soft bf!dean who yearns for sweet romance and innocent intimacy ₊⊹
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean never realized how much he craved sweet intimacy until you spent a whole night laying by his side on the hard matress of a motel bed, bodies facing each other as you whispered heartfelt confessions against the warmth of his skin.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean always holds your hand while driving, occasionally placing soft kisses on your knuckles as he listens to the soothing sound of your voice.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ whenever he came back to you after a stressful hunt, he often found himself toying with your favorite ring as you held his hand, waiting for him to tell about his day. now, whenever he's away and his mind wanders to you, his fingers wrap around your ring, that is now dangling off his necklace, smiling as if you were with him.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean fights sleep just to spend more time with you. even when he's clearly sleepy, he'll find a way to keep you near him. he doesn't mind laying in uncomfortable positions, he'd even ignore the numbness of his arm if that means you will stay awake with him just for a few more minutes.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean keeps his hands on you at all times. he loves to caress your cheeks when you look up at him, or even squish them together until your lips form an exaggerated pout, kissing them delicately before fully melting into you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ if he happens to wake up before you, he will stay there in complete silence, watching your relaxed features as he slowly threads his fingers through your hair. after a few minutes, he'd lean in carefully before peppering soft kisses all over your face to wake you up.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean keeps polaroids of you in his car. one of them is a picture of you he'd taken after you forcefully woke him up at 5 a.m to watch the sunrise. it shows you, sitting on the hood of his car with the cutest smile on your face, his jacket wrapped around you.
the second one is a picture of you both at a halloween party that sam took while you were kissing, clearly amused by your sudden display of affection. despite the amount of alcohol you both drank that night, dean was fast enough to cover your faces with his ridiculously big cowboy hat.
he loves those pictures more than anything, and stares at them everytime he misses you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean usually doesn't care much about classic litterature but slowy starts to find an interest in it after he hears you talk about your favorite books. one time, after a hunt, he came back to you with a bag full of books, ones that you have previously mentionned as 'on your tbr'.
you'd sometimes quietly laugh at him as he calls your books boring, before reminding him how he willingly spent an entire evening with his head on your lap, listening to you read out loud as you played with his hair.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam loves to buy you gifts each time you stop at a gas station. it can go from a funny looking plush, to your favorite snacks, or a book he thought you'd enjoy reading.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ his jacket collection started growing as you got together, some of them are gifts, and others are duplicates. he purposely bought some of them twice, just so that each time you steal one from him, he'll match with you by wearing the other one.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam absolutely adores pet names, especially coming from you. he loves to call you baby or honey, but your name will always be his favorite word. hearing you call him by those same names always make the cutest smile appear on his lips.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ words of affirmations and physical touch are his favorite love languages. he can sit you down and tell you how much you mean to him, how much of an impact you have on him, and he'll do it for hours if he has to. even when he trips over his tongue, he always manages to tell you every single one of his thoughts and feelings when he's around you.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ whenever you're close to him, his hands will be on you. he doesn't always mean it in a possessive, or even sexual way, sam just enjoys the softness of your skin. he's also a huge waist grabber, his grip will always be on you waist each time you lean in to kiss him.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam is soft spoken in nature, but he his even more when he's conversing with you. even when he's angry, he never raises his voice at you, he just physically can't. instead he'll keep the same, soft tone you love so deeply.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ he puts sticky notes all around your room and on your belongings. if he's awake before you and knows he won't be here when you wake up, he'll leave notes in your bedside table, on your laptop, and even in your purse. his love notes became so frequent, you had enough to fill a jar up to the rim, and not even one duplicate can be found, each one of his notes are unique, proof of his ever-growing feelings.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ even if sam is significantly taller than most people, there's times where he wishes he could be smaller, for once. when you cuddle, he'll often ask if you'd be okay with letting him on top of you, which you always accept. sam would then carefully ly his whole weight on you, settle his head on you chest, and put his caring arms around your waist, sighing loudly in contentment.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ sam cherishes each one of the moments he's lucky enough to share with you. if he ever finds himself enjoying something while you're away, he'll bring it up to whoever's around him, grinning as he explains how everything is suddenly better when you're here.
⧽ summary: you get caught drawing questionable pictures of sam in your sketchbook, and, to your surprise, he seems more than interested to show you more of him.
⧽ tags/warnings: sam winchester x fem!reader, no use of y/n, fluff, sweet sam, reader is down bad, smut (oral f!receiving, some sort of camera/mirror sex, fingering, dirty talk, light dumbification, grinding, penetrative sex, creampie, light sub/dom undertones if you squint), aftercare, i imagined s1 sam while writing this.
wc: 4.5k cross posted on ao3
The chewed pen between your lips hasn't been useful in a few minutes.
Its cheap taste of wood is leaving an awkward feeling on your tongue, but you couldn't care less. Despite your poor attempt at remaining concentrated, your mind still remains somewhere else.
A few minutes prior, you decided to do something of your extreme boredom. So, you took the first pen available, one that already carried deeply engraved bite marks, along with your sticker decorated sketchbook, before searching for an idea, or a muse.
Your gaze directly drifted to Sam, carefully lounged on his side across the rough covers of his motel bed, surrounded by newspapers. He has this concentrated frown on his face, one that makes him furrow his eyebrows as he hastily types on his laptop.
Minutes passed, and your burning gaze is still resting heavily on Sam's figure, as if your brain was trying its absolute best to memorize every single inch of his skin, every micro-expression resting on his face, just all of him.
You finally come to your senses as Dean gets up from where he was sitting, near the small table in the corner of the room. He walks towards Sam, probably to show him some piece of information he found about the ongoing case they are working on.
You're not always directly involved in the cases or hunts. You provide some help if needed, but your current job matters most than those side quests your friends take you on. Although you can't help yourself but follow with a smile when they forcefully grab you to join them on simple, less dangerous hunts, as Dean claims it can only do you good to have some fun from time to time. Even if his notion of fun is quite foreign to you.
At this point, you feel totally disconnected from the real world, not hearing any of their shared words as you roughly trace Sam's shape in your sketchbook. The current atmosphere makes it easier to focus, the warmth of sharing a room with your friends always offered a familiar, home-like feeling.
The irregular sketch slowly transforms into a quite accurate drawing, perfectly portraying Sam's soft yet focused traits. The way you outlined his body is almost immodest in the way you emphasized on your favorite parts of him, according more details to his arms and hands and the way those dark wash jeans sit low on his hips, the waistband of his underwear attracting your attention.
By the time you snap out of your trance, Dean is watching you, a mocking smile plastered on his face.
"You okay?" There is no actual concern in his tone, just obvious amusement. His eyes rapidly shift between you and the black notebook sitting in your hands.
Your muscles only freeze for a few seconds, but that's already too much. You look suspicious, and Dean is definitely not going to let that slide.
Staring at him with a clueless expression on your face, you straighten up, sitting cross-legged on the edge of the couch as you actively attempt to figure out if you should just throw that book out the window, or pray that he won't try to snatch it.
He only hums, and Sam lifts is gaze towards you. His hair is messy, a sign that he must've ran his fingers through it at least a couple times. He blinks slowly, daylight streaks reflecting on his pupils. You almost drown in them before Dean snaps you out of it by waving his hand in your direction.
"Yeah, why wouldn't i be?"
You grimace for a millisecond, realizing that this second poor attempt at keeping your composure is only making you look more questionable.
Leaning back against the couch, you make an effort to relax despite the heat radiating off both Sam and Dean's heavy glances. A soft hue of pink rises to your cheeks as you hopelessly try to not meet their eyes.
The two brothers share a look, a hint of mischief coating the air. Dean approaches you slowly while your eyes wander away, then abruptly snatches the sketchbook out of your grasp.
"Alright, what do you think you're doing?" You suddenly get up, ready to steal your belongings back.
"Nothing, just curious," He walks as far as he can away from you, holding the book in the air as if it were a sacred item no one was allowed to touch, then waving it at you with a smile. "What do we have here?"
You determinedly stomp towards him, a groan escaping your lips. "Just give it back man, it's not funny."
He turns his back on you, and before you get the chance to fight him to retrieve your book, he has already opened it on the last used page.
A ridiculous, annoying smile appears on his features, one that clearly hints he's trying not to laugh. You can't tell if he's just entertained, deeply concerned, or a few seconds from making fun of you.
"Well, would you look at that, Sammy," Dean holds the book wide open towards Sam, who lightly squints to make out what's happening in front of him. "You look like those chicks in the playboy magazines."
A laugh escapes his lips as he throws the notebook at Sam, then turns around to face you, opening his mouth like he's about to say something stupid, once again.
"Shut up, Dean."
Sam's voice rises, words escaping in a huff from the other side of the room as the corners of his mouth rise upwards. He's still laying comfortably on his bed with your book in his hands, his fingers roaming on the graphite coated page.
He takes a few seconds to register the amount of care you gave to details. Surely, this is a more explicit depiction of reality, but Sam doesn't seem to mind it. In fact he likes it, knowing that you think about him beyond what you can only see.
What else could you have possibly drawn before? How far does your imagination goes when you think about him? So many questions flow, and grows more curious by the second.
"Sam…" The awkwardness of the situation doesn't even allow you to finish your sentence.
"Don't worry. It's really nice," He replies quietly, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
His words play on repeat in your mind as he carefully closes the book to hand it to you, which you accept with almost trembling hands and pink cheeks.
You decide to cut the moment short, storming to your room like a scared puppy. The heat radiating off Sam's presence, the strength of his perfume clinging to you as you leaned close to retrieve your belongings was too much.
As you get back to your room, you sit in silence, flipping through the pages of your sketchbook, and your realize that most of them are only picturing Sam in many different scenarios. You remember all those time you spent hours at the library with him, pretending to be focused on the random book you picked up upon arrival, when you were in fact focused on your small purse-sized sketchbook hidden between its pages.
You would spend most of your time at the library to examine Sam, remembering him as if it were the first and last time you laid eyes on him, just to doodle the scene of him awkwardly sat on a chair, his long legs spread out as a perplexed expression froze his features.
You loved taking advantage of those quiet moments to properly look at him, the way his bangs sit perfectly on his forehead, how often he tilts his head to one side in confusion, or even the look he'd give you every time you were too deep in your thoughts to notice him staring back at you. Those round, shiny eyes highlighting his puppy-like gaze.
Tonight isn't particularly on Sam's side. His mind's racing, and has been for long minutes, or even hours, reminiscing about today's events.
Sam calls himself stupid for feeling that way, curious and strangely aroused by the thought of you, sitting in silence, imagining every curve of his body, each one of his muscles, while filling the pages of your sketchbook.
He wonders how you would feel if he did the same, staring at you while he smudges graphite on a large piece of paper, laying each one of your beautiful features on it. He wonders if you'd pose for him, a seductive look on your face as his bitten pen marks the pages.
He's desperately trying to hold his thoughts back before they send him waking to your room, banging on your door in hope that you're still awake.
He didn't try hard enough.
In a few seconds, Sam is already standing in front of your motel room door, gathering up the courage to knock on it. His eyes only widen in shock as the handle twists open. The look on your face, taken aback by his unexpected appearance, makes him take a step back.
It gives him the perfect view to really take a look at your figure, his cheeks tinted with a soft, pink hue as he notices your bare legs, the long shirt you're wearing barely covering up your thighs. Wait, is that his shirt?
"Sam?" you breathe out, your eyes follow his gaze, settled on your upper body. He gives you a hint of a smile, visibly amused by the situation. It definitely is his shirt. "What are you doing here?"
Sam scratches the back of his head, unsure if he should say the truth. "I, uh, couldn't sleep. You?"
"I was gonna go grab my book. Left it in Dean's car," you respond simply while giving him a look, one that says i know you're lying.
"At three in the morning?"
You groan at his question, already defeated. You did leave your book in Dean's car, but thats's definitely not what's keeping you up so late.
Your facial expression must've betrayed you, since Sam leans forward, his forearm resting above your head on the door frame. Your breath itches as his face appears slightly closer to yours, the disappearing scent of perfume on his clothes coating the air between your bodies. "Can I come in?"
You nod in response, shifting just enough to leave space for him to enter the room. He does so, looking around the room as if he's never entered it before, while you face the door, shutting the it quietly before you lock it to prevent the outside air's coldness to enter.
When you turn around, you expect him to be sitting on the edge of your own bed in an ungainly manner, with a certain shyness he always carries around when spending alone time with you.
To your surprise, he's facing you. Not too close to be all over you, but enough for his warmth to caress your skin. You both stand there for what feels like a minute or so, his eyes traveling along your features. From the way your eyelashes curl, to the shape of your lips. Your heart finds comfort in the weight of a deafening silence, until Sam breaks it.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks, smiling. Unexpectedly confident in a way that makes your pulse throb.
You nod, and Sam is already all over you. His mouth crashes against yours, hot, starving but still sweet. The sudden weight of his lips on you, along with his large hands cupping your jaw is dizzying in the best way. He takes his time with it, tasting and feeling every inch of your body you allow him to touch.
Slow sweeps of his tongue accompanied by light nips to your bottom lip make you gasp just right, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in your mouth, the both of you exhaling deeply at the burst of hotness emanating from the shared kiss.
His hands wander, tracing the curve of your hips beneath the fabric of his shirt, settling there before you push his wrist down, urging him to get a better hold of your body until he reaches your ass, squeezing the flesh softly as you hum. His free hand slides up to tangle in your hair, acting as a cushion when he pushes you against the closed door.
He growls as your bodies collide, your messy licks and bites working him up in the most delightful way possible. Your skin is hot, every tiny movements burns: the wet caress of his tongue against yours, his bangs tickling your skin, the way his fingers curl around your ass, pressing you flush against him as his hips desperately grind against you.
Quiet whimpers of desperation slip into your mouth like he just can't help it, and you moan at the feeling. The reciprocated sexual longing tastes absolutely wonderful on your tongue. He breaks the kiss just enough to trail open mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking on your sensitive spot to tear a soft gasp away from you. Each one of the marks sucked into your skin pull at your arousal like a leash, his groans traveling directly to your core.
"Fuck— I need you Sam," you succeed to mumble between gasps, voice thick with desire.
Your fingers fumble at the hem of his shirt, impatient. You tug upward on the soft material, and his hands only leave your body for a split second before he's grabbing you again. He hums in return when he manages to get rid of the only piece of clothing you were wearing, revealing your underwear. Your hands find his hair again, tugging on the soft stands as your lips crash onto his.
"Need you too. So fucking bad," Sam mutters between breaths, eager to taste you better.
"God you're so beautiful," he whispers as his fingers tangle in your underwear. He could just sit there and watch you all night, all pretty and needy for him. "I wish you could see yourself, how good you're gonna look while taking me."
His words make your head spin, and you moan at the thought: you in front of a mirror, slightly bent over with Sam's big hands covering your hips, grounding you as he slides in and out of your cunt like there's no tomorrow.
"The bathroom mirror is broken," you whine at the eventuality of mirror sex with Sam vanishing right in front of you.
His hands settle on your waist, guiding you until the back of your knees hit the sharp edge of your bed. You sit, not breaking the kiss, hands still tangled in his hair.
"Wait for me," Sam whispers, and you already miss the feeling of his skin against yours when he backs away. You can't exactly make out what he's doing, your eyes are too focused on his back. His broad shoulders are glistening, already affected by the warmth of the room and his excitement.
Sam fumbles an attempt at opening your laptop, which was sitting on the edge of a small table standing across the room, perfectly aligned with your bed. He manages to open the camera app, and a green dot appears next to the webcam as his reflection appears on the screen.
You smile when he makes his way back to you, and you slide your panties down your legs as he watches your every movements, lustfulness written all over his face. He licks his lips before getting down on his knees, hands groping your thighs as soon as he hits the floor.
You close the distance between your faces, sliding your tongue in his mouth, so fucking impatient for him to touch you more and more. He hums in satisfaction when his long fingers reach your back, unhooking your bra in one single motion.
His lips trail down to find your chest, and you rest your hands on his shoulders. He drags two fingers along your inner thighs, teasing as he mouths at your breasts. You close your eyes, gasping as his fingers graze your folds lightly.
Sam thumbs at your slit, dragging it up and down your folds before settling on your clit. His lips wrap around the soft skin of your breast, stealing a moan from you as he sucks a dark spot. Your legs open up even more as your vision blurs.
"That's it, baby. So pretty opening up for me." he murmurs, a cool puff of air hitting the wet spots his lips left behind, a gasp tumbling from your lips at the sensation.
"Fuck, Sam—"
He wraps a massive hand around your body, fingers splaying over your back. You're wet. Really wet. You can feel it as he spreads you open with his middle and index finger, eyes blown wide, eaten alive by his arousal.
You whimper when he teases your folds, and it quickly turns into a moan as he leans down to lick the wetness of your cunt, his tongue flat against your sensitive part. "So wet and pretty for me," he hums.
His lips form a seal around your sensitive bud, sucking like his life depends on it. You don't get the time to respond before he dips further, humming against your clit as a thick finger slides inside you, stretching you out beautifully. Your lashes flutter when he drowns in it until the last knuckle, fire pulling at your core.
A second finger enters you, and Sam pumps in slow, wet squelching sounds echoing in the quiet room as he hits your favorite spot, making you whimper as he stuffs you full.
He smiles against your pussy. Your pretty sounds make his head spin, and he can't help but moan against you, the vibrations of his voice electrifying every nerve in your body. "Come on, look at yourself baby. Already a mess."
The tone of his voice makes you shudder. Your half-lidded eyes find your reflection on the laptop's screen. The sight alone could make you cum on the spot. Sam kneeling in front of you, his arm going back and forth as he fingers you eagerly, and those broad shoulders covering the view of your pussy, making it only his to see.
He's right, you are a mess, your eyes are glossy, jaw open, and eyebrows pulled in silent pleasure, waiting for more. "Oh god, Sam!"
Your fingers comb through his hair, unconsciously tugging on it as his pace fastens, pushing his tongue into your throbbing cunt as he rocks his face back and forth. He drags your orgasm down until you're just a wet, moaning mess under his touch.
"Want me to fuck y'like this, baby?" he prattles, curling his fingers to tear another loud moan from you. "Take you right in front of that camera?" Your pussy clenches at his words and he groans, "So you can see how much of a good girl you are?
"Y-yeah," you sob, trying your absolute best to contain your orgasm.
"Say you want it." Sam urges, lapping at your folds. He can already taste your juices on the tip of his tongue, threatening to flow out.
"I— Fuck, want you to fuck me, Sammy. Just like that." You nod frantically.
This was everything you needed to send you over the edge. Sam's fingers curl and thrust deep inside you once again, as his lips find your sensitive clit.
Your climax washes over you, breaking you apart as the overwhelming pleasure makes your brain go numb. You can only babble Sam's name, all over again."God, Sam— Don't stop," you cry out.
"Go on, Sweetheart. Cum all over me." He moans when your juices drip down his fingers, coating them alongside his tongue. He licks and suck on your arousal, tasting you as a low whimper escapes him.
His fingers escape free, and he looks up at you with big caring eyes. Your release coats his chin and lips, and you can see a few drops sliding down down his neck. He drags his fingers to his mouth without hesitation, sucking them clean.
"You taste so good," he grins shamelessly, more than turned on by the sight of you, all broken, thigh open wide for him.
You're barely able to bite back a moan as he bends to capture your lips. His long fingers wrap around your throat, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. His free hand skim over your trembling thighs, soothing you.
Sam is hungry, desperate. He wants to bury himself inside you and stay there forever, he wants you to beg for him, all pliant and starving, ready to swallow him whole.
Soft giggles escape your lips as he picks you up, making you stand in front of the camera. God, how he loves it when you sound like this, so happy and full of light. He can't help it but smile, white teeth showing as he places himself behind you before kissing your cheeks.
You melt against him, leaning you back against his chest as he wraps his long arms around you. The feeling of his restrained cock against your ass makes you shiver, "Look at you," he whispers. "So fucking hot."
You hear the clink of his belt buckle as he takes his remaining clothes off, not wanting to waste a second before he pushes you flush against him, his hardness pressing against your back. You gasp softly and hear a low chuckle coming out of his throat. "Are you ready for me, baby?"
"Don't tease me, Sam. I need you right now," you whimper in desperation.
"So needy," he whispers against your ear before lightly biting your lobe.
Sam slowly shifts and rubs his cock between your folds, you slightly bend over to give him easier access. He lines himself up with your entrance and stays still for a few seconds, taking in the moment. You, on the other hand, can't bear to live another second without him inside your pussy. You suddenly bore down, splitting yourself open on him with a deep moan. "Fuck."
He grunts, then choke on a whimper as you continue, taking him almost to the hilt in one go. "You're so— Big."
"Oh Fuck," he breathes out, your name escaping his lips a he tries to keep his composure. "You didn't even give me a moment to—" His voice breaks again as you rock against him.
His forehead drops to your shoulder, grunting as he rolls his hips back. And, when he thrusts back in, you feel the entirety of him pushing against your walls, the curvy shape of him fitting into your cunt in the most appetizing way. The throaty sound it pulled from you both is obscene. Each one of your moans come out louder than the previous one.
"I'm so full, Sam," you almost cry, already overwhelmed by the fullness of your pussy as Sam's hips collide with your ass.
"Yeah, feels good?" He bites the skin at your shoulder, before licking on it to ease the soft, but delightful pain. "Look at us, baby. You're taking me so good."
The sound of his voice, raspy, burning with desire, has almost the same effect on you as his cock. You feel yourself dripping, your arousal sliding down your thighs as you come closer to a new orgasm. You whimper as he slows down, not far from crying of pleasure and desperation.
Sam wants to take his time with you, not ready to let go. He presses your knees together, closing your legs. He feels even bigger like this, taking you apart entirely. You almost taste him, and you start to think that you might be losing your damn mind over him.
He looks at you through your reflection on the laptop screen, "Let me savor you. 'M gonna take you slow and deep, and I won't stop until you cum all over me." His hand wraps around you face, holding your chin to make you face him. "Would you like that, Sweetheart?"
You nod with half-lidded eyes, and he kisses you. It's slow, full of care and affection. You grab his wrist, guiding his hand near your clit, urging him to touch you. The most broken sound of pleasure escapes you, feeling deep pressure everywhere you needed, craved.
He gently fucks you in return, slow enough to drag long moans from your lips, and your legs start to tremble again. "I wanna cum— Please, Sam"
"Fuck. Me too, baby. I got you," he mumbles, brain completely shutting down as he reaches his high.
You buck against him, meeting each one of his thrusts as he thumbs at your clit before circling it harder. Your eyes flutter open to watch him thrust into you, gasping, cheeks carrying a hot pink color. "Cum in me," you mumble, smiling at the hot frown on his face.
This is too much for Sam. He instantly goes dumb, thrusting harder while keeping a painfully slow pace.
You never thought you could ever be more full until he came inside your pussy, the both of you moaning and panting loudly, as his warmth brings you back to the real world. "That's my girl," he coos, leaving delicate kisses on your skin as you reach the end of your orgasm.
"That was fucking amazing," you pant, and he puts a reassuring hand on your waist. The both of you exchange a look as while coming back to your senses, flashing a smile to each other.
He wipes away the tears pricking at your eyes with a brush of his lips, before wrapping his arms around you. You stand there for a moment, looking at your reflection, until a flash of amusement makes itself known in your eyes.
"You look a mess, Sammy," you giggle, messing with his hair even more as he chuckles before giving you a sweet peck.
"Your fault for being so beautiful." His grip tightens around you, and he picks you up before setting you both on the bed.
You lay comfortably on his chest, sticky and glistening with sweat. You're too lazy, too exhausted to even think about getting into the shower right at this instant. You'd rather stay here, with Sam, the sweetness of your shared moment being more important than anything.
Unfortunately, your body gets the best of you. As Sam draws peppers kisses all over your face while whispering sweet, heartfelt words that sound like the most perfect melody to your hears, the comforting feeling of his presence lulls you to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up to an empty side of the bed. The room is clean, too clean as even Sam isn't here anymore.
You sit up carefully, looking around the room until your eyes catch the shape of a piece of paper, folded and lying on the pillow next to you. When you pick it up to open it, you read:
Left with Dean for the day :(
You looked so pretty asleep, i couldn't wake you up
please, wait for me.
— SW
On the other side of the paper is a surprisingly accurate drawing of you, asleep, with a soft smile on your face.
⧽ summary: Closeness with Dean never meant intimacy in the way you wanted it to be. Between stolen touches, smoking sessions and his undying selfishness, you learn that, maybe, he wants you as much as you want him.
⧽ tags/warnings: nsfw, slight angst, smoking, mentions of blood and injury, dry-humping, car sex, making out, grinding, coming in pants, no use of y/n for reader-insert
｡˚ a/n: this is my first time posting and first time ever trying to write smut so my apologies if this might feel a little rushed, but feedback is welcomed!
wc: 4.3k cross posted on ao3
By the time you manage to get a moment of peace in your motel room, it's almost three in the morning. You open the door in a rush, the feeling your muscles relaxing as you finally reach a safer place, quieting down all the negativity today brought.
Today's hunt was, and it's an euphemism, a fucking nightmare.
It wasn't exactly a complicated or overly dangerous case according to Dean, just some mass-murdering vengeful spirit that seemed more than willing to have you as its next meal.
That thing had you running in circles for weeks. You spent hours as the library with Sam to complete your research, days investigating and asking question to potential witnesses with Dean, and weeks wondering if it was actually a good idea to keep going.
All that time was thrown to the bin as soon as the eldest Winchester decided to use you as bait.
It's not like it never happened before, because it did, more than once. Working with the Winchesters has never been an easy task, and putting up with their constant bickering was probably one of the hardest part of the job. Until things started to go down between you and Dean.
You've been close for a long while, but not in a way that satisfies either of you. Pent-up feelings can be hard to handle for this exact reason, especially when Dean treats you like a burden for a day, then find his way to your room in the middle of the night, stealing you away to smoke cigarettes in the Impala, all while the tips of his fingers mindlessly trace circles over the curve of your thighs.
It never went further, this false sense of closeness with Dean never meant intimacy in the way you wanted it to be. It felt more like a convenience, a way to forget about the horrors that the day grants you. When he can't seem to find a girl to satisfy his needs, his pleading eyes will meet yours, begging for closeness without sex, nor romance.
Trying to be a good friend, you've never said no to his requests, offering him an impression or nearness as you quietly suck on the orange filter of your cigarette, lost in thoughts whilst the cold metal of his ring lays confidently on your jeans covered skin.
Your growing feelings blind you even more each day, coating your eyes like a lacy veil, making you follow him on each of his hunts, helping him and Sam as much as you can, in hope to reach the high of reciprocated feelings, ones that you can only dream of.
Because of this, you didn't think much of it when Dean asked you to cover the second floor of the dusty, abandoned abode you blindly entered earlier. You didn't think much of it either when you stumbled across old photographs of women, probably in their early to mid-twenties. You definitely did not think at all until you realized that all these women had the same obvious features, ones that you also happen to carry on your face.
Everything hit all at once, not giving you enough room to process, still blurry, like fog filling every inch of you brain. You could only make out the noises of glass breaking, wooden panels creaking, and the deafening sound of Dean's shotgun, firing rock salt hurriedly.
When the rumbling stopped, Sam rushed over to help you, grabbing some dusty old sheets laying on the rotten floor, and ripping them to create a tourniquet, hoping it'd be enough to staunch the bleeding until you get back to the motel.
The three of you sat in the Impala in complete silence, almost deafening as anger bubbled in your chest, desperately trying to claw its way out and prey on Dean.
You didn't want to give himthat. None of the names you wanted to call him could've been forgotten after, even though he deserved the title. Maybe today's events just showed how little he cares about you.
The bitter taste of betrayal on your tongue is almost as painful as the blood-dripping wound on your thigh, its previously trapped red liquid sliding down your skin like tears, ones that you could never shed.
You darted to your room as soon as the car stopped, asking to not be bothered until sunup. Sam had insisted to help you clean up your wound, but you shrugged him off before letting him know that you're not mad at him specifically.
After taking a few seconds to let your brain get rid of those tortuous thoughts, you rush to the bathroom, opening the tap to let cold water flow into the sink. The feeling of warm blood streaming down your skin harmonizing with the metallic smell numbing your nose couldn't be more unpleasant.
You shimmy out of your jeans, eager to get rid of the discomfort caused by the wet material sucking on your skin, before sitting on the edge of the small, green tiled bathtub.
You find a small towel on a drying rack and decide to soak it in water in order to clean the dried dirt and blood stains on your body.
Each of your movements become mechanical: rubbing your skin, dipping the towel in water to make the blood go away, rubbing your skin again with shaky hands, and no thoughts disrupting your peace anymore. Although, from an outside perspective, this scenery looks like everything but peace.
A knock on your front door tears you away from your chain of thoughts. It opens slowly and quietly, as if the person behind was still debating wether they should enter the room or not.
You sigh, not feeling composed enough to hold a conversation with whoever is waiting behind the door, so you just hope for the best option, "I'm not in the mood. Sorry, Sammy."
"Not Sam."
Dean. Great.
You scoff. "Just leave me alone, Dean."
He ignores your request and enters the room anyway but stays silent, standing awkwardly still in the middle of it.
"Sam said i wasn't allowed in the room if i don't say sorry, so…" he trails off, it's clear now that he doesn't have any regrets, or even excuses to mumble.
"So?" You wait for an answer for a few seconds that felt like hours, but you quickly realize that you'll never be able to hear him apologize, he's definitely never going to change, "You know what, Dean? You're forgiven. Now leave me alone."
His lips part slightly as you offer him a fake smile, as if he had something on his tongue, words fighting to escape without knowing they'll get locked away, once again.
"I know you don't mean it." He whispers, almost offended by the sarcastic tone in your voice.
His eyes trail off to catch a glimpse of your lower body, droplets emanating from your wound and hitting the floor, barely visible through the agape door.
"Let me help you," he offers, refusing to wait for a response as he barges into the bathroom, stomping like an angry child.
"Leave me alone," you repeat, tone harsher than before as you're clearly starting to lose your temper.
Dean doesn't listen, he never does. He makes his way right in front of you in a hurry, yanking the blood soaked towel away from your hand in the same manner.
"You can hate me all you want, I don't care. Just let me handle this."
His tone is harsh enough to make you shut your mouth, waiting for the right words to protest. Your eyes lock on his body as he kneels down on the cold tiled floor, examining you with knotted eyebrows. His fingers are cold against your calf as he lightly lifts up your leg to get a closer look.
The dried blood on his face makes you frown, he was probably too exhausted, or even too lazy to care about it. You try to fight the urge to clean him up, feel his skin under your digits, comfort him in ways you could never wish for him to reciprocate.
The slight hint of concern is his eyes is almost endearing, and your body gets the best of you. Without much consciousness in your gestures, you slowly and carefully raise a hand, cold fingertips finding their way on Dean's cheek.
Your feather-light touch awakes something in him, and you could swear that for a split second, you found him leaning against you touch.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts long with Dean, realization hits him as he stiffens under you.
"What are you doing?" Dean's tone is surprisingly sweet but demanding, and he's surely as surprised as you based on the soft, pink hue sitting high on his cheeks.
It's almost like your brain isn't wired properly anymore, words flow without care, "I do hate you, Dean. And it's as painful as loving you."
You've always wondered why, despite all the hatred surrounding the both of you, Dean was always both the reason of your misery, and its cure.
The way he's always extremely defensive when faced with affectionate gestures, his misplaced acrimony, or even this constant need to relieve those suppressed feelings with unhealthy coping mechanisms has always been quite of an issue when it came to your somewhat close bond.
You've always hated how selfish he could be, using everything and everyone around him just to keep his brother close and safe.
You despise how low of an esteem he has for himself, contradicting with how much he expects of others, of his brother, of you.
There's so much you hate, and have always hated about him. But no matter what, you'll always be there, because you have to. Not only for him or Sam, but for you, too.
You hide your feelings behind a mask painted with bitterness and rage, just to prevent you from falling, from being caught in an endless cycle that can only end with a broken heart.
Love and hate are two parallels that, for once, crossed paths.
You hate Dean as much as you love him.
Maybe you hate him because your feelings can't ever be expressed any other way. Because it's eating you alive. His soft, glossy eyes, his painfully irritating but endearing smile, how tough he looks compared to the silkiness of his heart. Everything hurts to see, to feel.
Dean can't pay much attention to what you said in the moment. His hands are too shaky for him to completely relax and focus, they fumble over the first aid kit sitting on the floor, opened wide, filled with metal tools, band-aids and rubbing alcohol.
The cold, stinging sensation of alcohol-soaked gauze pressing against your open wound makes you shift, squirming desperately, trying to find a way out of this painful trap.
Dean catches your leg, his grip is almost firm enough for it to ache, holding you still. "Stop squirming." He says, his tone too soft for his own mouth.
He brings up the gauze lower down your leg, cleaning the last crimson tears your cut has shed.
The next step is one you're always apprehensive about, stitching.
"This is going to hurt," he warns you, meeting your eyes for a split second before threading the small needle he found in the first-aid kit.
The first couple of stitches felt like someone had brought you to hell and back, the stinging of alcohol still clinging to your flesh like a reminder of what you went through. You squirm involuntarily, body driven by remains of adrenaline and your suffering.
Dean held you in place the whole time, a free hand keeping a hard grip on your leg while his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, chasing the warm feeling in his chest away. He threads the last stitches with visible annoyance plastered on his face, as if you were nothing but a stubborn child he was forced to take care of.
The room falls completely silent, except for the faint sounds of your shallow breathing and the occasional clink of Dean's jewelry against the floor as he reaches for his tools.
He ties off the last suture, breathing harshly through his nose as he tries to relieve the ache burning in his back from his bad posture.
After letting you breathe for a moment, making sure you were still alive and somewhat relieved of the excruciating pain of a sharp object fishing in and out of your flesh, he diligently wraps a clean bandage around your leg, keeping it tight enough to stay in place for the night.
You sigh, grabbing painkillers in the tiny cabinet under the sink, chugging down a pill with some water as he watches you, still sitting on the floor, his back leaned against the bathtub.
No words are shared as your gaze meets his, you don't need them anyway. Silence feels like the only thing acceptable to stand between you, until it isn't.
"D'you want a cigarette?" You offer. It's your way of saying thank you.
Dean doesn't answer, instead he just nod while slowly standing up, before making his way towards the motel room door, as if to say let's go.
When you meet him outside after changing into fresh, not teared apart clothes, he's sitting on the hood of his car, playing mindlessly with a blue clipper lighter, one you left in his pocket the last time you shared a cigarette together.
It was three weeks ago. Three very long weeks that got you missing every ounce of affection you could receive from him before that. Before he became distant, silent.
You sit next to him without a word, close enough to smell the faded scent of his daily perfume, mixed with a few drops of alcohol he must've spilled on his clothes without much care.
He watches you bring a cigarette to your lips with a hint of caution in his eyes, waiting for you to hand him one. "I thought you quit, when was it? Like three weeks ago?"
"I did," you admit, a small grin pulling at your lips before you let it fade seconds after "Just feels right tonight."
He hums, picking a cigarette from the pack in your hand before placing it between his plump lips, lighting its end in one single motion before leaning in towards you.
You didn't get the time to process what was actually intended in his movement, until his face appeared only inches away from yours, the faint orange glow highlighting the line of his jaw burns against the dry tobacco at the tip of your cigarette, lighting it.
For a while neither of you spoke. The nearby city filled the silence for you; low hum of distant traffic, distorted bass vibrating from a bar on the opposite side of the street, the sudden burst of laughter coming from someone who had one too many drinks. You let the quiet stretch, finding comfort in the weight of it.
Until Dean breaks the silence with words that don't feel rehearsed at all.
"I missed this," he admits, his tone light, but the tension in his jaw betrays him.
The last embers of the cigarette glows faintly between his fingers as a stubborn, dying pulse of orange light. He flicks the filter, dropping it on the floor as smoke curls up between the two of you.
You feel the night air press around you like a tight seal, locking in all your repressed feelings, forcing you to face them. "You can't say that, Dean. Not after everything you put me through."
He drags his hand down his face, already defeated, though you want him to argue, apologize, confess feelings to you in a way you imagined a hundred of times, a way that doesn't sound like him. "Forget it."
"No." You turn around to face him, the urge to stop him from pulling away stronger than the instinct to protect yourself. "Don't do that. Don't take it back."
"Why not?" He finally looks at you, and it's worse than before, the way his eyes glow under the red motel light, vulnerable, offering a view you've never been lucky enough to witness.
The ache of something you weren't supposed to feel is settling in your chest, and you don't know if you should run or stay here, just for a moment.
"Because," you reply, the word catching in your breath. "If you take it back, then I'll never know know if you mean it."
Silence stretches again, only now it buzzes with something different on Dean's end. Something mysterious, almost unknown.
"I mean it."
There it is. The truth. And yet, a part of it still feels hollow, almost meaningless, like he only said it in the heat of the moment, to make you feel better.
You're used to it, that's who he is. He benefits from his charming looks, reused words and confessions, just to get what he wants. He betrays, hurts, and still hopes for something in return; an affirmation, reassuring touch, the non-romantic intimacy of a sexual intercourse.
Nothing which you can afford to gift him without losing a piece of you in the process.
"This is stupid," You whisper, more to yourself than him.
"I know," he laughs, but if sounds more like a quiet sigh.
You can barely breathe, the air is thick, and almost as heavy as everything you aren't supposed to say, aren't supposed to feel.
A cold sting makes itself known on your cheeks, the familiarity of Dean's ring against your skin making you quiver. You slowly shift to face him, as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, using the opportunity to register the softness of it, something he's never allowed himself to do before.
It's your turn to lean against his touch, just lightly, enough for him to notice. The anger in your heart only growing smaller, the ache in his tearing him apart.
"I'm sorry." He looks at you, though these words feel more for him than they are for you.
You nod, eyelashes fluttering sluggishly as you try to enjoy the moment while it lasts. All rational thoughts dissipating from your brain. Each signs that previously screamed run don't even matter anymore.
Not being able to fight for an extra minute, you cave in, getting a hold of his arm, tugging on it to bring him closer against your warm, inviting body. Your lips collide with his, feverish and hungry. This is everything you both craved but could never admit.
Dean doesn't fight it, instead he melts into the kiss, into you scent, your warmth. He doesn't wait to nibble on your bottom lip, eager to taste you on a deeper level. Your lips part a little further, and he licks on your tongue, both of you tasting the earthy and woody flavor on tobacco coating your saliva.
Your fingers find their way to his nape, tugging on the strands to steal a groan from his lips, letting it resonate through your body as you lock tightly around him. Both of his hands hold onto your flushed face, desperately keeping you in place as if he was scared to let go.
The sweetness of your shared kiss becomes more aggressive, desperate whimpers escaping as you both explore each other's mouth. You're eager to have more of him, who's starting to feel a bit needy as one of his hands reaches for you waist, trailing lower until it stops, fingers settling lightly under your shirt.
Deans unexpectedly pulls away, lips pink and swollen as a string of spit breaks between your mouths. The wetness of his lips combined with the need in his eyes portrays and obscenely hot side of him you've never seen before.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes out, hot air against your face sending shivers down your spine.
"Don't." There's nothing else to respond to that. Your brain is melting into a puddle, only reflecting the light in his eyes.
He bites back a whine at the sight of you, because he's easy like that, and before you know it, he's burying his face into your neck, licking and nibbling at every inch of skin he can get between his lips and teeth. You shiver when his hand travels up under your shirt, carefully laying on your bra, the hotness of his palm grounding you.
You tug a little harder on his hair and he groans against your skin, muttering words you can only try to decipher. His lips meet yours once again, and it's hot. As sinful lust grows in your chest, you can only whisper, "Get in the car."
The only response you receive is a low hum before Dean stands up, not breaking the kiss. He hastily leads you near the back of the car, your spine hitting the door handle when he presses you against the cold exterior of the Impala, hands automatically finding your hips, pinning you so perfectly as he cages you in.
You push his chest lightly, trying to repress as smile, and you take the opportunity of the small space between you to open the door, gesturing him to get in with a nod. He follows, a smug expression on his face that you'd usually crave to slap away.
He climbs onto the long leather covered bench, pushing himself back until his shoulder blades press against the cold glass of the window, and you don't waste a second waiting in the cold, immediately crawling inside the car, closing the door before you climb on top of him. His eyes rake over you as you do so, the both of you smiling like love-blind idiots, his arms stretching out to get a hold of your waist, keeping you firmly against him.
Your hands first settle on his chest, before going lower, caressing his skin through his clothes, the material of his shirt rubbing against his toned body, your face hovers over his to offer a kiss that never lands.
His grip on your hips becomes tighter, fingers pressing deeply against your flesh, holding you like he needs more. A rush of confidence floods through you, drowning the hesitation away. You grind against him as you bend forward once more to catch his lips with yours. His hands accompanying your movements, your core pressed flush against his crotch, fitting flawlessly like you were made for each other, only two thick layers of jeans separating you.
"Tell me, Dean, what do you want?" You whisper against his ears, the sound of your voice, raspy with need, making his eyes shut and eyebrows furrow.
"Fuck—" He almost chokes on his words as your pace fastens, "I want you. All of you."
His voice is raw, strangled, making you throb with want. His right hand slides lower, caressing your wounded leg, a simple way to show you he cares, the look in his eyes ordering you to be careful not to hurt yourself.
You take off his shirt, craving the feeling of his skin against yours, and he does the same. His eyes trail down from your face to your exposed chest, left in a quite revealing bra. "Beautiful," he breathes out.
His developing hardness presses against your core, desperately wet and in need for attention. Your hunger for a release consumes each one of your thoughts, soft moans escaping your lips every time Dean presses you down against him. You sit so beautifully on him, your palms on his chest to help you keep a steady pace.
"Fuck, you're so big, even under your pants—" You bite back a moan before he cups your breasts with both hands, earning another one of your whimpers when his tongue travels from your sternum to your collarbone. He stops a few times to catch your skin between his teeth, lips sucking hard in ways that will definitely leave marks.
You gasp, feeling an knot in your stomach build up slowly, your body so responsive to each friction caused by your repeated movements against him. Dean joins the ride, his hips following your movements as he holds you, rocking your hips back and forth as you both reach for your high.
"I didn't know that could feel this fucking good," He grunts, taking a fistful of your hair to draw your face closer in order to kiss you, but he softly gasps as you lean forward, the added pressure making him go stupid. The sight makes you feral, so fucking hungry for him.
Your tongue slips in his open mouth, leaving you both a moaning mess as you chase the release you so deeply need. Your hands reach for his belt, trying to undo it before he stops you, placing his hand on top of yours.
"I don't think i can wait," He whispers, not breaking the kiss. His voice coated with desire mixed with a hint of desperation, he's close. "Just come for me, Baby," He adds.
"I wanted you inside me," you whine, and a smile stretches on his lips, satisfied to know you need him as much as he needs you.
Your pace fastens, suddenly impatient to come. Your arms lock around his neck, and you press harder into the kiss, saliva coating your chin as you feel your orgasm building up, the wetness of your panties ruining your pants. You can feel his restrained cock twitch, hard and deliciously big under you.
"Dean, I'm gonna—Fuck." You moan, uncontrolled whimpers and gasps leaving you.
"That's it sweetheart, keep going," he grunts loudly in your ear, and it sends you over the edge.
You slur, head tipping forward, your forehead settling against his as you both come together as a sinful, whimpering and groaning mess, overwhelmed with surprisingly immense pleasure.
The two of you try to make it back to the real world, mind-numbed and dizzy from your shared orgasm. "Well, that was—"
"Fucking good," Dean breathes out. You palm the still visible bludge in his pants, eyeing the wet spot darkening his jeans. You can't help but smile before kissing him, in a softer, almost loving way.
He melts into the kiss before whispering. "You have no idea how long I've wanted this."
And he will not waste time before proving it to you again.
summary: your obsession with sam's hands is eating you alive, and it gets worse when he decides to tease you about it.
cw: less than 1k words, gn!reader, perverted!reader, implied smut (might do a part two for it), hands and fingers kink. cross posted on ao3
a/n: just because i've got a thing for sam's hands (who doesn't?) wrote this in one sitting before bed and proofread once so forgive me for any mistakes.
to say that you had a thing for sam would be an understatement. actually, it was closer to a growing obsession, a dirty secret. no matter your innumerable attempts at finding a distraction, a new thing to obsess over, your mind always drifted back to sam, to his hands.
it started very innocently. you were slumped in the backseat of the impala, eyes locked on the road ahead, until you heard the ruffling of clothing against the leathered bench. sam was fast asleep, a book still sitting in his hands. your eyes wandered over his peaceful figure before landing on his arms, then his hands. his thin, elongated fingers almost made you blush as your perverted brain pictured them on your body, in between your lips.
after this event, something in your brain switched. you couldn't help but quickly glance at his hands each time he passed something to you, or when he sat next to you in a local library, too focused on his research to notice your wandering eyes.
your ever-growing feelings for sam were getting harder to handle now that the sexual aspect of your friend became the main subject of your daydreaming sessions. but nothing could've prepared you for what was about to come next.
the current weather is unbearable, to the point where you physically cannot digest anything that's not either slightly refreshing, or entirely frozen. the three of you were desperate enough to interrupt your ride back to the motel as you searched for the nearest grocery store or gas station. once you were lucky enough to find one, dean hurried in, bringing back popsicles, ice cold beers, and a bunch of citrus fruits that sam had requested.
sam fishes an orange out of the grocery bag before sitting next to you on the edge of the curb, the both of you needing a break from a very tired and complaining dean. your eyes follow sam's every movement, widening as his hands start to work the fruit, flexing as he removes the peel.
your gaze lock on his long fingers, pushing between the wedges to split the fruit open, juice leaking out immediately. the translucent liquid coats his fingers while a few drops run down his palm, then past his wrist.
he manages to catch a few with his tongue, flat against the skin as he runs it up his arm. his lips trap some of the juice that started pooling in his palm with an obscene slurping sound, resonating directly to your core.
you can't help but wonder if he'd do the same to you. would his tongue trail up your inner thigh in hope to get a taste of you? would he catch your juices before it spills? or would he be too caught in the act of pleasuring you, not stopping until you can't babble his name no more?
this is a point of no return, and you find yourself squeezing your thighs together desperately, deeply ashamed and eaten alive by your sudden arousal. you wish that you could blame sam, but you know damn well that you asked for it.
a soft call of your name brings you back to the real world, and you quickly realize that it came from sam, who's looking at you with fairly parted lips. "are you okay?"
you blink twice, letting you eyes readjust before meeting his. you don't get the chance to reply as the coldness of your fingers shifts your attention back to the melting popsicle in your hand. the juice glazes your skin, its sugary composition leaving an uncomfortable, sticky layer on your fingers. "uh, yeah. i think i should go get some napkins or something, you want some?"
sam only flashes you a toothy smile of his as your stand, still facing him, before replying, "no need."
he slowly brings his fingers to his mouth, starting with his thumb as he wraps his lips around it, forming a small pout when he sucks on the rough pad with a soft hum. once he's satisfied enough, he sticks his tongue out to drag it along his middle finger, all while sneaking quick glances at you.
you can't tell if he's doing it on purpose, if you're imagining it, or if the whole act is just inherently sensual.
whatever it is, it's working.
you make you way towards the car, stumbling on your feet in the process. you hurriedly grab a few napkins in order to clean your hands, and your mind races. unsure if you'd rather act on it, or bury this frustration of yours as deep as possible.
as you finally gain your composure back, sam is already looking at you. there's something in his eyes that you can't read, a dangerous spark you'd prefer not to acknowledge. when you finally sit, he extends his still sticky hand towards you, offering a slice. "want some?"
it takes you a few seconds to understand the gesture, still shaken up by your overworking mind. you raise a shaky hand to accept the slice, and sam takes advantage of the small gap between your parted lips to place the small piece in your mouth.
his hand hovers near your face, waiting for you to bite on the slice, or swallow it whole. when you do so, his fingers land on your bottom lip, tracing it carefully. you open your mouth, almost unconsciously, and you see it again, that small smile on his lips. it even twitches when you slowly suck on his finger, a strange rush of pleasure traveling though your body, making your eyelids close.
sam presses his digit against your tongue. it's warm, and a shaky breath escapes him as a broken whimper reaches his ears. his awareness of the public setting you're currently in makes him withdraw from between your lips after long seconds. your eyes flutter open, and realization hits. he already misses the feeling of your tongue working around his skin, tasting him with a neediness he's never witnessed before.
sam catches the reddish pink tone of your cheeks, and he brings his tacky hand to the crown of your hair, petting you gently. "is this what you wanted all along?"
you nod once, a hint of shame lingering in your heart. the shy gesture makes his chest burn with need, like he has to give you everything you've ever wanted right at this moment.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean watches Jeopardy! every night and had always wanted to ask if you could watch it with him. when you finally accepted to give it a try, it felt like a small victory. after a few weeks, your movie sessions became a routine, some sort of ritual neither of you is allowed to skip.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ every time he quotes a movie you've both seen, he looks at you with a silly smile on his face, waiting to see if you caught the reference. when you don't pay attention to it, or just can't remember which movie it's from, he makes you watch it again. when you reach the timestamp of the quoted scene he'll get kind of too excited and start talking so loud you can't even hear what's happening. "see! that's what i was talking about!"
⊹ ࣪ ˖ when you first watched godzilla vs. mothra, he kept repeating how much it's better than the original, maybe too much for your own sake. "told ya, this is the best godzilla movie ever. i can't believe sammy prefers the remake over this masterpiece."
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean's favorite movie is Untouchables, he's seen it so many times and it always feels like the first. he made you watch it once and was almost offended by your reluctant frown. unfortunately for you, he couldn't take no for an answer, not when it comes to his favorite movie. so, he made you watch it again before giving a complete analysis on why it's the best movie ever. the undying excitement in his voice as he talked about it for an hour and a half conviced you to love it, just for him.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean absolutely loves horror movies, especially the very unsettling ones that are either too gory to have an interesting plot, or those that are so weird and poorly made it makes them terrifying. he secretly uses them as an excuse to have you sit closer to him, hoping you'll be scared enough to hold onto his shirt.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ if you're watching a movie that both sam and dean like, he'll always mention it. "oh sammy loves this one, we used to watch it a lot when we were kids. should i tell him to come watch it with us?" in this case, there's a ninety-nine percent chance you're going to end up sitting in the middle of your small couch, squished between the two brothers as they argue over who's favorite character is better than the other's.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean enjoys binge-watching entire series, even though his busy life doesn’t allow him to do it often. he first introduced you to the star-wars franchise when revenge of the siths came out. dean made you watch the original trilogy and the prequel trilogy in one sitting, starting from sunrise until sunset.
having you around for a whole day, and knowing you enjoy sharing those moments with him, just watching movies together, was everything he needed in that specific moment.
of course, he was more than thrilled when you suggested the idea of dressing as his favorite characters for your friend's upcoming themed party.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ dean's always loved all genres of movies, and could basically watch anything if it looks intertaining enough. but as you grew closer, he, to his surprise, felt more interested in your favorite movies and genres. he’d often ask you why you love them so much when you make him watch something new.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ romance movies quickly became his go-to for when he needs to cheer you up. being able to witness you wearing the cutest smile ever on your face when the main characters fell in love always brought the happiest grin to his lips.
but let’s be real, most of the times it actually turns into dean trying to take advantage of the movie's romantic build-up, or even intimate scenes to steal a soft peck from you. sometimes he’d forget entirely about the film as he can't get you, and the way you lay so comfortably in his arms, out of his mind.
this is so nothingburger but i needed to get it out of my drafts.
⧽ summary: it was another one of those gloomy nights, where dean couldn't think of anything else but the silkyness of your skin, impatient to have you against him again. unfortunately, months passed since your last shared night, and dean suddenly can't remember the code to your apartment, but surely this shouldn't mean anything, right?
⧽ tags/warnings: gn!reader, no use of y/n, angst, hurt/comfort, maybe not exactly, unhealthy relationship, secret relationships, lying, mentions of ghosting, dean is bad at feelings, not exactly unrequited love, doomed relationship.
⧽ wc: 1.8k
a/n: this was heavily inspired by this song which i love dearly, so i hope it'll do it justice. cross posted on ao3.
"C'mon sweetheart, just give it to me!"
This is not how Dean's night was supposed to go. Actually, he was counting on it to offer him the right amount of support and affection he usually seeks after another chaotic hunt.
Like almost every day for the past nine months, Dean anticipated the moment he'd have to punch numbers into the broken intercom. The front door would click open right after, and you'd already be there as Dean arrived to your apartment's entrance, leaning on the cold frame with a shine in your eyes that meant more than you could ever say.
You were always aware of his arrival, and could easily open the door from the inside of your very own home, but he always refused. Dean learned to cherish the simple act of remembering those meaningless numbers. The apprehension and excitement of knowing he's only seconds apart from seeing your face again was one of the many things he liked most about your fleeting nights.
Instead of the perfect, idealistic reunion Dean pictured on his way here, he met a cold, closed door, and an intimidating intercom that used be the key to your home. Concealing what was the familiar path to your shared intimacy.
"I'm not giving you the code, Dean," your chest tightened despite yourself.
It shouldn't hurt as much as it does. The code wasn't particularly important. It was the rythm: the intercom, Dean whispering numbers as he types them in, you waiting for him in the warmth of your accomodation. All of it was just a simple ritual, a reassurance that you both existed for each other. You couldn't help but love all of it, the look in his eyes as he steps inside, the shared secret, the tiny act that thetered you across days apart.
It was the only stable thing in your life, knowing that Dean will be there soon to type his now favorite numbers, while the softest grin tugs at the corner of his lips.
A soaking wet Dean glanced at you from the edge of the curb, streetlights behind him glimering like gold coins on the pavement. He looks defeated, shivering like a lost kitten seeking shelter in a cold winter night. Your face is only illuminated by the single, dying orange pulse of light at the end of your cigarette, highlighting the biterness in your eyes. A familiar look that Dean always failed to acknowledge.
"Why not?" Dean shouts, his sudden frustration doesn't leave room for him to control his behavior.
His audacity to wonder, and ask why is beyond maddening. The coldness of your sheets after Dean deserted your bed in the middle of the night still clings to your skin, like a rough reminder of how little your feelings matter. He hasn't made it back to you in a month and a half, letting time stretch like an unbroken line of grey. He somehow stills expects you to jump in his arms, forget about the countless times you tried to call him.
Not hearing from Dean in such long time was as humiliating as facing a white wall, blindly waiting for it to comfort you.
"Why didn't you call me?" you blurt out, unable to contain the growing ache in your stomach.
Even from the farness of your balcony, where you've been perched on for long minutes, you can hear him sigh for the second time this evening. "It's been weeks, Dean. I was starting to think you were dead," you breathe out the last part, ashamed to admit that you care more than he does.
"I was just busy!" Dean holds his hands up as if this false sense of cooperation would change anything. "You know it, better than anyone else."
"You worked non-stop for a month?" he tries to protest with a call of your name. "Stop lying to me! I know damn well you were only busy fucking other girls."
The most annoying, shit-eating grin flashes on his features.
"Oh, so this is what it's all about." he chuckles lightly, more amused by the situation than you'd like him to be. "I wasn't aware of our… exclusive relationship?"
"Just go home, Dean—"
"Okay, wait… I'm sorry," He takes a step forward towards the front door of your building, trying to remember the code before typing it in. When he fails for the third time, his chest tightens.
He wonders how stupid he must look, standing there like an idiot, forehead resting on the cold brick next to the intercom. His clothes are still wet from the recent drizzle, sucking onto his skin like a punishment.
Dean decides to accept his fate, and hits the call button next to your name, mumbling a 'baby' as he hears you picking up. "Let me in, please."
You hesitate before buzzing him in, the pad of your finger presses on the button, slowly, as if to underline that the ritual has been broken, and the door clicks. The familiar sound should have brought relief, but instead Dean remains slightly stiff, while you try to contain a hint of nervousness, feeling the distance grow bigger between the two of you.
As soon as Dean enters, you both move through the appartment in silence, thick tension lingering. You try to focus on the gentle scent of his fading cologne, or the rythm of his tensed breath.
You watch him settle near the sink in the open-plan kitchen, pouring himself some white wine, then absently playing with the base of the glass. Dean tries to take his mind of that strange pull of frustration mingled with desire. He wants to smooth the tension over, to touch, tease, reclaim the easy intimacy you both loved.
"Come here," Dean gestures you with a wave to approach. Even as you let him draw you close, you knew this night, this tiny fracture in your ritual, changed everything.
His hand lingers on your arm, a light graze, almost too casual, like he wasn't out in the rain stuttering over numbers that should've been second nature only seconds before. You know his body too well, though. There's a faint tremor beneath the relaxed touch, you can feel it, just like you can see the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, one that doesn't quite fit the smile he tries to wear, but you let it be. You let Dean tug you closer, chest to chest, his warmth curling around you like a shield.
Dean bends slightly, lips grazing your temple. "I missed you," he murmured. His voice came low, like a confession, like he meant it to dissolve every doubt hanging in the room.
You want to say 'me too', reciprocate his feelings. Instead, your lips seal together and you let the silence stretch, heavy, until Dean pulls back just enough to look at you with knitted eyebrows. "What? No 'missed you too'?"
Your body betrays you before your words could, and you lean into Dean's space. Your lips meet, and it's messy, hungry. It's the kind of kiss that tries to erase everything instead of acknowledging it.
Dean switches postition so you can be the one against the counter, his hands braced on each side, caging your body. You kiss him with the same desperation and need, because what else is there to add? You have no words for this kind of situation, no real solution. Only lips, teeth, and empty promises pressed down your skin.
Dean holds you like he's starving, like the past month spent without you had carved a certain hunger in his heart. Your lips press in a frantic rythm, part worship, part punishment. Each time you try to pull back to catch a breath, Dean chases you down again, lips pushing harder as his hands find your hips. His teeth graze your bottom lip harder and harder until it pulls a soft gasp from your mouth.
That single gasp was all it took. His tongue slips in, hot and insistent, stealing every remaining air bubble from your lungs. Your back hit the counter, the cold edge digging into your spine, but all you can feel is the fever of Dean's body burning against your own.
Your hands find their way under his shirt, fingers curling the fabric as if you wanted to push him away and tug him closer in the same motion. The material bunches in your fists as Dean angles his head, a deep sound of pleasure escaping his lips.
His grip on your body tightens, finger digging into the soft flesh of your sides, and you colide against the counter again, hips griding recklessly. It's so far from the sweet, loving kisses you're used to receive from him. Everything is now painted with guilt, anger, and a hint of dejection. Every gasp, every soft moan sounds like a warning, and your hands freeze.
Something snaps inside you, like a sharp souvenir of your frustration, reminding you how little you allow yourselves to communicate beyond these sudden bursts of desire.
"Dean," you carefully push on his chest, enough to for his eyes to meet yours. "We shouldn't do this."
You pause, waiting for any signs of protestation, simple words, even a reassuring touch. But Dean just stares at you blankly. "What's the point of all this? You never stay the night. You always run away. You don't even know me."
"You seriously think that I don't care?" Dean spat, though it actually came more as a broken whisper. His hands slide up to frame your face, the roughness of his fingers landing on your cheekbones. "I don't mean to run. I just don't know how to stay."
This sentence alone carries the weight of every night you've spent together, every laugh and kiss.
"Why can't you love me like this all the time?" you mumble, unsure if you're asking for reassurance or a confession.
Dean's gaze flickers, his dilated pupils glinting in the dim light, and his lips part. He's caught between wanting to say the truth and fearing the pain it might bring.
"Please," your name comes in a single, inconsolable whisper. "Don't make me say it."
Even the prettiest flowers don't bloom eternally. You can't count how many times he's said it, nor you can't undersand why it never ceased to break your heart in pieces, knowing he meant every single one of them. Your answer to his statement has always been the same, then how can we?
Dean clears his throat. He's searching for the right words, but none of those you want to hear would sound right, not now. "Just know that I, uh… y'know." I love you. This is what he's dying to say, and has been for so long. Sadness glimmer in his eyes when a glimpse of what you could've been flashes across his mind.
He's selfish for keeping you against him, knowing all too well that he will leave as soon as the weight of his heart is too much to carry, but neither of you wants to forget, nor move on.
"Yeah," you whisper, nodding as you lose yourself in the green of his iris. "Me too."
