I think ao3 is literally the only site where no censorship means no censorship. you can post the most vile things on there — things that will get taken down on any other platforms — and ao3 will protect you, your works, and your rights to create whatever you want, however you want.
and no, this isn’t me saying “write that messed up, disgusting thing” because while, yes, write it if it’s what you want (I myself enjoy writing dark fics, something I believe would be considered “vile” to a lot of people), this is me saying in a world of censorship and capitalism, ao3 really is a treasure.
pairing: reader x dean, reader x sam (not at same time, she be confused)
summary: You try to navigate the aftermath of the lust curse the best you can. Somehow, you make things worse.
content warnings: no description of reader except sam can lift her and she has hair, smut, reader is confused af, spanking, rough sex, pinv, fingering, hair pulling, female receiving oral, male receiving oral, emotional cheating?, cursing, angst, minimal plot, maybe cheating? idk they were on a break
wc: 5.7k
a/n: leave ya girl a comment which side ur on!!! hell ya better late than never, requests open
At first, Dean swears everything’s okay.
He takes you back into his arms with relief, wrapping you in a suffocating embrace the minute you step out of the Impala. You’d spent the entire ride back imagining scenarios of Dean rejecting you, of him being disgusted by you for betraying him, so when he draws you into his chest, thankful tears burn your eyes and you hold him tight.
“Thanks for looking out for my girl, Sam.” Dean says, lifting his head from your shoulder to look at his brother, who’d been uncomfortably lingering on the driver’s side. Sam gives a stiff nod that you don’t see. Dean holds eye contact as he draws you in for a kiss. Sam’s face hardens.
When you’re alone with Dean in the motel that night, the guilty feelings haven’t left you. Despite the frantic, blurred frenzy the curse put you in, you still remember everything.
“S-Should we…talk?” You mumble, staring at Dean with wide, sensitive eyes. He’d been quick to say goodnight to Sam, snatching back the keys to Impala and giving him an impersonal clap on the shoulder before whisking you inside. Sam’d been staring at you, that same helpless expression on his face he’d worn when you’d flinched at his touch when the curse ended.
Dean walks over to where you’re sitting on the bed. His eyes meet your tearful ones, and even though he’s done nothing to blame you or even hold you accountable, when he sits beside you and doesn’t immediately reach for you, something in your chest cracks.
“S’there something else I need to know?” He asks gruffly, with a furrowed brow. Sharply inhaling, he stares at his boots. “...‘Cause I pretty much got the gist.”
You don’t know what to say. How can you tell him that even right now, as you’re so grateful and happy to be back with him, you’re also wondering about his brother in the next room. Wondering what he would have said to you, if you hadn’t brushed him off the entire ride back. Wondering if he’s going to be able to put this all behind him, wondering if he even wants to.
“Dean-” You whisper through tears, placing a tentative hand on his thigh. “M’sorry. M’so sorry.” The tears fall harder, and you see the pain you feel reflected in his misty eyes. “I-I should never have gone without you-” You begin crying in earnest when he opens his arms to you, gathering you onto his lap, letting you cry into the crook of his shoulder while he rocks you, rubbing your back. You don’t even feel worthy of his comfort, so you cry harder. “I ruined everything. A-And I understand if you hate me- but I love you-”
“Hey. Look at me.” He murmurs against your hairline, guiding you by your shoulders. “First off…no matter what happens, no matter how badly you think you’ve fucked up, I will never hate you. Alright? You're my girl and you always will be.” He pinches your chin, forcing you to keep meeting his eyes as you protest against his benevolence. “Secondly…this ain’t your fault, babygirl. You were cursed, for fuck’s sake…you would have died…I should have been there, baby. I should have been there for you, so I’m fuckin’ sorry.”
“No, don’t apologise, Dean.” You take his face in your hands. “It’s okay if you’re upset with me-”
“Why should I be?” He asks, watching you carefully. “The curse is broken. Everyone got out with their skin…nothing has to change…right?”
“Right.” You agree quietly.
“M’not worried about my punk ass kid brother.” He mutters, drawing you closer to kiss your forehead.
But things most definitely have changed.
That night, when you shower with Dean, you notice the way he zones in on the little faded marks across your neck and chest, marks left by his brother’s mouth. It feels like a lead block drops in your stomach when he brushes his thumb over one of the bruises, staring at it intently with a clenched jaw. You hold your breath, waiting for him to say something, but he just crowds you back under the water, grabbing your face with both holds to compel you into a scathing kiss.
You gasp in surprise, grasping at his waist to stabilize yourself. The familiar flavor of his kiss blooms across your tastebuds, making you eager for more. Your body reacts to his kiss instantaneously, doused in heat that has you trembling. Shivering as your back hits the cool shower wall, you moan softly as his hands caress your body. His lips leave yours to trail along your neck, his hot breath against your skin making your eyelashes flutter.
“Let’s see if you’re still my desperate, little girl,” He rasps against your ear before dipping a hand between your legs.
You dig your nails into his waist as he brushes his fingers against your sticky wetness. He releases an indecent groan as you spread your legs farther for him, whimpering his name quietly, to not be heard through the thin motel walls.
“There she is,” Dean murmurs, grabbing your face with one hand to draw your eyes away from where his fingers are plunging inside of you to meet his ravenous gaze. “Such a good girl for me, always the best girl.” He says.
Despite the soft praise he’s giving you, he’s fingering you like he’s got something to prove, his wrist moving in a blur between your shaking thighs. He’s only stuffed two digits into your aching pussy, but he’s hitting so deep and fast that you can’t even get your mouth to form his name anymore. Instead, you’re gasping and mewling, clawing at his thick wrist. You’re not sure if you want him to stop or keep going, but in a matter of seconds, he’s finger fucking you into a mind-numbing orgasm that has your legs giving out.
“C’mon babygirl, let ‘em know who owns this little desperate pussy.” Dean grunts later. He has you bent over on the bed, his huge hands selfishly squeezing at the plush flesh of your ass as he drives himself in and out of your sloppy, abused cunt.
He’s being so rough with you, like he’s trying to fuck the guilt out of your head. It’s working for the most part, too, because you can’t even think with him drilling into you so savagely. Every time he perceives you to be holding in your screams of delight, he brings one of those massive hands down on your ass, like right now.
You scream harshly, your pussy spasming wildly around his girth. Even though your knees buckle from the stinging agony of his assault on your ass, Dean doesn’t slow. He just readjusts his grip on your hips, continuing to fuck you like you’re a doll.
“Y’can do better than that, babygirl.” He warns through gritted teeth, rubbing the throbbing, cherry red handprint on your jiggling ass. “I said scream my fuckin’ name. Want everyone on the fuckin’ block to hear it. Want everyone to know how fuckin’ good I treat my little babygirl-”
Dean’d always been overprotective, but now he’s downright possessive.
He’s obsessed with making you cum as violently and often as he can. Whenever Sam is in the next room, Dean’ll make you scream his name, over and over until your vocal cords fray from over use. He leaves dark, purposeful marks across your neck and chest, positioning them to lie above your neckline so they’re always on full display. He keeps an arm around your shoulders in public, or a hand wedged in the back pocket of your jeans. When you work cases, he’s glued to your side.
The possessiveness, you could live with. What you can’t live with is Sam, constantly watching you from the sidelines.
Dean won’t back off on his assertion that everything is fine and normal, so that means Sam is still around. He keeps his distance from you but you still notice him. When you’re sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, laughing at whatever stupid joke Dean’d just told, you’re compelled to glance at the rearview mirror, to meet Sam’s eyes for a fraction of a second. It feels like the world slows down in those moments, and you feel the memory of his scorching touch, but it also feels like you’re committing a crime, so you look away quickly and then ignore him for the rest of the ride.
Sam grabs coffee for the three of you in preparation for a long session of pouring over paper records. You’re spreading out the files while Dean’s grabbing the last set from the secretary when Sam hands you a styrofoam cup with your complicated coffee order that he never gets wrong.
“Thanks, Sam,” You say quietly, your pulse sky-rocketing as his fingers brush yours. The touch lingers, as he towers over you, and it takes Dean striding back into view to have you lurching away from Sam like he’d burned you.
Sam’s quiet as you look through the records.
After facing off with the entity, Dean and you are relatively unharmed, but Sam has a nasty gash along his back. It’s usually you that tends to the wounds and injuries of the group, but Dean grabs the first aid kit before you can get to it. You have to pointedly focus on not looking at Sam’s exposed torso while Dean patches up the cut.
A few days later, after closing the case, you’re packing up the last of your belongings from the motel room while Dean packs the trunk. You hear the door open and close as you zip your bag. Slinging it over your shoulder and turning, your heart freezes when you realize it's Sam.
He averts his eyes from your face at your obvious discomfort at being alone with him. He glances out the window, where he can see Dean’s figure behind the Impala, then looks back at you.
“Can we…would it be okay if we talked?” Sam asks clumsily.
“Um…” You’re torn. You’d been so involved in your own guilt and managing Dean’s emotions, that you know you’d been overlooking how difficult this has been for Sam. He’s been dealing with the cold shoulder from his brother…and an even colder shoulder from you. “O-Okay.”
“You’ve been ignoring me.” Sam says with more strength to his voice. “Avoiding me…and I understand why…I just- I just need to know if you feel like…like I overstepped.”
You frown.
Sam shakes his head slowly, lips pulled together tight. His hands fidget near his hips. “You weren’t in your right mind, and I was…I should have tried to figure something else out instead of…of-”
You step forward, taking his hand gently. His expression breaks at the physical contact, immediately gripping your hand back hard, his eyes searching your face desperately.
“Sam,” You say tenderly. “You saved me. There was no other way.” You pause, momentarily lost by the raw yearning in his eyes. You’re not sure why it's so easy for you to absolve him of all guilt, when you carry so much of it still yourself. “I would have died…without your help…and I never even thanked you.”
Sam gives you a small smile, his thumb drawing a line on your wrist absently. “You don’t have to thank me. I’d-” He cuts himself off, looking temporarily strangled, but when he continues, it’s with a disarming conviction. “I’d do anything for you.”
That comment leaves your mouth dry, and you can’t do anything but stare back at him. You’re disquieted by the gooey pining that swells in your stomach the longer you look at him. And you can’t ignore the brief moment that his hazel eyes zero in on your parted lips. Seconds or hours go by and the moment is only broken when Dean bounds back into the room, just quick enough to see you clasping his brother’s hand. You leap away, culpability all over your face, and Sam clears his throat, casting his eyes anywhere but at either of you, and then disappears through the door.
That night, parked outside a rest stop while Sam’s using the restroom, Dean grips the wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. He pinches his eyes closed, shaking his head.
“S’there…something I need to know?” He asks in a drawn, restricted voice.
Your insides have turned to dust. The curse is gone but you still just feel wrong and confused. It gets worse every day. Why can’t you stop thinking about Sam?
You can’t lie. Can’t pretend that everything is alright when every moment feels so charged. Helplessly, you mumble, “I-I don’t know.”
Dean turns to look at you, and he looks more exhausted than you’ve seen him in a long time. It makes your heart implode, to have him regard you with such caution, like you’re the one thing that could deal him the final blow.
“Maybe…” He says hoarsely, having to clear his throat through the thickness of his emotion. “Maybe you need some time…to figure it out.”
Your breath catches. “Dean, no,” You plea, grabbing his arm. “Don’t wanna lose you,”
“You won’t ever lose me, baby.” He says, holding your face by your cheek. His thumb wipes away the fat tears that start to slip from your eyes. “Take all the time you need to sort it out. I’ll be right here if you wanna come back to me.”
You fist his shirt and he hugs you the best he can over the console. He kisses you hard and wipes your face clean before Sam comes back.
That was about a month ago. A month of taking a break. Dean’s words.
It hurts terribly at first. You don’t know what he means by a break, other than he wants you to figure your shit out. You torment yourself by imagining him going to bars and talking to other girls, then taking those other girls home, the way he used to do frequently before you’d tied him down.
Dean doesn’t call you, and you don’t call him. He wanted you to have space. But you have so much space, you don’t know what to do with it.
Maybe Dean knew what he was talking about, though, because the space makes it abundantly clear to you, no matter how badly you try to deny it, that you love Dean, but you still want Sam. That revelation makes you feel vile, until the memories of how good he made you feel come flooding in.
The depth of his voice, sultry and tender, calling you honey and gorgeous, the names falling so easily from his mouth like he’d been thinking them all along. The bruising grip of his hands on your body.
You touch yourself and don’t know which brother to think of, so you think of both. Rubbing yourself, never feeling as good as they made you feel, you think of Dean muttering filth into your ear, pulling your hair, manipulating your body for his pleasure, and then you picture Sam, his gigantic hands on your little waist, holding you in his embrace like a doll as he fucks you voraciously.
You slowly start coming to terms with the mess of your emotions. There’s no conceivable scenario in which any of this works out without anyone getting hurt, unless you can just get Sam out of your fucking head. Like it was before.
You do anything and everything you can to distract yourself. You reconnect with friends, catch up on reading, and any other bullshit that you can to think about anything else besides the fucking Winchesters. But it just feels wrong to do anything without them. You miss Dean so much it aches, but it wouldn’t be fair to him to reach out until you get yourself under control.
One night, there’s a knock on your motel door.
You immediately tense. No one really knows you’re staying here. You try peeping through the curtains, but still end up grabbing your handgun and tucking it into the waistband of your jeans, just like Dean taught you.
You’re shocked to see Sam standing in front of you when you open the door. It’s so unexpected that you’re open mouthed for a full three seconds before you regain your senses.
“Sam-” You choke out with wide eyes.
Oh god. Seeing him after so many weeks sends a rush of desire through you. He looks so good, rugged and brawny. The light autumn breeze ruffles his shaggy hair, and there’s a little bit of scruff on his strong jaw.
“Hey,” He says your name gently. “Can I come inside?”
You let him in and even that feels dangerous. Like it’s a small infraction leading to one much, much larger if you let it. You close the door behind him, digging your nails into the wood for half a second to stabilize your racing thoughts, before following him farther into the room.
It's just talking. Nothing will happen.
“What are you doing here, Sam?” You ask quietly.
He smiles sheepishly, turning away from your gaze to rub the back of his neck avoidantly.
You draw closer. “Does…does Dean know you’re here?”
Sam nearly winces at the sound of his brother’s name. “No...God no…think he might kill me if he knew.”
You can’t help yourself. “...How is he?”
Sam stiffens, his gaze suddenly becoming deadened and empty. There’s a brief flash of vulnerability on his face before it hardens. When he answers, his voice is monotonous, his tone hollow. “He’s not himself without you…that’s for sure.”
There's a moment of heavy silence.
“He’s taking care of himself?” You ask, picking at your fingernails.
“Yeah…I’m lookin’ out for him.”
You force a watery smile. “Good…you’re a good brother.”
Sam’s expression sours as he shakes his head lightly. “...I don’t think you’d be saying that if you knew why I’m here.”
Your stupid, susceptible heart skips a beat. Trying to act like the implication of those words hasn’t sent your body into overdrive is impossible. Your heart feels like it's beating in an empty chamber, echoing painfully.
But still. You have to be strong. Nothing will happen. Nothing can happen.
“Why are you here, Sam?” You ask in a small, asphyxiated voice.
“He wouldn’t talk to me about…why you left.” Sam admits. “So…I know it’s because of me. Or us. What happened between us.” He frowns but continues. “You shouldn’t be the one to leave. He needs you. If it’s what you want, I’ll go. Okay? I’ll go and leave you and Dean in peace. It could be like it was. If that’s what you need-”
“Sam, that’s not what I want.” You say firmly. “I don’t want you to go anywhere.”
Admitting that had not been part of the plan. But something about the kicked dog energy he's exuding makes you want to comfort him.
Sam’s expression clears a bit, raising his eyebrows as he steps closer, until he’s right in front of you and you have to crane your neck a bit to meet his eyes. Every subtle shift of your bodies, every breath you take, feels amplified in the moment, saturated and heavy.
“What do you want me to do, then?” He asks in a low, calculated voice.
Your face is hot, your hands clammy. There’s nothing you can do except stammer. Stammer and beg yourself not to let anything happen.
He murmurs your name with urgency. “You want me to stay?”
Any response feels too committal and not committal enough. It feels like he’s putting you under some kind of spell. Like you can’t process the very important warning thoughts forming in your mind because the needs of your body are being pushed to the forefront. You’re no better than a caveman, drawn magnetically to the flame of his body.
“Say it,” He implores, pleading by saying your name again. He reaches out and grasps your biceps, delicately guiding your body a fraction closer to his, pulling you deeper under his power. And you let him, let his hand touch the bare skin of your arm, let his eyes so obviously devour the contours of your lips.
You're really afraid you might let something happen.
You snap back to your senses when he dips his head closer. The movement sends a jolt through you, and you panic, stopping him with a firm hand on the hard plane of his chest.
“Sam-” You blurt. “I-I can’t.”
He doesn’t back off. Smothering the hand on his chest with his own hand, he shifts even closer, so the fabric of his flannel brushes the material of your shirt, so when his broad chest expands with every inhale, you feel how solid he is.
“But you want to.” He husks.
You close your eyes. You can’t focus on pushing him away when his eyes are smoldering like this, staring at you so fixedly, his hunger openly bleeding out. You exhale shakily when his hand touches your neck, sliding up to cup your cheek. The simple touch sends electricity throughout your entire body.
In your last feeble attempt to drive him away, you open your eyes. “I love him, Sam.”
“I know.” He murmurs, taking your face with both hands now. “I love him, too.”
Then he ducks his head, crushing his lips onto yours. Standing on the tips of your toes to meet him, you succumb to the throbbing need inside yourself and wrap your arms around the expanse of his shoulders, opening yourself up to him like you had the first time, putting all thoughts of guilt aside for the sake of momentary relief.
Sure, it makes you deplorable. And weak. But the second he touches you, you don't feel bad at all.
Sam’s kiss is sloppy and desperate, possibly even more so than the first time, except this time, there’s nothing supernatural about the built up carnality between you. You rake your nails down his chest and abs, angry at his shirt from keeping you from his skin, and he forces you back against the wall, your head clunking against it clumsily. You barely notice in your desperation to get closer. Just like the first time, he lifts you by your hips, pinning your back against the rickety glass behind you.
Sam wastes no time in pawing at your clothes. Your shirt comes off, then he’s dragging your jeans down your legs, kneeling in front of you as he slides your feet out of the pants. Head resting against the window pane, you watch him with heavily lidded eyes as he lifts your naked calf. You begin shaking when he presses his hot, wet mouth against your ankle, trailing his lips higher and higher, kissing your calf, then the side of your knee. You brazenly moan when he reaches the inside of your thigh, letting his incisors scrape against the soft skin there. You’re sure he didn’t miss the wet spot on your panties, or the pearly slickness spreading from the apex of your thighs.
“Been wanting to get my hands back on you again so bad.” He admits, still kneeling before you, looking up at you like you’re some kind of goddess or devil. “S’fuckin’ not healthy.”
Panting, you tousle his hair, your pussy responding to the boyish way his eyes flutter at the soothing touch.
“Wanna do everything I didn’t get to do last time.” He rants, staring at where he’s running his hands up your thighs, over your hips. “Just wanna make you feel good, honey. You gonna let me?” He stands, ripping his shirt off before draping himself over you.
You’re gushing, powerlessly soaked between your legs. You could stare at his body all day. Sam has to wrap a hand into the roots of your hair to get your eyes to focus on his face, you’re so far gone already.
“What d’you say, pretty girl.” He surges forward to kiss you again, feeding you his tongue deeply, pressing his groin against the thin lace barrier concealing your puffy pussy from him. At the feeling of his immense erection, you wantonly moan, as he kisses you, saliva slipping from between your joined lips.
“Yes, Sam, touch me, touch me, please-” You beg, all resistance gone. You should have known the second he showed up, this was inevitable. You're just a woman, after all.
“Touch you how, honey.” He coos, maintaining his hold on your hair to keep your eyes level with his. With his free hand, he’s working on the front of his pants, popping the button and then sliding the fly down. “Tell me, baby, I’ll give you whatever you want-”
You can’t think.
“Anything-” You whine, running your hands through his hair as he kisses you stupid again.
“S’okay, baby.” He pecks your lips before sliding back down your body, taking one bare leg and throwing over his solid shoulder. “Don’t gotta decide anything. Imma do all the thinkin’ for you. Sound good?”
You mewl in agreement, your head lolling to the side to watch him gracelessly tug the gusset of your panties aside. You’re pulsing between your legs, sticky with how wet you’ve become, but it all intensifies as his eyes drink in the image of your most intimate parts.
“Jesus fucking christ,” Sam moans, eyes fixated on the shimmering mess between your legs. He presses a hand down into his crotch, rubbing himself shamelessly, frantically. “You’re perfect.” He murmurs, using the tip of his thumb to tease along your slit, applying no pressure. “Most perfect thing in the world.”
You whine his name loudly at the torturous touch, causing his eyes to flick up to your face. He gives you a pleased, boyish grin.
“Please,” You say breathlessly, wiggling your hips in anticipation of a stronger touch.
“Don’t gotta beg me for it, honey.” He says with a small smirk. “Even if it’s real cute when you do.”
The width of his shoulders forces your thighs to spread farther as he draws closer. Your eyes flutter at the sensation of his hot breath puffing against your aching pussy, and when you feel his tongue flatten against your molten heat, you whine so loud you fear the glass behind you might shatter. He starts to swirl his tongue around your clit, through the sopping middle of your center, holding you against the window and still with his immense strength.
The noise of him eating your pussy is so obscene but so hot, especially when he moans, as if he's the one being devoured.
Your orgasm builds so quickly it should be humiliating, but you’ve been lusting after him in secret for so long that you probably could have came without him ever even touching you. You grip the roots of his hair in a tight little fist, melting when you meet his eyes. The muscles in his jaw flex as he uses the tip of his tongue to bully your clit, moaning against you while his mouth is full of your pussy.
He doesn’t stop until you’re cumming. You only stay standing because he’s supporting most of your weight. While you’re still experiencing the aftershocks, he stands, still giving your sensitive pussy attention as he swirls his fingers through the mess of saliva and your arousal.
“Fuck,” He groans, licking the sheen from his lips, missing most of it that is smeared all around his mouth. A few pieces of his hair are dampened against his sweaty forehead. “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted-”
You’re gritting your teeth as he keeps rubbing at your swollen clit, panting. Then he’s kissing you again, forcing his tongue into your accepting mouth, so you can share in your tangy flavor.
“My turn,” You pant, falling to your knees and landing on them a little bit harder than intended. Your hands are shaking as you try to get his jeans off his hips, and he chuckles at your eagerness before assisting. You're following his lead of doing what you didn't do last time, though the darker part of your mind says you're doing it in case it's the last time.
You run your hand over the obvious shape of his cock under his briefs, enjoying the way Sam’s abs flex in response. You gather saliva in your mouth and lean forward to suckle at where you can see the outline of his head, fully soaking the fabric, feeling his cockhead twitch under your lips and tongue. He moans, hand flying to your hair to grasp at control.
“Don’t know if I can handle you suckin’ my cock-” He admits in a breathless, broken voice as you free his member.
“Please? Just a little.” You ask, holding him in your hand a centimeter away from your hungry, swollen lips.
Sighing, he squares his shoulders, feigning composure. “Okay, honey, yeah. Go ahead.” He gulps.
His entire body goes rigid as the reddish, nearly purple tip slips past your wet, wanting lips, into the saturated cavern of your mouth. The musky, heady taste of him is so good, you almost shove a hand between your thighs at how turned on this has you. You struggle to take more and more of him in, encouraged by the pitiful, pathetic noises he’s making above you.
You release him from your mouth with a smile. “Wow. No kidding, you can’t handle it.” Your hand pumps up and down his length, feeling the pulsing of every vein. “Where’s that big bad hunter now?”
Sam huffs, smiling but still looks bashful. “I’ll show you a big bad hunter.” He grabs at you, manhandling you up onto your feet. He kneads the flesh of your ass in his hands before lifting you up. He positions your legs around his slim waist, attaching his mouth to yours as he carries you over to the couch.
He sits, with you hovering over his exposed cock. His hands leave your body only to yank at the frail lace around your hips, but when he can’t get them down far enough with your legs around him, he settles for ripping them in a display of pure strength.
"Oh my god," You pant.
Sam raises an eyebrow, pausing for a second. "Favorite pair or something?"
"No," You grasp his face, loving the feel of his stubble on your soft palms. "Was just fuckin' hot."
He moans in agreement, kissing you.
“Wanna be inside you so bad,” Sam whispers against your lips, chest heaving. “But don’t want it to be the last time.”
You place a tender hand on his chest, feeling the rawness of his heart beating, rapid enough to rival yours. You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t know how any of this is going to work out, when you’re done here. But you’ve gone too far to stop.
“Sam, please,” You moan softly, undulating your hips so your throbbing pussy rubs against the length of his twitching cock.
His head falls back against the couch, lips parted helplessly. “Tell me it won’t be the last time.” He pleads, taking his cock in his hand to guide it to where your hole flutters, waiting for him. “Please, honey. Then I’ll give you what you want.”
“Sam,” You whine, unwilling to say it, but your need has built again. You dig your nails into his shoulders, thrusting your hips, trying to get him to slip it in. His whining is the slightest bit pathetic, but that kind of turns you on more.
“Please, honey.” He repeats, grabbing at the roots of your hair.
“O-Okay-” You gasp and are rewarded by him seating his cock at your entrance. You cry his name, your jaw dropping open, eyes squeezing shut as he fills you completely, plunging the air out of your lungs.
“Holy fuck-” Sam huffs in your ear, letting you sit on the entirety of his length, balls snug against the globes of your ass. He brushes the messy hair from your face with a desperate palm, his eyes meeting yours. “You feel so fuckin’ good. Better than anything.”
“Mhm, you gotta move, baby,” You beg.
At the pet name, Sam moans, using your ass as leverage as he begins to lift and drop you on his lap. You wiggle in his arms, moving with him as best as you can, gasping when he grips your jaw in a firm hand to keep your eyes on his.
“I’ll fuckin’ cum if you call me baby again-” He threatens, baring his teeth. Pearls of sweat trickle down his chest, smearing on your skin when his arms tighten around you, drawing you so close, as he continues to furiously bounce you on his cock, like you weigh nothing. By the noises he’s making, he must be dangerously close to spilling inside of you, and sounds like a man possessed.
“M’so close-” You cry. It didn’t take long to build you up, and the evidence of Sam’s impending orgasm- the way his muscles are fluttering, the urgent, longing in his eyes, and the burning stretch of him plowing into that spongy spot deep inside you over and over again- has you flying to your peak.
“Me too, baby, me too.” He chants. “Ohh, fuck, I’m gonna cum.” The veins in his neck and arms stand out as he staves it off, giving you the hardest, choppiest thrusts he can manage to send you over the edge. “Need to come with you, honey, need to feel you cum with me. God-please, baby, please-”
He's begging you, as if you have any control over it. But your pussy loves it.
He curses loudly as he starts to come, losing control of himself. He buries himself to the hilt inside you, grabbing at you hard enough to leave bruises. The flood of his warm, abundant come sends you over the edge, and you convulse in his arms. His thrusts slow, both of you panting and moaning, until the feeling gradually subsides, leaving you with the messy feeling of your combined arousal trickling out of your sensitive pussy, onto his lap.
You rest your head on his shoulder, still regaining your breath. Sam rubs your sweaty back, holding you tenderly to his chest. He starts pressing kisses to your bare shoulder, his hands sliding over your skin worshipfully.
“Sam,” You say, throat dry.
When your eyes meet his, you both seem to be thinking the same thing. Last time, it’d been to save your life. Last time, there had been no choice. Now…you chose this. You both did.
"I can't believe-" You start to say I can't believe we did it again but you can't even finish. "Oh my god-"
"Hey, it's okay." He murmurs. "I'm here, too...and he's my brother."
Sam swallows. “But everything I said…I meant it.” He admits, surveying you cautiously. “I mean it. I know I’m going straight to hell for it, but I want you. I want this-”
“You can have sex with literally anyone else-” You start to say meekly.
“It’s not just sex.” He frowns, touching your face gently. “Watching you with…him-” He grimaces at the mention of Dean. “I wanted it to be me. Laughing in the car. Sharing a bed…and the way you look at him, I want you to look at me like that.”
“H-how long…have you felt like this?” You ask timidly. Maybe it would be better not to know, but you're selfish and greedy.
“A while.” He says. “Just got a lot harder to ignore it…once we…”
“Sam…I don’t know what to say.”
He smoothes your hair back and gives you a tragic smile. “I know…and I know you love Dean…but you feel something for me, too…at least, I think so…just had to let you know…make you understand that if it was what you wanted, you could have me.” He pauses. “I’ll be good. I’ll stay away, while you decide…just had to let you know.”
You’ve never been more confused, more lost. The only thing you’re sure about is that you’re scared. Scared of hurting anyone. Scared of being hurt. And scared of that dread in the pit of your stomach, telling you that you’re going to lose them both.
also lowkey played out the part of ‘paradise by the dashboard light’ by meatloaf as sam begged her for it not to be the last time— LITERALLY WAS ORGASMIC FOR ME (and could rave on abt for hours)
✦summary: everything was fine between you and dean until you moved into the bunker. everything is tolerable until you get hurt on a hunt. dean loses his mind. and when you try to apologize, dean tells you exactly why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, pining, average dean winchester emotional intelligance, shameless smut (dry humping, knee riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, oral f!reciving, pussy slapping, fingering, breif mentions of spanking, dean's dirty talk, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: old dean you've done nothing wrong ever. murder? what murder? i can't hear you over how fine he is.✦
“She should stay in the car.”
“I’m not staying in the car-“
“It’s a small nest.” Dean doesn’t even acknowledge you, tapping his thumb on the wheel as he addresses Sam. “She’d just be an extra block, you know we can clean that place up blindfolded and ball-gagged-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why would you be ball gagged-“
“We leave her with a knife.” He keeps ignoring you. “Lock the doors, crack the windows, and we’re in and out like-“
You slam your feet into the back of Dean’s seat, cutting him off with a grunt. He whips around to shoot you a glare, and you stick out your tongue.
“What the hell was that.”
“I’m not a dog, dipshit.” You snap, and he scowls.
“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“
“It was implied.”
Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.
“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.
“Yeah. You are.”
“I’m not-“
“You are-“
“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“
He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”
You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”
Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.
“Guys…”
“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“
“The hell I’m not-“
“You don’t offer me health insurance-“
“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“
“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”
You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.
“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”
Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.
But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.
The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.
No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.
Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.
You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.
But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.
Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around.
He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.
But it’s been a year.
And normal is this now.
Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.
For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.
You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.
And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.
It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.
The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.
It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.
He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.
And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.
It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.
You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.
“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”
“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”
Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.
“So you’re planning to look at me today?”
He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.
“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”
That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.
You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.
He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-
“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.
Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.
“Stay with me-“
“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.
The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.
You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.
So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.
But then you actually get here, and you hate it.
It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-
Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.
You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.
Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.
You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.
And it does.
The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.
You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-
All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.
You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.
Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.
He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.
His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.
The rest of the night is a little hazy.
Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.
The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.
He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.
You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.
His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.
Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.
Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.
The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.
He hasn’t spoken to you.
It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.
It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.
Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.
The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.
Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.
But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.
When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.
“He’ll get over it-“
“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.
His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.
You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.
But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.
The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.
When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.
His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.
It’s cold when he pulls away.
You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.
Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.
Dean fixed you, there.
Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.
He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.
You know, because you stay up waiting.
Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.
Breaking the rule himself.
It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.
But that’s it.
Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.
You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.
Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.
You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.
The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.
But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.
You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.
Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.
He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.
And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.
You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.
It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.
You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.
When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.
“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”
He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.
“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.
“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”
You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”
“Anything else you did.”
“Um- mhm.”
Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.
“I- I made you pie.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Oh- Okay.”
The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.
It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.
Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.
You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.
Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.
You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.
A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”
“Sweetheart-“
“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.
“Yeah, I know-“
He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes.
When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.
“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach.
Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“
“I- I know. I’m sorry-“
“Stop saying sorry!”
He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.
Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”
“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.
He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.
“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.
Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“
“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“
You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.
There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.
“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.
Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”
You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.
“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”
You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”
Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.
“Leave me alone-“
“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“
“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.
“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“
“Why do you care?”
Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.
“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“
“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.
“Don’t lie-“
“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“
“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“
“I just do, alright?”
“No, you don’t-“
“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“
“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”
The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break.
Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.
“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”
Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”
The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.
Despite yourself, you lean closer.
“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.
You raise your chin. “No.”
“Come on, just open it-“
“Go away, Dean-“
“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“
His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.
“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“
You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.
“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“
You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.
Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.
His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.
He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.
You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.
“You’re sorry.”
He nods. You swallow.
“Why-“
“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.
You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”
“And did. And-“
“Being a douchebag.”
He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”
“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.
“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”
You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.
Don’t go.
“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.
Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“
“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”
Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“
“You’re both very loud.”
“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”
“Yes, it is-“
“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”
“That’s the same thing-“
“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”
For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-
“What about me.”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.
“Are you-“
“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”
“I don’t.”
“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”
Dean swallows. You don’t waver.
“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“
“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”
You snort. “I don’t know about that-“
“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.
“Yeah. But not by that much.”
You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.
“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“
“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”
Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.
Dean must feel the same way.
When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.
Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.
He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.
His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry.
“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“
“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”
You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“
“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”
You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.
His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.
You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.
Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.
Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.
“Do you want-“
“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“
He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.
“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“
He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.
You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.
Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”
You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.
“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“
“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“
You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.
“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”
You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.
“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”
You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“
Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.
“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“
He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.
“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what you’d let me do to you?”
You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.
“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“
“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”
He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.
“De- Dean-“
“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.
You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.
“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“
“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“
“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”
You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.
“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”
He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.
“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”
You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.
“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“
He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.
You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“
He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.
Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.
“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”
He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.
His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.
When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.
“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.
“I want you.”
Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”
“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”
He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”
You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-
Dean pulls away.
He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.
You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.
“De- Dean-“
“Yeah, baby?”
He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes. “I- I can’t take that.”
“Yeah, you can.”
“No, I-“
“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”
He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.
“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.
“Excuse me?”
“Just if- If I had- That-“
“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.
“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”
He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.
“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”
“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.
“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”
“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.
“Good girl.”
Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”
You gape at him. “Wha- What-“
“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”
“Dean, don’t tease-“
“Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”
You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.
“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.
“How.”
“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“
Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.
“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“
He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.
“Fuck-“
“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.
“I’ve never done it before, dick-“
“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“
“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”
“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”
You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.
“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“
“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed.
“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“
“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“
He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.
“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“
Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.
“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.
“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“
“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“
“Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“
“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”
You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“
“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-
“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“
He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.
“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“
Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.
“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”
“De- Dean-“
“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”
He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.
“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”
You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.
“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“
“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”
He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.
“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”
You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”
“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”
Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.
You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.
“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“
A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.
But he doesn’t stop.
Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.
This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.
He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.
You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“
Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”
He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.
Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.
When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.
“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”
“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“
He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.
Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.
There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.
“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”
You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.
“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”
You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”
“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“
“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”
You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.
Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.
Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“
“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”
“No- No-“
“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”
He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.
“That’s right, there it is, come on-“
You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.
“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“
Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.
The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.
“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.
“Yeah.”
“You know you could squirt?”
You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.
“Awesome.”
His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.
“Dean, oh my god-“
“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.
Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.
“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“
You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.
“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.
He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“
“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”
“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”
He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.
You think he got it right, just like that.
“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”
And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.
✦End note: im drooling. i know most of you prob dont read my main dean series, but every day i dream about getting to the end and just making him old and happy. very normal about how i want this old ass man.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦
✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
a/n: everybody say thank you ave for helping me edit this and literally keeping me motivated to stick with it
boarder: @pixopix ; photos: pinterest
The hunter wandered further down the creek, twigs and leaves crushed into the ground by his boots. It was the second week of looking for Sophia with still no luck. Each time he returned to camp, it was difficult to look at Carol knowing he kept having to come back empty handed and childless. But she has to be out there. Shit —he refuses any other alternative.
He had been following yesterdays trail. There was another path of footprints that strayed after a few miles in. The smell of the creek reminded him of all the times he was left in the woods, being thrown in to be left behind by Merle or left by his father. His family’s attempts of making Daryl into a ‘man.’ He couldn’t imagine how this looked in Sophia’s eyes. All of his years fighting with his family and receiving the punishment, it was inevitable it became a comfort.
Apart of him was grateful, especially now, the punishment seemed to be working in his favor. Who else would be able to provide as much game as he could for the camp? Who else would be able to track footprints to help Carol find Sophia? He knew he was replaceable, mainly just another body in the camp, so he still felt like he had to earn his place. He wasn’t like Rick who kept the group running, unlike Shane who kept the group corralled, nor like Dale who kept everyone grounded. He was glorified mercenary— paid with the comfort of knowing others had his back.
By the time he had reached the tree from his last search, he found exact what he was looking for— another fresh trail. The shoes were definitely not Sophia’s size, but he was becoming desperate whether he was willing to admit it to himself or not. Carol had slowly begun believing that Sophia wasn’t coming back already and he felt like the rest of the group was tarnishing everything he had been doing for her. Their words had clearly coaxed her into believing Sophia was already gone. Carol’s sadness and shock was fading into numb comfort. He tracks the path for miles, noting each action of whoever he was following.
A shriek pierces the air, pulling his attention to the sound. His feet moved faster than his brain as he was already halfway down the small ravine. He silently ambushes the noise.
He stumbles down the steep hill and tumbles into a fallen tree as he runs where the scream came from. His body ached from the fall, head colliding with the bark. He tries to stand, but the ground beneath him trembles with each muscle tensing. His vision doubles before he falls back on his ass. A screech that sounds closer sends him up, fighting his muscles that craved for rest. “Sophia!” He yelled against his better judgement, his desperation outweighing his fear.
Crunches of movement echo in his head as he tries to locate where it came from. His guard was down, skin pricking with anxiety and his breathing accelerating. He grunts, fighting the fear. Sophia could be near and he’s sitting on his lazy ass. Against his odds, he was able to make his descent toward the noise. His body fought against him, trying to succumb to it all. Another loud sound sends a wave of pain through the middle of his head. The splitting sensation sucks sucks all the strength that was keeping him up. He falls against a nearby tree, hoping it could offer him refuge. Just enough to give him time to recover.
The throbbing never eased as he tried to ignore the sensation. He slowly inched his way towards the edge to peek and see if there was anything out there. He quickly glanced, unable to see anything. Whipping back, he rests his head against the bark. His hunter mind ran rapid as he tried to decipher who or what was near. As he teetered over the edge to get another glance, whack! Plumes of red crowded his vision before the brunt end of something socked him up beside his head. As he toppled, he was left even more vulnerable.
Even in his unconscious state, he could feel the throb of his head worsen. His assailant drags his body across the ground, leaves and other dirt intertwining with his hair. Each bump, would send him in and out of consciousness.
By the time he was fully awake, he was bounded to a chair, unable to move. His throat was dry like he had swallowed dirt and hands were already becoming chaffed by the rope.
He quickly glanced around, taking in his surroundings and trying to piece together where the hell he was. He was in a dimly lit room with only one light on. His chest puffed as he tried to fight his way out of the chair. Fingers clawing as he pushes the limits of his bindings.
“Rise and shine, creep”
A sharp, yet deep, feminine voice came from the shadows. It resonated to something similar as soft embers cracking— quiet, yet rough. She was resting against the wall, but was barely visible to him. Right when he thought he could make out a face in the darkness, she pushed herself off the wall and made her way into the light.
He looks up at her, head pounding like a drum. Narrowing his eyes, he hesitates for a second —a damn bitch got him? He could already hear Merle busting his balls about being a pussy, becoming so weak with him gone. Before he could give into those thoughts, he began to try to break free of the bindings again, letting the pain be a reminder of his mistake.
”Oh, c’mon now,” she taunted as he continued to writhe in place.
She watched with a piercing glare.
“We both know you’re not moving.” Her voice was flat, riddled with such certainty that Daryl paused for a moment.
She bore down on him, eyes narrowing. He noticed her eyes shifting, yet still demanding. Could’ve he missed it by a second, but he caught her discretely sizing him up. Her intense eyes faltering into something else before coming with a quick return of anger.
He immediately went back to fussing in his bonds.
The rope continued to rub against his skin, finally creating enough tension to leave marks, burning his skin. With a sharp exhale out his nose, he continued to size her up. The stare was defiant, refusing to play her games.
“Fine, we’ll get to the point,” she pinches the bridge of her nose, irritated. “Who sent you?”
She walks closer to the tied up man, who smells like he hasn’t showered in weeks. Dirt was smudged across his body, residing deep under his nails. She had removed the leaves from his hair while he was still unconscious, but there were still residual pieces that were impossible to get without waking him up. Even when he slept his mouth remained drawn in a scowl, his brows still holding a furrow.
She stood above him, olive-green eyes penetrating through him as she awaited his answer.
Daryl’s own bounced back and forth, lashes fluttering in desperation.
Desperation overcame him as he opened his mouth to answer, shutting it closed again once he deemed escape the important necessity. He mumbles something incoherent to her, drawing her closer. The woman knelt down, wrapping her fingers around his jaw. Her grasp was rough, digging into his skin, as she tried to force the answer from his lips.
Daryl gathered every last but of phlegm hiding in the sinews of his throat and spat. The viscous liquid splattering against her cheek.
She forced her eyes shut, a scoff of shock leaving her as it rapidly pooled from her cheek before running down her throat.
A sarcastic laugh falls from her lips as the corner of her mouth quirks up. Finally releasing his jaw, she leaves a small yet rough pat against his cheek.
“If you’re such a fighter, maybe I should see how well you’d do tied up to that chair out in the wild,” she mindlessly threatened as she made some space between then and turned her back.
She grabbed the spare handkerchief she kept in her front pocket and used it to wipe the spit up.
His chest continued to rise and fall in quick movements, eyes refusing to release her from their focus. This bitch was the one who knocked him out, the one who has delayed the search of Sophia another day.
Another nightfall that the little girl is left on her own. Another night that her mother has to go to bed not knowing if her daughter is still alive.
No, she is alive. She’s alive.
His muscles tensed as he gave one final attempt to break free of his prison. When that failed, he’d had enough, he aggressively shook his chair. Legs screeching and scratching against the cement beneath his feet. The woman’s mocking laughter is what pulls him short and back to glaring through his lashes.
“Okay, I’ll break— Why in the hell were you following me?” She asks turning back onto him. It’s his turn to laugh now.
Not only was he captured by a bitchy woman, but she also was an entitled brat.
“Laugh all you want,” she bites, no humor evident in her voice. “You were following my trail like a creep and I have a certain protocol from creeps in this day and age.”
She digs into her boot and pulls out Daryl’s knife. Taking the blade, she grazes it against his cheek.
He tries to hold his ground, maintaining eye contact, but flinches at the cold contact. He debated whether to answer, but knew what would come if he didn’t.
“Wasn’t followin’,” he grunted quietly.
“Oh? Not following?” She asks with an arrogance that just urged him to swing at her more. “You literally tracked me for 3.5 miles!”
He swallowed painfully as he closed his eyes. This was a big fucking mess and he could’ve been heading back to camp with little Sophia in his arms. She could be with her mother and none of this would matter.
As silence threatened them once again, his assailant had to find a new tactic. Sheathing his knife back into her boot, she makes her way to the back of the room and grabs another weapon. It isn’t until she’s in the light that he sees his bow in her right hand while his bolts are in her left.
His breathing accelerates as his heart pounds rapidly. His eyes widen into saucers before he forces them back to normal. The fear being pushed deep down.
She was using the crossbow as leverage. Daryl fussed with his bonds even harder now. He’d begun to bleed, but he knew that one accidental shot from the bow would take him out for good.
”I see your choice of weapon is… Unique,” She taunted.
He held back a groan as another wave of pain came through his skull. “Before this shit show started, I had an older brother. He used to love hunting with bows like these.” She lifted the weapon, inspecting it like it’s her own. Even ran her hands down the barrel and to each limb.
She used the stirrup to lift his chin, forcing him to look at her, “He had a recurve, not a compound.” Why in the hell was she telling him this? Why in the hell would this even matter? The worst part, Daryl couldn’t even tune her out not was there a way to stop her. He dropped his head when she finally released his head.
“Don’t see too many who use them out there now,” she begins to use a teasing tone.
It puzzled him as to why she was even bothering at conversation. They were more of ramblings, but still. What was the point?
“Must be rare to come across bolts, no?” She finally asks with a wide, shit-eating grin.
His hands shook in rage, unsure on what to do. Dropping the crossbow and bolts on the table, she takes a bolt and begins to mimics the action of snapping them.
He sat there, eyes wide, wondering how long it would take to replace them. Finding all the materials alongside with looking for Sophia as well as feeding the camp was looking less and less possible by the minute. The silence had become too much, if he stayed quiet any longer it would consume him.
Daryl hung his head low, “Was lookin’ for someone.”
”Oh, yeah?” The woman scoffed, as if the answer amused her. “You expect me to believe that bullshit?”
”Ya asked yer question, now yer not a fan a’tha answer,” he barked under his breath. “A lil girl from camp went missin’.”
He forced his mouth closed, afraid he’d say the wrong thing. Unsure what to reveal, and what to leave out.
“Camp?” she asks, rhetorically. “How many from this camp are looking for the girl?”
Daryl huffed, slugging his head away.
A soft giggle slipped from her lips, it was clear she’d meant to catch it but failed.
”Mister, if you expect me to believe your story, you need to make it more believable.”
“If ya didn’t like tha first answer, you ain’t gon this one,” He warned, which just sounded more like mocking. Fed up with this goose-chase of a chat, she grabs the arrow with both hands- “Jus’ me!” He barked, writhing in his restraints again, “Jus’ me, you damn bitch!” She nodded her head with an understanding hum, “m’yea you’re right, I didn’t like that answer.” She laughed to herself, but dropped his bolts back onto the table.
Making her way back, she lifted her knife up to show it to him. His eyes watched each movement of hers like a hawk. She slowly put the knife onto the ground before lifting her hands back up in the air to show her good intent. Continuing in slow movements, she made her way behind the chair and loosen his bindings. He still was entrapped by rope, but had much more wiggle room to be comfortable. Before she could back away, he shot his head back, knocking her dead in the forehead.
With a groan, she stumbles backward. Holding her hand to where where it pounded.
”You douche-knuckle!” She cursed.
Daryl let out a shaky laugh of satisfaction, only to be replaced with a sharp inhale as she grabbed a fistful of his hair.
She wrapped it between her fingers, tugging at it just enough to make his scalp tender.
”Alright,” She huffed patronizingly.
It were as if steam were shooting out every crevice, and she were trying to calm the fire.
He felt her place the blade against the bonds again, sawing at them unforgivingly until they burst free.
Just as he reached his bloody wrists infront of him, she shoved him out of the chair.
His chin smacked against the ground first, his feet and arms still tied to the chair.
Luckily for him, he caught himself on his side, so his shoulder took most of the blow. Harsh breath coming out in coughs and growls.
”Well,” She began, the reminiscent tone from earlier completely gone as she crouched before him, grabbing his chin. “Time to let you think about what you’ve done.”
Releasing his face, she gave him a scornful smile.
He watched each step that she took, her hair swaying with each movement of her body. Moving with each memory of their encounter that now throbbed in Daryl’s mind.’
It was just this morning he had left a flower for Carol, promising that he would be back with her daughter.
He promised her hope, asked for strength. Told her that it would be all okay and that he will find her.
Now he sat tied up, fuck knows how far away from camp. With a sigh, he rests his head against the floor. This was going to be a long night.
Summary: You're Dean's girl. It's too bad when you're hit with a lust curse, the only one around is his little brother, Sammy.
warnings: established relationship (Dean x reader), sorta infidelity, p in v sex, unsafe sex, angst
a/n: might consider pt2 if ya'll'd want that
One second you’re fine, and the next, you’re not.
You’d been following after Sam’s hulking figure, going deeper into the stale air of the mausoleum despite the overwhelming presence of death. He had to duck to avoid the cobwebs reaching down from the ceiling like fingers, and his chest was still heaving from the effort it’d taken to pry open the crypt’s door.
You weren’t the skittish type during hunts but you had an uneasy feeling. Maybe it was just the fact that you were used to hunting with Dean, and without him and his constant vigilance, you felt a bit more exposed.
Better not find one scratch on her, Sammy, you hear me? Had been Dean’s parting words before he pressed a quick kiss to your lips. And then to you, in a lower voice, Back before you miss me, baby. Be good. Then you were being pressed into the car that was going to take you a state’s length away from your man.
It went against every fiber of your being to be parted from him. But the last hunt had left him with a mild ankle injury. Even though Dean had grumbled that he was perfectly fine, the fact remained that he couldn’t exactly run if the need arose. He couldn’t even withstand enough pressure on the ankle to drive.
You wonder if he’s pacing the matchbox small motel room, waiting desperately by his phone for the call that confirmed the job was done, that both you and Sam were headed back. This town had been having a string of deaths, all the victims, young and healthy individuals, spiking unnaturally high fevers that seemed to cook them from the inside out. All occurring in isolated locations without another soul around for miles. After canvassing the area and interviewing the necessary people, Sam connected the deaths to a witch’s spirit, divvying out curses from beyond the grave. Seemed like a simple salt and burn situation.
“Give me a hand?” Sam grits out, struggling to shift the heavy stone cover off the coffin settled in the center of the crypt.
One moment you’re struggling to shift the cold stone slab beside him. It moves an inch, and then, it feels like a white hot iron poker strikes you in the spine, causing you to cry out as you collapse to your knees.
You’re vaguely aware of Sam calling your name, kneeling beside you in the dirt and grim on the crypt floor. He feels distant, though you know he’s right beside you. That blistering heat is spreading from your spine, worming its way across your entire body. You squeeze your eyes tightly shut against the throbbing in your head. You can feel the pulsation of your blood, the thrumming heightened to a deafening roar in your ears.
Sam grabs your shoulders in his massive hands, forcing you out of your crouched position. The sensation of his hands on you makes you cry out again, despite your panting, as you register his startled expression through hazy vision.
He repeats your name, voice thick with concern and confusion. “What is it? What’s going on?” His light eyes search your flushed, trembling form.
You wrap your arms around your abdomen, dry mouth gaping. “H-hot-” You gasp, feeling sweat prickle along your hairline and along your back. You can’t make sense of what’s happening to you, what you’re feeling. All you know is it hurts.
There’s heat in your face, but it's worse in your belly and lower. The pulsating sensation settles at the apex of your thighs, and as you do your best to swallow a high whine crawling its way out of the back of your throat, you recognize the feeling. You’re impossibly wet, your adductor muscles quivering from your efforts to clamp your thighs together. Your clit is beating painfully in time with your heart, aching so bad you momentarily forget yourself and reach for it before Sam jolts you again in his panic.
He lays a hand on your forehead and immediately curses. “You’re burning up.” His eyes go wide when you slap his hand away because somehow, having him touch you causes the heat to surge into something worse.
Sam says something else you can’t hear over the rushing in your ears, and then disappears from your sight. You fall to your side, the flush of your skin briefly cooled on the cold stone floor. As you writhe, tears slip from your eyes. You’re seriously considering ripping your clothes off when you roll over to see Sam forcing the lid of the coffin the rest of the way off.
The massive muscles in his arms are pulled taut with the effort, his tanned skin sparkling in the darkness from a layer of sweat. His impossibly broad chest is heaving, and you realize your mouth is filling with saliva at the sight of all his brawn.
This realization chills you. Sam, who you have never looked at as anything more than your boyfriend’s baby brother, is now intensifying the dizzying desire unfurling in your gut. You want him. You know its the curse, figure this must be the fever that the townspeople had succumbed to, but the knowledge doesn’t help you. The fibers of your being are begging for his closeness. You’re losing your clear headedness, losing the ability to be disgusted at yourself for lusting after the wrong brother. The ardor expands inside of you until there is no room for shame.
It takes Sam less than a minute to thoroughly salt the bones before he ignites them. Having built a healthy blaze, he returns to your side. The smell of him, musky sweat, gasoline and smoke, sends you into overdrive, as you scramble away from him, fighting the intense urge to grab fistfuls of his damp shirt.
This is it. You’re going to die. This fever is going to consume you.
“You’re not going to die-” Sam declares, and you realize you must have been talking aloud. “Hey-you’re not going to die.” His voice is firm, deep, reaching the marrow of your bones, but there’s an underlying edge of panic.
You throw your head back, willing yourself not to say what you’re thinking. “I need-need-”
What you need is for him to grab you. To press his body against yours, to still your trembling under the weight of his herculean figure. You need him to handle you roughly, to fill you with everything, anything. The images of it your mind creates make the desire worse. You imagine ripping first your own clothes away, then his, to be skin against skin, to be sticky against the sweat of his chest.
Guilt is definitely present in your mind. It’s just not as loud as it should be.
You try to conjure Dean’s face, to have him star in the chaotic fantasies plaguing your mind instead, and it works for a moment, before Sam’s grabbing you by the shoulders again, and you whine so loudly that Sam looks as if you’ve slapped him.
“Dean- I need Dean!” You practically scream.
You lose control of yourself, finally wedging a hand between your thighs over your jeans. Just the slightest pressure there has your eyes rolling back in your skull. The relief is so intense you can’t even care that Sam can see you.
“...Something’s wrong…feverish and…Of course, I burned the bones but she’s still..” You hear bits and pieces of Sam quickly catching Dean up to speed before he holds the phone up to your ear, hesitating to touch you.
Dean’s voice is gruff on the other line. He says your name in a measured voice, probably already gaining insight into your condition by your panting into the phone. “You’re gonna be alright, babygirl.” He says. “S’all gonna be okay. Need you to tell me what you’re feelin’.”
“On fire.” You whisper through a whimper. “I need to-I need you.” But you know he’s a good day's drive away. And you won’t make it that long.
He seems to understand what’s happening to you. Must have discovered something more about the nature of the deaths because then he tells you, “It’s a curse. You’re gonna have to do it without me, babygirl. Y’know how. Close your eyes and I’ll keep talkin’ to you, and it’ll be like I’m right there.” His voice is tight but you can’t spare a moment to worry about him when your entire body is vibrating, prickling all over with little shocks of electricity.
You don’t even care that Sam is there, paying him no mind as he turns away. You try to focus on Dean’s voice on the phone as he orders you to put your hand into your panties. The anticipation of your own touch has you gasping as you fight with the button on your jeans, and then you need both hands to paw at your zipper, Sam’s phone clattering to the ground beside you.
He didn’t tell you to, but you tear your jeans from your legs as fast as you can, moving with clumsy, desperate movements. Your heart beat is still in your ears as you use two fingers to probe your swollen cunt. You cry out at your own touch, hips twitching, as you slide through the mess between your legs. You’ve never been this wet. It’s made your underwear practically translucent, your arousal smearing all over your inner thighs.
You’re so lost in the rush of euphoria you get from touching yourself you nearly block out the buzzing from the phone, realizing Dean has been trying to get your attention. Without stopping your aggressive movements, you put the phone back to your ear, gritting your teeth against the moan that wants to burst free.
Dean hears you whimpering. “There you are, sweetheart. Better?”
“Some, Dean, a little.” You blurt in a rush, closing your eyes, trying to conjure the image of him in your mind. It’s working, his voice helping you erase all thoughts of Sam. Instead, you think of Dean’s perfect face, the planes of his bare chest, the corded muscles of his shoulder. The pretty smirk he wears when he teases you, pinching your nipples, thumb circling your clit. More than anything, you picture his dick, increasing the speed of your fingers until you’re sure he can hear you playing with yourself through the phone. Certainly Sam, who is barely fifteen feet away, can hear the sloppy sounds of your wetness.
Dean spews off at the mouth, the huskiness of his voice grating against your brain in the best way. “Think of me fucking you, baby, real rough the way I know you like. Fuck, wish I could feel you now. Can just tell you’re fucking soaked.”
You moan appreciatively.
“S’good, baby.” Dean praises gently. “Keep going. As much as you need.”
“I need to cum. I need it so bad.” You whine, ditching the phone again, putting it on speaker, to go at yourself with two hands. Your hole flutters as you shove two fingers inside yourself, the stretch easing the blinding ache minimally, your other hand scrubbing furiously at your clit. It’s true, you’re sure you will die if you don’t come.
“I know, baby.” He muses. “Must be gettin’ close, huh?” You hear him swallow, and it helps you to imagine the bulge in his pants, how turned on he must be from listening to your desperation. “You gonna be good and cum for me?”
You want to. You want to so badly, but no matter how hard you fuck yourself, you can’t seem to get your orgasm to build. Frustration is the only thing building up, and fully aware of how pathetic you sound but too far gone to care, you begin to babble into the phone, your voice echoing throughout the crypt.
“I fucking can’t, Dean- I can’t. I’m gonna die if I don’t cum and I can’t fucking do it-”
You’re devastated that you can’t make yourself come. Rubbing yourself just as frantically, your eyes open a fraction and zone in on Sam, standing as far away as he can. You chew at your lips, mesmerized by the width of his shoulders, the planes of his back that lead to his tiny waist, the sheer fucking size of him, and you bet his cock has to be huge, too.
“I need you to touch me.” You cry out, only Dean thinks you’re crying out for him when in reality, your pleas are for his little brother.
“Baby, I can’t-” Dean’s voice is strained.
“I need more, this isn’t working.” You’re crying in earnest now, the taste of sweat exploding on your tongue. “I swear, I’m gonna die without it, Dean, please. Please, please. Make it stop. I need you to touch me, and I need it now or I’m gonna die.”
There’s only the sound of your ragged breathing and the slick sounds of you fingering yourself before Dean says grimly, “Put Sam on the phone.”
You more or less throw the phone at Sam. You feel like a rabid dog, abandoning your hopes of getting yourself off to tear at your top. You wrangle it over your head but the cool air reaching your sweaty back doesn’t make you feel better.
“Dean, no-” Sam’s voice goes through you, straight to the core. You know you only want him because he’s here in the flesh, but still, you can’t fight it. “No, man…just no!....Are you seriously fucking asking me to-”
Whatever frenzy you were in earlier is beginning to fade, but the pain, the heat, and the lust stays. You feel boneless, and you wonder how long the curse will make you suffer before you truly die. That would be best. Better than doing the despicable. Better than asking too much of Sam, than going too far and altering your friendship with him forever. Better than betraying Dean.
Sam says your name, and he’s crouching right in front of you. Sluggishly, your eyes open. He’s incredibly tense, and his eyes keep shifting. His shirt is stickling to his chest with sweat, and you’re humiliated that you cannot tear your eyes away from the sizeable bulge at his crotch. He clears his throat, the noise making you jump, before he reaches a massive hand towards your naked arm.
“No, Sam.” You beg. You don’t want to know what you’ll do if he touches you. “D-Don’t.”
His lips form a harsh line as his eyes search your face. “Can’t just let you die.”
“Sam-” Your clit seems to beat harder as you realize what he’s offering. If you were of a clearer mind, you would have protested more, would have at least wondered what Dean could have possibly said to convince himself and his brother that this was the solution. That this could ever be okay. But as far as you’re concerned, there’s no other choice. You need Sam right now more than air.
At the barely perceptible nod of his head, you throw yourself into his arms. His balance barely falters, thick arms encircling your bare waist. The relief you feel at his touch is startling, and you’re moaning freely, your hands exploring the breadth of his shoulders and chest.
You know you’re crossing a line. You’ve become abhorrent. A sex crazed lunatic, desperate to be split open by your lover’s brother. But you can’t think about the fallout right now, not when the curse is still boiling your blood, when all you can think about is getting him inside of you. You’re worse than despicable because the instant Sam touches you, you can’t even consider Dean or what he must be going through, incapacitated to help, hundreds of miles away alone in a motel room, trapped with the knowledge that his girl has been driven right into the arms of his brother.
You let your mind turn off. There’ll be time to hate yourself later.
Sam’s fingers dig into the meat of your ass, holding you tightly against his body as he lifts you. He pushes you up against the wall of the crypt, the stone rough on your back, probably cutting you, but you revel in the sting. Your legs hug his hips, your core nestling right over the tent in his jeans, and you can’t stop yourself from grinding against him, like the bitch in heat you’ve become. You know you shouldn’t, but you press your open mouth against his, moaning shrilly at the taste of his tongue. He hesitates for two seconds, as if he’s deciding whether or not kissing you is allowed, but lucky for you, his lips begin to move, dominating you immediately. With fingers raking through his hair, you wiggle against him, pressing your breasts into his chest, thrilling your sore nipples, until you feel another gush from between your legs.
For all the fervor you put into kissing Sam, he returns it, until you’re both smeared with saliva. He pulls at the roots of your hair hard enough to spring tears in your eyes, but you love it. Your hands touch the burning skin of his abdomen, greedily helping yourself to all of the flesh under his shirt, until he pulls his mouth off yours to remove it completely.
You lean back in for another kiss, but Sam stops you with a firm hand on the base of your throat. He takes advantage of the moment to look you over. You keep rolling your hips into his, reveling in the way his jaw clenches, licking his spit shined lips. Shaggy hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. With the way he’s looking at you, unaffected by any curse, you’d think he’d imagined this before. Doesn’t matter. You’ll let him do whatever he wants.
“Sam,” You rasp, eyelashes fluttering as the hand not around your neck plays with your left nipple, making your eyes roll. “Please, Sammy.”
He shakes his head slightly. “How could I fucking deny you?” He murmurs, squeezing at your throat deliciously. “When you need it so bad?”
Nodding desperately, you lick your lips. “Hurts, Sammy.”
“Yeah, looks like it.” His eyes drop to where you're dragging your puffy cunt over his erection, making a mess on the front of his jeans. “Want me to make you feel better, gorgeous?”
Gorgeous. Not babygirl.
You pull on his hair to cope with his touch, which has you reeling. He hooks his thumb under the ruined material of your panties, to stroke against the molten heat of your pussy. A shudder passes through his colossal frame, as if he can’t believe how soaked you are.
He raises his fingers, shiny with your slick, to his mouth. You moan obscenely at the sight of his eyes rolling back at the taste of you.
You can't help but buck and thrash in his arms as he circles your clit, touching you with firm reverence. With a mind of their own, your hands grab for his belt, wanting to feel him heavy in your hand, but he shoves your hands away.
“Don’t worry, Imma give you what you need.” He promises in the same moment one of his fingers slips inside of you. Given the degree of your wetness, there’s little resistance, and you exclaim in glee as he slides the second digit in.
“Oh, fuckkk, Sammy-” You cry, your perked nipples rubbing against his pecs. His forehead presses into yours, his hot breath on your face as his mouth gapes, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that has you digging your nails into his shoulders. “That’s so good. You feel so fucking good.” You abandon eye contact to stare at where he is drilling into you with his fingers, marveling at the thickness and strength of his forearm.
“Shh.” The hand on your neck releases you for an instant before it grabs your jaw, forcing your eyes back to his. “Filthy fucking girl.”
“Please, Sammy.” You plead. You don’t think you can wait any more.
He quiets your begging by pressing his mouth back on yours. He’s so rough with you, holding you still with the hand on your jaw, driving you crazy with harsh ruts of his hips into yours. You’re gasping into his mouth, the coarseness of the denim against your barely covered pussy sending you into oblivion. You’re whining or crying, making some noise that normally would have mortified you, but if him just humping against you is bringing stars to your vision, you can’t imagine how good it will feel when he finally fucks you.
With the fire on the torched bones completely dead now, you struggle to see through the darkness, before you decide to navigate based on feel. You touch him everywhere you can reach, scratch him, claim him.
“Shh, honey.”
Honey, now. Not babygirl.
Still holding your jaw, Sam’s hand is big enough to slip his thumb into your mouth, which you accept blindly. You scrape your teeth along it, before gratefully sucking on it, swallowing all of the saliva that pools in your mouth to the best of your ability, some trickling out of the corners of your mouth to slip down to your chest. Sam’s eyes follow it all, groaning lowly at your depravity. He hesitates, then licks the saliva from the top of your breast to the corner of your jaw. You shiver and moan in delight.
“Imma make it better, okay? Gonna give you my cock now. S’what you want, right, honey?”
You nod, still sucking on his thumb. You hear the sounds of his belt being removed and all you can think is finally, fucking thank god, give it to me, fucking finally.
He shucks his jeans just low enough on his hips to free his member, just so you can barely make out a thatch of dark colored hair there, and you can't help but succumb to the urge to touch him. He’s massive in your hand, hard as can be, pulsing with need. You stroke him once, whimpering in response to the guttural moan he releases. The hold on your jaw tightens enough to bruise, but you want it harder.
You wiggle your hips closer, letting the head of him just brush against the heat of your cunt, and Sam sounds almost wounded at the contact.
“Holy fuck,” His forehead drops to your shoulder as he cries out your name, almost in a sob. He lets you take what you need, dragging him through your white hot seam, effectively soaking him.
He’s shaking now, too.
His tip breaches your entrance and your lips fall slack around his thumb, unable to focus on literally anything than the feeling of being filled. He pushes further into you, deeper, until you can feel the coarse hairs at the base of his cock against your spread thighs. You think you’re whiting out, the intrusion slightly more than you’re used to.
You’re so close to cumming that it hurts. Sam begins to fuck you in earnest, like its his job, like it’s more than just a means to an end for him, balls slapping against your ass. The word turns, and you’re disoriented until you realize you’re no longer pressed against the wall. Now he has you on the ground, on knee pressed up towards your chest.
You’re not sure if you’re making any noise or not anymore. But you feel his lips at your ear, his stubble rubbing against your soft cheek.
“There you go, gorgeous.” He grunts. “Don’t needa do anything but lemme fuck you.”
“S-so fucking good-” You slur.
“God,” He groans, using the roots of your hair to turn your face towards his. His hips are slamming into yours, and you swear you can feel his cock all the way in your lungs, bullying your insides violently, just like you need. His eyes search your blissed out face. “How’m I only gonna have you this once.” His voice drops even lower as he says this, but you barely register his words.
You feel yourself uncontrollably fluttering around the width of his cock. The pleasure is white hot inside you, feeling so overwhelming and bigger than anything you’ve ever felt before. You’re almost afraid of what is going to happen when the pressure bursts. You’re not convinced you’ll survive it.
“Come on, baby,” Sam grunts before giving you a sloppy kiss. “Know you’re dyin’ to cum on my cock. Let it go, gorgeous, fuck, you feel unbelievable.”
You keen, raising a hand to cup his sandpaper cheek. “I’m gonna cum, Sam. I’m gonna cum-”
He shushes you again, seemingly urged on by your impending orgasm to drive into you even harder. He’s drenched in sweat now, his nostrils flaring as you clench around him.
“Cum, honey.” He urges, releasing your hair to stroke at your swollen clit. “Cum with me. Fuck, honey, can feel you choking me. Cum on my cock.” He punctuates his words with particularly hard thrusts that have you screaming, or maybe you're silent gaping, you can’t hear anything over the blood rushing through your ears.
He barely touches your clit before you spasm. Your orgasm erupts inside you, exploding with such an intensity that has you tightening around Sam’s cock, and then he’s cursing and nearly whimpering, cumming deeply inside of you, grabbing at your flesh desperately. Your eyes roll back, body taut for what feels like minutes, and you’re ascending, before the feeling subsides, leaving you shaking and sated.
As you come back into yourself, you realize Sam has collapsed on top of you as he struggles to catch his breath. His weight is unfamiliar. And you feel…normal. Hazy in your post orgasm bliss, but the uncontrollable lustful fever appears to be gone. You feel elated for half a second before you realize the reality of what you have just done.
Fucked your boyfriend’s brother.
Your naked body tenses, and you realize he’s still inside you.
Your heart begins to hammer in your chest, not from the curse, now from horror. Shame fills you. Embarrassment, too. Oh god. What have you done?
“S-Sam?” You whisper, touching his biceps lightly.
He seems to register your wire tight posture and rolls off you, wincing as his cock slips out of you. You feel a wave of nausea hit you as you feel the warmth of his cum sliding out of your pussy. Hands shaking, you pull your ruined underwear off, using them to clean yourself of his spend, before you’re putting your clothes back on in a panicked blur. Your mind is screaming for Dean the entire time.
Oh god. Maybe you should have let yourself die.
Sam says your name cautiously, but you can’t look at him. You can’t acknowledge what you’ve just done together. Even if you really had no choice. He says your name louder, and you nearly jump out of your skin when he claps a hand onto your shoulder, turning you to face him.
He sees the guilt in your expression and must know the curse is gone. His expression resembles a kicked puppy when you flinch at his touch.
As if reading the thoughts racing through your mind, he says carefully, as if you’re a spooked deer, “...You had no choice…The fever would have killed you if you hadn’t…if we didn’t…”
You shake your head. How are you going to sit next to Sam for the ride back after doing that? How are you ever going to look him in the eye ever again?
How are you ever going to face Dean again? Will you still be his babygirl?
Sam says your name again, very gently. “You would have died.”
You think of Dean, who already puts your safety solely on his own shoulders, who no doubt will blame himself for not protecting you in the first place. Who indisputably will never be able to look at you and Sam the same way again, without imagining what you two had done. What he wasn’t there to provide.
You begin to cry. You can’t face him. Either of them.
Sam seems to take your tears personally, his expression breaking. “He asked me to, honey.”
He freezes at the petname, but all it does is prove that even if it was the curse that caused this, things will never be the same. It’s too late.
You and Sam finish the job There’s about 500 miles to cross before you have to face Dean. You feel Sam look at you from time to time during the drive, but you pretend not to notice.
You hope Dean can forgive you. Even if he does, you won’t forgive yourself.
a/n: first time posting a drabble publically in years. personal project in writing so i'm unsure how far I'll write into it
!!NOT EDITED YET!!
boarder: @pixopix ; photos: pinterest
The hunter wandered further down the creek, twigs and leaves crushed into the ground by his boots. It was the second week of looking for Sophia with still no luck. Each time he returned to camp, it was difficult to look at Carol knowing he kept having to come back empty handed and childless. But she has to be out there. Shit —he refuses any other alternative.
He had been following yesterdays trail. There was another path of footprints that strayed after a few miles in. The smell of the creek reminded him of all the times he was left in the woods, being thrown in to be left behind by Merle or left by his father. His family’s attempts of making Daryl into a ‘man.’ He couldn’t imagine how this looked in Sophia’s eyes. All of his years fighting with his family and receiving the punishment, it was inevitable it became a comfort.
Apart of him was grateful, especially even now, the punishment seemed to be working in his favor. Who else would be able to provide as much game as he could for the camp? Who else would be able to track footprints to help Carol find Sophia? He knew he was replaceable, mainly just another body in the camp, so he still felt like he had to earn his place.
By the time he had reached the tree from last time, he found exact what he was looking for— another fresh trail. The shoes were definitely not Sophia’s size, but he was becoming desperate whether he was willing to admit it to himself or not. Carol had slowly begun believing that Sophia wasn’t coming back already and he felt like the rest of the group was tarnishing everything he had been doing for her. He tracks the path for miles, noting each action of whoever he was following.
A shriek pierces the air, pulling his attention to the sound. His feet moved faster than his brain as he was already halfway down the small ravine. He silently ambushes the noise.
He stumbles down the steep hill and tumbles into fallen tree as he runs where the scream came from. His body ached from the fall, head colliding with the bark. He tries to stand, but the ground beneath him trembles with each muscle tensing. His vision doubles before he falls back on his ass. A screech that sounds closer sends him up, fighting his muscles that craved for rest. “Sophia!” He yelled against his better judgement, his desperation outweighing his fear.
Crunches of movement echo in his head as he tries to locate where it came from. His guard was down, skin pricking with anxiety and his breathing accelerating. He grunts, fighting the fear. Sophia could be near and he’s sitting on his lazy ass. Against his odds, he was able to make his descent to the noise. His body fought against him, trying to succumb to it all. Another loud sound sends a wave of pain through the middle of his head. The splitting sensation sucks all the strength to keep himself up. He falls against a nearby tree, hoping for something cover it gave him and give him enough time to recover.
The throbbing never eased as he tried to ignore the sensation. He slowly inched his way towards the edge to peek and see if there was anything out there. He quickly glanced, unable to see anything. Whipping back, he rests his head against the bark. His hunter mind ran rapid as he tried to decipher who or what was near. As he teetered over the edge to get another glance, whack! The brunt end of a gun socks him up beside his head, sending him to the ground —even more vulnerable.
Even in his unconscious state, he could feel the throb of his head worsen. His assailant drags his body across the ground, leaves and other dirt intertwining with his hair. Each bump, would send him in and out of consciousness. By the time he was fully awake, he was bounded to a chair, unable to move. His throat was dry like he had swallowed dirt and hands were already becoming chaffed by the rope.
He quickly glanced around the room, trying to piece together where the hell he was. The room was dimly lit with only one light on. His chest puffed as he tried to fight his way out of the chair. Fingers clawing as he pushes the limits of his bindings.
