2k Drabbles #15
@badwolfstoletheimpala requested a fluffy Dean x Reader based on Sunshine and Whiskey by Frankie Ballard. This is safe for work, mostly.
Any night with Dean is a good night with Dean, but your favourite nights with Dean are the nights that he stays.
He wakes you up with soft, whispery kisses on your neck and shoulders, waiting impatiently for you to smile and sigh and roll toward him. Then he winds his fingers into your hair and kisses you, slow and sweet as molasses. Your bodies twine together, and with the morning light streaming through the window, you give the sun a shuddering salutation. As you bask like a cat in the afterglow, he gets up and pads to the kitchen.
You’re roused from blissful dozing by the smells of fresh coffee and bacon, and the sound of Dean singing softly along to classic rock radio. You put on your panties and his baby-soft old flannel, and follow your senses down the hall. When you get to the kitchen, you pause to watch him plating up eggs wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a look of intense concentration. He notices you in the doorway and winks, then sets the two plates down on your kitchen table. Dean is no chef, but the man knows how to turn out a perfect sunny side up egg.
The day is clear and warm, and he’s got nowhere urgent to be. You load a few bottles and some lunch into a cooler, throw a sundress on over your swimsuit, and grab towels and blankets to pile into the back seat. The lake is less than an hour away. You roll down the windows and let the warm wind rustle through your hair.
Just over a mile before you leave the suburb and hit the open highway, you pass a teenage girl pedaling lazily down the road in an ice cream cart. Dean slows to a halt and hands the poor, flustered thing a bill; she hand back an orange creamsicle and a Klondike bar. She watches, craning her neck, as the two of you drive away. You know just how she feels.
Even with the windows down, it’s sticky-hot, and your creamsicle drips treacherously. You lick frantically with entirely innocent intentions, but when you glance over at Dean, he’s looking at you anything but innocently. “You keep that up,” he says, “We’re not going to make it to the lake.”
You grin playfully and give the creamsicle a suggestive, exaggerated lick, watching his face the whole time. He flares his nostrils, bites his lip, and mutters, “That’s it,” before he pulls off the highway and onto a narrow dirt service road. What starts as a few orange-and-chocolate ice cream kisses ends with Dean sliding across the bench seat and slipping your bikini bottoms aside.
He pours a little whiskey into two cans of ginger ale before he gets back onto the highway again, and cranks the radio up loud. “I could get used to this,” he says, smiling over at you, resting his hand on your thigh. The sun blazes high in the middle of the sky, and the whole day stretches ahead of you.
