl seats, posing as Federal Agents. You and Dean were crammed tightly side-by-side on one side of the table, while Sam and the elderly woman who owned the diner sat directly across from you. A man had been found brutally murdered in the alleyway next door, and you were supposed to be conducting a solemn, professional interview for a hunt.
Then, you felt it. A low, sudden, agonizingly sharp buzz right between your thighs.
Your head snapped toward Dean so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. He didn't even blink. His face was a flawless mask of professional, federal gravity as he stared at Mrs. Gable, but his right hand was buried deep inside his suit jacket pocket. You glared at him, your eyes screaming a desperate, furious not now, but you had no idea how twisted his plan actually was.
"So, Mrs. Gable," you began, swallowing hard and trying to keep your voice steady as you forced yourself to lean forward. "Did you notice any unusual activity outside the back alley around—"
Dean's thumb moved inside his pocket.
"—NIGHTTIME?!" you suddenly shouted, the question bursting out of you in a strained, high-pitched gasp as your hips involuntarily twitched against the sticky vinyl.
Mrs. Gable jumped back in her seat, clutching her pearl necklace. Sam's eyebrows shot straight up to his hairline, his green eyes instantly focusing on you in complete confusion. He didn't say anything, but his face practically screamed, what the hell is wrong with you?
Dean didn't miss a single beat. He leaned forward smoothly, flashing a sympathetic, overwhelmingly charming smile at the elderly woman. "Please forgive my partner, ma'am. She has always been… highly passionate about dead bodies. Hardcore criminologist, you know."
You shot Dean a look that should have incinerated him and his bloodline on the spot. Clenching your jaw so hard your teeth ached, your legs clamped together so tightly they were practically trembling, you squeezed out a strained smile. "Excuse me, yes. I just… I really want justice for the victim. Terribly sorry for the outburst, Mrs. Gable. Please continue."
For the rest of it, you stayed dead silent, terrified of what embarrassing sound might escape your lips if you opened your mouth. Mrs. Gable kept talking about some strange noises and other unexplainable things, but you didn't hear a word. Your eyes kept darting helplessly to Dean's jacket pocket.
Under the table, completely out of Mrs. Gable and Sam's line of sight, you reached over and dug your fingernails right into the upper part of Dean's thigh, dangerously close to his lap. You squeezed his flesh with a vicious, white-knuckled grip, twisting the fabric of his suit pants.
Dean's jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, his knuckles also whitening on the tabletop as he took the pain, but he refused to back down. While Mrs. Gable turned her head to answer a question from Sam, you aggressively and silently mouthed the words, I'm gonna fucking kill you, right at Dean. He just offered a barely perceptible, victorious twitch of his lips and tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table—coordinating with the pulses now wrecking your sanity.
"Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Gable." Sam finally said, sliding his notepad into his breast pocket and sliding out of the booth. Dean stood up immediately after him, smoothing down his jacket with an insufferable air of satisfaction.
You, however, remained frozen on your seat. Your mind was racing, and the heavy vibrations were continuing to hum ruthlessly against your core. You had no idea how you were going to stand up without your knees buckling.
Sam looked down at you, genuinely trying to figure out your bizarre, stiff behavior. "Are you coming?"
Dean looked at your flushed, sweating face and gave you a look that made you want to punch him. "Yeah, Agent. Let's go. You look a little... stuck."
Summoning every single ounce of willpower you possessed, you gripped the edge of the table and forced yourself to your feet. Your knees wobbled instantly, a quiet gasp catching in your throat. Fearing you'd collapse right there, you bypassed Dean entirely, shooting him one last murderous glare, and threw your arm tightly through Sam's, leaning heavily against his side.
Sam blinked, utterly startled by the sudden, intense physical dependency, but he let you lean on him as the three of you nodded to Mrs. Gable and walked out of the diner.
As the glass door of the restaurant swung shut behind you, cutting off the warmth of the diner, Sam slightly bent his tall frame down, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.
"You okay?" he asked quietly, his brow furrowing with genuine concern.
"Yes! Perfect!" you shot back, the answer bursting out of you way too quickly, your voice hitting a weird, slightly breathless pitch. You frantically nodded your head, forcing a tense, incredibly tight smile that looked more like a grimace, trying so hard to not look back at Dean—who you were sure was watching you with the most annoying smirk on his face.
"Right... okay," Sam mumbled, slow and skeptical, though he still kept essentially anchoring your entire weight as the three of you walked toward the gleaming black Impala.
But when you got within a few feet of the car, Dean, walking just a step or two behind you, casually pressed the button again, flipping it to a chaotic, pulsing setting.
Your body betrayed you instantly. Your fingers tightening into Sam's arm with a sudden, crushing grip as your entire body locked up from a violent shiver. You froze dead in your tracks, your back arching slightly as you fought the overwhelming wave of friction. "Oh my god," you gasped out, your voice completely cracking as you arched your back slightly.
Sam stopped dead in his tracks, turning around with deep, genuine concern etched across his face. "Hey, seriously, what is it? You're definitely not okay."
"I think... I think it's just my stomach—maybe the diner coffee—"
Before you could finish the clumsy lie, Dean cranked the remote to its absolute, unforgiving maximum.
"—DEAN!" you wailed.
The name tore from your throat, but it wasn't an angry shout; it was a breathless, helpless, completely undone whine that vibrated with pure, raw pleasure. Your knees instantly buckled, completely giving out beneath you.
"Whoa! Hey!" Sam quickly caught you securely by the waist before your knees could slam into the pavement.
Completely overwhelmed, your hand flew to Sam's shoulder, gripping his suit jacket violently. Your fingers dug deep into the fabric, clutching him like a lifeline as you buried your face against his chest, panting heavily with your eyes tightly shut.
Dean stepped up beside you both, completely shameless, hands casually tucked into his pockets. He looked down at your trembling form with a slow, wicked grin.
"Damn, sweetheart," Dean chuckled smoothly, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "A little dramatic, don't you think? If you wanted a hug from Sammy, you could have just asked."
Hearing his voice so close, and feeling the relentless hum still torturing you, you let out another pathetic, shaky whine, squeezing Sam's shoulder even harder.
Sam looked down at your flushed face, heard the distinctly un-sick sound you had just made, and then looked up at Dean's insufferable, smug, victorious face. Sam's eyes drifted down to Dean's right hand, which was still subtly twitching inside his jacket pocket.
A look of horrific, sudden realization slowly dawned on Sam's face. His jaw literally dropped as he pieced it all together—the shouting in the diner, the under-the-table warfare, your complete inability to walk, and the fact that you had just screamed Dean's name in a voice that belonged strictly behind closed doors.
Sam closed his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose as a massive wave of pure, unadulterated exhaustion and disgust washed over him.
"You know what?" Sam muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, utterly defeated tone as he let go of you, taking a massive step back as if you were radioactive. "I really, really don't wanna know. Keep me out of it. Keep me a hundred miles away from whatever sick, twisted federal offense you two are committing."
Sam turned on his heel, practically sprinting the last two feet to the passenger side of the Impala. He yanked the door open, slammed it shut behind him, and immediately stared straight ahead out the windshield, refusing to look at either of you.
The moment the car door slammed, the agonizing vibration inside you suddenly died down to a complete, blissful stop.
You slumped against the side of the Impala, drawing in deep, ragged breaths as your racing heart slowly tried to find its rhythm again. Your hair was a bit messy, your chest was heaving, and your thighs were still tingling from the sudden loss of stimulation.
But the relief didn't last long. The second the fog cleared from your brain, pure anger took its place. You looked at Dean, who was standing there looking like the cat that ate the canary.
You snapped and pushed yourself off the car. Lunging two steps forward and bringing your fist down against his chest hard enough to make a dull thud—but not enough to make him take even a single step back.
"You son of a bitch!" you hissed.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, though the amused twitch of his lips told you he wasn't taking your wrath seriously at all. "Hey—whoa, take it easy—"
"Don't tell me to take it easy, Dean," you huffed, though the lethal edge in your voice was already softening into a breathless, exhausted pout. You leaned back against the warm hood of the Impala, crossing your arms tightly over your chest just to keep yourself steady. Your cheeks were still burning a bright crimson. "You are completely out of your mind. Do you have any idea how close I was to completely losing it in front of Mrs. Gable? And Sam! Did you see his face? How deeply traumatized he looked?"
Dean's smirk softened into something a bit warmer, though the heavy, dark heat in his green eyes didn't fade for a second. He closed the small distance between you, stepping right into your personal space. His large body effectively blocked you from the view of the diner's windows—and, more importantly, from Sam's rearview mirror.
"I'm sure Sammy will get over it," Dean murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously low and rough as he leaned in close, his breath brushing against your ear. He reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrists to pull your crossed arms apart. "Besides, you handled that beautifully, agent. Very professional under pressure."
"I was shouting at an elderly woman, Dean," you whispered, a reluctant, tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite your best efforts to look annoyed. You let him pull you a step closer, your hands coming to rest against his lapels. "And I'm pretty sure I bruised your thigh under that table. Which, by the way, you completely deserved."
"Yeah, you've got a vicious grip, baby. I might have a mark tomorrow," he chuckled, his hands sliding up from your wrists to rest firmly on your waist, anchoring you against him. He leaned down, his breath brushing warm against your flushed cheek. "But it was worth it. You were adorable when you were trying so hard to stay quiet."
"I hate you," you breathed, deflating completely against his chest. The last of your fake anger evaporated as you tilted your head up, your eyes locking onto his.
"No, you don't," Dean smiled, his infamous cocky grin returning to his lips.
He didn't give you a chance to reply, leaning down to press a hard, lingering, possessive kiss against your mouth. It was deep enough to make your knees feel a little wobbly all over again, a soft sigh escaping you into the kiss as your fingers tangled into the fabric of his jacket.
When he finally pulled back, his thumb slowly brushed over your wet lower lip, his gaze dark and full of a very specific promise.
"Now let's get back to the motel," Dean whispered, a wicked grin flashing on his face as he tapped his jacket pocket, where the remote was safely tucked away. "We're done with the training wheels. When we get back, I'm taking total control. For real this time."
Your heart skipped a beat, a sudden, thrilling heat shooting straight down to your core. Before you could even process a snappy comeback, Dean gave your ass a playful squeeze, turned around, and opened the driver's side door, sliding into the car with that insufferable, beautiful smile still plastered on his face.
a/n: bro poor sammy 😭 he's so done.
dean's such an asshole in this one, but i honestly love it and hope you did too. pls feel free to share ur opinions with me 🙏
ꨄ︎ not your imagination / dean winchester ˎˊ˗ part 1
⋰˚☆ teen!dean x teen!reader | fluff | 1.7k
⋰˚☆ where you’d heard about monsters in stories, never believing they were real. until, you were running for your life to get away from one. luckily, an expert was around to help you.
⋰˚☆ content: fem!reader, reader scared, brief werewolf chase, blood mentioned
the thrill of it all mlist 𖦹 one 𖦹 next… coming soon
running faster than you ever thought you were able to wasn’t your idea of fun after a busy day at school.
there you were, running in the direction of your home while loud footsteps and growls came from behind you. you were sure whatever it was had started gaining on you, trying to make your feet carry you faster.
monsters were in movies, tv shows, books you read. they weren’t real, they didn’t hide under your bed or in a closet. they weren’t real.
which is what you’d thought for most of your life. until right this second. you had no idea what was chasing you, why it was chasing you.
trying not to stumble over your own feet, you kept running, taking bigger steps, trying to move faster. you never had been much of a runner, but right now you’d probably win fastest in your entire school.
bag clutched in your palm, you turned down a corner, away from the streets. perhaps not the smartest idea, more places to hide though, were the thoughts going through your mind.
a large dumpster beside an apartment building, somewhere you could stay quiet, at least try to catch your breath if this thing didn’t tear you apart first.
you reached the dumpster before the monster could turn the same corner. sitting down, back against the hard wall, knees pulled to your chest as you took many deep breaths, trying to slow your racing heart and panting lungs.
there were still footsteps, slower as it tried to track you. heavy breathing, quieter growling like a wolf stalking its prey. its shadow rearing its head as the nearby lamp post shone above you.
never did you think this would be the way you’d go out. the way your life would end. from some creature, monster that shouldn’t exist. sure that you were stuck in some terrible nightmare. at least, you wished that was the case.
it got closer, to the point you could see its feet, then its face. almost human like. eyes an orangey yellow colour, teeth sharper than a persons, claws so sharp it would definitely cause damage.
nothing to defend yourself with, you reached into your bag for the closest thing you had to a weapon.
pepper spray.
you carried it around at all times in case you needed it. especially walking alone at night, going home from school with no one to accompany you.
although, you were sure it wouldn’t do much to protect you from whatever this monster was.
you took a sharp breath, holding out the spray just as it looked at you, growling louder, as though it was ready to pounce. and then…
someone shouting. getting the creatures attention. it turned away from you, moving out of your sight line. leaving you to yourself for now.
there were a few sounds of struggle, the sound of whatever it was getting thrown to the floor, then more growling, turning into dog like whimpers. finally ending in a brief stabbing sound, followed by a loud thud.
pepper spray firm in your hand as you started to hear footsteps again. was it the monster? or whatever just killed it? what if they hurt you too?
first, you saw boots, eyes following up jean covered legs to a brown flannel. then him. brown floppy hair, worried green eyes. but, he was still just a strange guy that had appeared.
he saw your pepper spray, “i’m not gonna hurt you, promise,” he raised his hands. “was just following the werewolf, had no idea you were here.”
“werewolf…” you mumbled, trailing off, hand finally lowering the spray.
“c’mon,” he reached out his hand, taking a step closer.
not the reaction he expected, it resulted in you raising your pepper spray again. he backed up immediately, hands still visible, no weapons, just a worried expression as he glanced back to where the werewolf lay.
“hey, listen, uh,” he tried to figure a way to gain your trust and fast. “i’m dean, i just wanna help you get home, alright?”
you stayed silent, but lowered the spray, pulling your knees closer to your chest as you struggled to look dean in the eye.
“what’s your name?” he asked gently, now crouching to your level.
still, you didn’t talk, didn’t make eye contact, pretended you didn’t see the blood stains on his jeans from killing that werewolf.
right. werewolf.
“i get it,” he kept his eyes on you. “i’m a stranger, and you were…”
“going home,” a mumble, but it was progress.
he nodded, “and all i wanna do is get you back there safely,” he offered a small smile once you finally looked up. “i know the werewolf was scary, but i took care of it, you’re not gonna get hurt.”
you took a deep breath, hoping he was genuine. that he wouldn’t turn on you, hurt you on your way back. so, with a quiet voice you introduced yourself. told him your name to which he seemed appreciative.
“how far away is your house?” dean asked next, trying more to gain your trust, keeping his voice low and soft.
another hesitation, but you moved slightly, not so tight against the wall. deciding whether or not you can trust dean for now. it would only be tonight, not like you’d ever see him again.
“two blocks over.”
dean nodded, slowly standing at the right angle to block you from seeing the werewolf laying on the ground.
he reached his hand out again, offering to help you up off of the floor. to which, you ever so slowly accepted. placing your palm in his, feeling the roughness of his skin, most likely from battling it out with the monster.
tugging you up gently, you tried to peep around dean, only for him to move to your eye line. he cleared his throat, glancing back towards it.
“you don’t need to see that,” he gave a half smile. “the less you see the better.”
unsure on if he was protecting you, or just wanted to clear you away as soon as possible, you gave a faint nod as you let go of his hand.
he placed his hand between your shoulder blades, softly pushing you in the opposite direction to get you back home, those two blocks over just as you’d said.
it was quiet at first. silence as you walked side by side, a slight gap between you so you weren’t too close to this guy you’d never met before. that ultimately came out of nowhere.
the alleyway was forgotten, for now. the only thing on your mind was the concept of monsters. what others were out there, the fact that they exist when you thought it was all books and movies, fairytales that weren’t meant to be real.
in the lit up streets, you were back in the safety of cars on the road, people passing you on the street. closer to where you could see your familiar neighbourhood and the surrounding houses.
it was strange to you, that people had carried on like normal all while you were fighting for your life to stop from getting attacked by a creature that shouldn’t exist.
that’s when you finally spoke again, “monsters are real?” there’s disbelief in your voice. “i wish it was my imagination.”
dean glanced to you, thought before answering, “it’s not your imagination,” he shoved his hands in his pockets. “that werewolf was very real, we’ve been tracking it for a couple weeks.”
“we?” you asked simply.
“me and my dad,” he explained. “we’re hunters. stop the monsters before they can hurt too many people.”
just like before, you didn’t look at him. something else for you to take in. monsters. hunters. he seemed so young to be dealing with all of this. you’re busy in school, and out in the world are creatures trying to kill people.
“there’s others?” you turned to him. “monsters, i mean.”
he was hesitant to tell you. wanted to keep you as unafraid as he could while you didn’t know much. it wasn’t often he explained his line of work in detail to innocent people.
“there is,” he settled on. “but you don’t gotta worry about any of it, okay? just tonight. that’s it. you’ll be home and safe.”
a deep breath as you looked away, hoping he was right. that you’d never see any monsters again. that you’d never see him again. because if you did… you were sure it’d mean trouble.
finally, your house came into view. the lights on downstairs, porch light glowing. your parents probably wondering why you’d taken so long to get home from school.
you stopped in your tracks, dean doing the same. he stood in front of you, glancing around as if to make sure nothing had followed you. he’d sorted out the werewolf either way. knew it couldn’t get to you.
“might wanna stay over here,” you fiddled with your hands as you found his eyes. “don’t think my parents would like a boy bringing me home.”
dean chuckled, “not just any boy,” he raised his eyebrows. “the one that saved your life.”
you had to laugh quietly at that. he wasn’t wrong. he saved you back there. stopped the monster from getting to you. got you back here safe and sound.
“thank you for getting there in time,” you finally smiled at him. genuinely.
“no need to thank me, sweetheart,” he smiled back, nodded towards your house. “i’d say i hope this isn’t the last time i see you, but i’ll probably only be around if there’s more monsters.”
you agreed, “hopefully i won’t see you anytime soon, dean,” the both of you laughed quietly. “get back to… wherever you’re going safe.”
“always do.”
you gave one last thankful smile, crossing the quiet street to get over to your house. dean watched from where you’d left him, saw your mum open the door, pulling you in for a hug now you were finally home. she looked worried, glad you were back safe.
then the door closed, usually the moment for dean to leave. but, his feet stayed still on the pavement. he saw the light switch on upstairs, you appearing at the window before pulling across your curtains.
he wanted this to be the only time he saw you. didn’t want you to be in any danger again. but there was something in your quietness, the way you’d been with him tonight, that made him think that maybe monsters wouldn’t be the only reason he’d come back to you.
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