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May 11, 2025

LOVE NOTE : officer winchester || best read as a pt.2 to this but can also be read as a standalone ||

WORD COUNT : 4488

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he doesn’t even get one foot over the threshold before she’s on him.

the door swings open fast and wide, and then she’s there in a flurry of motion and bare legs, oversized tee riding up just enough to make him forget how to breathe.

no warning. no hello. just the soft thud of her feet and then she’s airborne, flinging herself into his arms like she’d die if she didn’t.

and he’s ready — always ready when it comes to her. catches her with one arm like it’s muscle memory, like his body knew before his brain did. his bag slips off his shoulder and hits the floor with a heavy thunk but he barely hears it. all he hears is the way she giggles as her legs wrap around his waist, her arms latching around his neck.

and then she’s kissing him — attacking him with kisses, really. quick and messy and everywhere. cheeks, jaw, the corner of his mouth, nose, eyelids. she’s giggling breathlessly against his skin, whispering something like “mine, mine, mine” between kisses, and he’s just standing there with one arm hooked under her thighs and the other cupping the back of her head, dazed and so fucking in love he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“hi,” she murmurs eventually, grinning against his lips, eyes gleaming like sunlight on bourbon.

he huffs out a laugh. “jesus, sweetheart — can i breathe first?”

“no,” she says, and kisses him again, like she’s trying to make up for every second he was gone.

and he lets her. of course he does.

she hears the familiar creak of the porch steps and goes stiff like a spooked cat, practically jumping off of dean with a squeak, landing bare-footed and wild-eyed beside him.

“shit, shit—” she hisses, scrambling to wipe her lip gloss off his face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, (his sweatshirt, of course, hanging off her smaller frame like a stolen trophy). she’s patting at his mouth and chin like she’s trying to erase a crime scene, eyes darting toward the door.

dean’s laughing — laughing, the traitor — grinning with flushed cheeks and kiss-bruised lips as she manhandles his face like a guilty teenager.

“hold still!” she whisper-yells, eyes wide and panicked. “you’ve got glitter on your cheek, dean — glitter! sam’s gonna know!”

“you think sam doesn’t know already?” he mutters around her fussing, lips twitching like he’s dying to say something lewd. “you jumped me like a damn jungle cat — he probably heard your squeal all the way from the driveway.”

“dean, i swear to god—”

and then the door creaks open and sam’s there, eyes squinting like he already regrets walking up.

mallory straightens with lightning speed, face the picture of innocence, her lips still red and a little too kiss-swollen. dean, miraculously, manages to school his expression into something passable, though the pink gloss on his jaw betrays them both.

“hey, sam,” she says, chipper and bright, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear like nothing happened at all.

sam just sighs, slow and exhausted. “you two know this is a shared space, right?”

mallory blinks sweetly. “whatever do you mean?”

dean coughs. “i think he’s just jealous, baby.”

“oh, definitely.” she nods solemnly. “tragic, really.”

sam mutters something about moving out and disappears down the hall, and the second he’s gone, mallory breaks into a fit of laughter, smacking dean in the chest.

“we are so bad at this,” she whispers.

dean grins, pulling her back in. “you kissed it off, but i can still taste that gloss.”

“mm. you want a refresher?”

“fuck yes i do.”

his breath catches when she tugs him in, his hands still half-lifted like he doesn’t know whether to grab her waist or worship her — because christ, she’s always like this. always kissing him like she’s starving, always leaving him aching in doorways and thresholds and the quiet breath between responsibility and want. her lips ghost over his again, soft and sinful, and she whispers it like a promise: “i’ll be in your room.” and then she’s gone.

bare feet on old wood, a skip in her step that’s downright wicked, and by the time bobby slams the back door shut and yells something about tracking mud into his kitchen, she’s already halfway up the stairs — grinning like the devil with a halo. dean stays rooted to the spot for a second, dizzy and lovesick and half-hard, fingers still curled where her shirt tug left its ghost.

he hears bobby grunt in the other room, hears sam grumble something like “don’t even ask.” and all he can do is grin slow, teeth catching his lip as he turns on his heel.

“don’t wait up,” he calls casually, already heading toward the stairs two at a time. “got some... law enforcement matters to attend to.”

then, from the kitchen, “idjits.”

but by the time dean hits the top step, he’s already forgetting the world behind him — because his girl’s waiting. she’s waiting on his bed, perched on her knees like a pretty decoration, hands politely clasped in her lap.

she looks like something out of a dream — or a damn fantasy cooked up in the haze of too many lonely motel nights.

the glow from the bedside lamp hits her just right, soft and amber, gilding her skin and the tousled strands of her hair. she’s perched there so sweetly, knees tucked under her on the comforter, back straight, hands folded in her lap like she’s the portrait of innocence. like she hasn’t been corrupting his thoughts all morning. like she didn’t just whisper filth into his mouth before skipping away like it was nothing.

but her lips are bitten red, and there’s a glint in her eyes that tells him she knows exactly what she’s doing. “reporting for arrest, officer,” she murmurs, tilting her head ever so slightly, lashes fluttering like a dare.

dean doesn’t even bother closing the door behind him. he just drops his bag to the floor with a thud, shoulders still tense from the drive, from pretending to be composed in front of sam, from the way her voice still echoes in his ears. and now she’s here. like a present he gets to unwrap with his teeth.

“you waitin’ to be frisked, sweetheart?” his voice is low, rough around the edges, hunger clinging to every word. “’cause you’re gonna have to spread those knees real polite for me first.”

her smile widens, sweet as sin. and she does. she laughs, chucking a pillow at the door. it thuds against the wood with a satisfying smack, sending the door swinging shut on its creaky hinge.

dean doesn’t even flinch. just watches her with that crooked smirk, the one that always starts small and dangerous before it spreads slow, all teeth and intention.

mallory’s laugh lingers in the air like smoke, warm and wicked, and she’s already lazily crawling toward the edge of the bed like she’s got all the time in the world to ruin him.

“didn’t wanna be rude,” she says, faux-innocent, voice dripping with silk and sugar. “can’t have anyone walking in on a criminal investigation, right?”

dean steps forward, boots heavy on the floor, and drags his gaze down her body like he’s got x-ray vision, like he’s mapping out every inch he plans to claim. “no ma’am. that would be a serious obstruction of justice.”

she hums, grinning as she settles back on her knees again, mock-prim. “i’d hate to obstruct anything of yours, officer.”

he raises a brow, already undoing his belt with one hand, the other reaching out to tilt her chin up between two fingers. “yeah?” his thumb brushes over her bottom lip. “’cause i got a real long sentence in mind for you, baby.” god help whoever tries to knock on that door.

“it’s a good thing i’m a law-abiding citizen,” she muses, gazing up at him with a gaze that can only be described as bedroom eyes. lidded and seductive, blinking at him knowingly through long lashes as her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

dean’s smirk curls slow and wolfish, that predatory grin that always makes her stomach twist deliciously. his fingers hook under her chin, tilting her face up just a little more, like he needs a better look at the trouble glinting behind those heavy-lidded eyes.

“law-abiding, huh?” he drawls, voice rough like gravel and heat, thumb dragging across her lower lip until it pops free with a quiet tsk. “funny. i’ve got a whole list of offenses here says otherwise.”

she pouts, just a little, the softest scrunch of her brow as she leans into his touch like a cat begging to be pet. “must be a mistake,” she murmurs. “i’m innocent.”

his eyes darken, amusement flickering into something hotter, hungrier. “baby, if this is you innocent, i’d love to see you guilty.”

“mm,” she hums, sliding her hands up his chest, slow and languid, palms warm against the fabric. “then maybe you should frisk me, officer. just to be sure.”

and he’s already bending, mouthing at her jaw, muttering against her skin like a prayer and a curse all at once. “oh sweetheart, i’m gonna turn this into a federal offense.”

her laugh bubbles out like champagne, wicked and breathless. “what — mmph, hi,” she giggles, sighing against his lips, “what can i do to get out of going to jail, officer?”

his mouth brushes hers again — just barely — a tease more than a kiss, like he’s tasting her laugh, savoring the sound of it like sugar melting on his tongue. he hums low in his throat, hands already wandering, sliding down her waist like he’s taking inventory.

“depends,” he murmurs, voice thick with mischief, one brow raised as he gazes down at her through lashes heavy with want. “how bad do you not wanna go to jail, sweetheart?”

she grins, saccharine sweet and full of trouble, dragging a finger slowly down the center of his chest. “so bad,” she whispers dramatically. “i can’t possibly survive behind bars. i’m too soft. too delicate.”

he scoffs, backing her toward the bed with a lazy sway of his hips, like he’s got all the time in the world to punish her properly. “delicate, my ass. you’d run that place by noon.”

“but i’d miss you,” she pouts, lower lip caught between her teeth. “so i’m willing to... cooperate.”

he smirks like she’s already confessed every sin she’s ever committed. “cooperate, huh?”

“yes, sir.”

and the sir just about undoes him. he groans low, kissing her hard and fast, like that’s her first test and she passed with flying colors.

“then get on the bed,” he growls, voice molten. “let’s see if we can reduce your sentence.”

“i’m already on the bed.” she retorts amusedly, “you get on the bed,” he huffs out a breathless laugh, something feral curling behind his grin. his eyes drag slowly over her — perched there like temptation incarnate, legs tucked beneath her, smirking like she knows she’s got him wrapped around her little finger and is having the time of her life about it. “bossy,” he murmurs, toeing off his boots with deliberate slowness, one eyebrow arching as he lets his jacket fall to the floor.

“you gonna cuff me? read me my rights? let me kiss your badge? you made some serious promises last night,” she snickers, lounging back and watching him walk to his closet, reaching for a box on the top shelf.

his grin widens, and there's something dark in the way his gaze sharpens, like he's about to enjoy every damn second of this.

“serious promises, huh?” he echoes, voice thick with playful threat as he pulls the box down from the shelf. he doesn’t even bother looking at it, just tossing it on the bed next to her before crawling up, slow and measured, like he’s savoring every inch of space between them.

"you don't get to tell me what to do, i’m the sheriff here.” he murmurs, all arrogance and temptation as he looms over her, pushing her back against the pillows with one hand. "but maybe i’ll make an exception."

he drags his fingers lightly over her skin, barely a touch, just enough to have her shivering beneath him. his lips hover over her ear, just a whisper of breath against her skin.

“how bad do you really want that kiss, sweetheart?” he asks, low, almost amused. “gonna beg for it? maybe i’ll consider it.”

and there’s that smirk of his — almost smug, like he already knows what she’s going to say, like he’s got all the power here. but he’s wrong. she has all the power, and she’s about to remind him of it in the most delicious way.

“you be a good girl, now.” he rasps, squishing her cheeks in his hand and kissing her pout. he pulls back, digging through the box. she just watches him, a lazy little smirk playing on her lips. he comes back with fuzzy handcuffs and a fake id, one that read; officer winchester, privates investigator.

she bursts into laughter the second she sees it, head thrown back on his pillow, giggles shaking through her like aftershocks. “privates investigator?” she wheezes, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “real professional, officer.”

he shrugs, looking far too pleased with himself as he clicks the cuffs open with a dramatic little flourish. “listen, sweetheart,” he drawls, crawling back up over her, his fake badge dangling from two fingers. “i take my job very seriously. especially when it comes to repeat offenders like you.”

“mm, recidivism,” she hums, lashes fluttering, playing her role to perfection. “terrible, really. i just keep doing bad things.”

“damn right you do,” he mutters, catching her wrists in his hands and pressing them down against the mattress. the metal of the cuffs is cool where it brushes her skin, and his smirk turns downright wolfish. “you ready to be rehabilitated, sweetheart?”

“depends,” she says airily, like she’s not pinned beneath him, like she’s not already melting under the weight of his body and his stare and his goddamn voice. “rehabilitated how, exactly?”

he leans in close, lips grazing hers, whispering against her mouth like he’s letting her in on a filthy little secret.

“hands-on correctional tactics,” he murmurs. “very hands-on.”

she gasps, but it's all performance — she’s grinning, breathless, already arching into him, ready to play along. god help anyone who tries to interrupt them now.

even with her arms cuffed to the headboard, she’s got that smug expression, like she’s won something, even like this — arms pinned, wrists cuffed snug, thighs spread just slightly from where he’d slotted himself between them. her hair’s a mess across his pillows, that little smirk playing on her lips like she’s three steps ahead and just letting him catch up for the fun of it. it drives him insane. “smug little brat,” he mutters, brushing his knuckles down her cheek, all faux fondness with a bite underneath.

“you gonna ‘read me my rights with your hand down my pants,’ officer? because you promised me that, and you’re a man of your word,” she eggs him on, a cheeky little smirk on her lips.

he groans, head dipping, lips pressing to her jaw in something that’s halfway between a kiss and a curse. “jesus christ, you’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, teeth just barely grazing her skin.

but still — he’s a man of his word. and he’s nothing if not thorough.

his hand trails down her body with deliberate slowness, brushing over the swell of her hip, fingertips skating just beneath the hem of her shirt. his voice is low and honey-slick as it rumbles against her skin. “you have the right to remain silent,” he breathes, nosing along her jaw toward her ear, “but i know you won’t, not when you’re makin’ those sounds for me.”

her breath stutters, just a little, but that smugness doesn’t falter — it deepens, if anything, her lashes fluttering as she tilts her head back like an offering. “i really don’t think i will, officer.”

his fingers dip lower.

“anything you say,” he murmurs, “can and will be used against you — in the bedroom, the backseat of the impala, the fuckin’ kitchen table if you keep talkin’ like that.”

she lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan, biting down on her bottom lip as he finally slides his hand between her legs. “kitchen table, huh? sexy and domestic. never took you for the multitasking type.”

his eyes flash — something wicked, wild, wrecked — as he glances up at her, hand not stopping its slow torture. “careful,” he warns, voice thick and ragged, “i’ve got a nightstick with your name on it.”

she grins, head tipped back against the headboard, wrists still bound but her mouth free as ever. “that a promise, officer winchester?”

“baby,” he growls, leaning in close, mouth brushing her ear, “that’s a threat.”

“kinky,” she snorts. he grins against her skin, a wicked flash of teeth and breathless amusement. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.” his fingers flex just enough to make her hips twitch, and he presses a kiss to her throat, slow and smug and full of that dangerous charm that always makes her legs go soft. “you want sweet, you ask sam,” he murmurs, voice dipped in honey and hellfire. “you want filthy, you come to me.”

“what makes you think i’d ever go to sam?”

he freezes for half a second, his laughter punching out of him like she’s knocked the wind clean from his lungs. it’s sharp and loud and so full of her it makes his heart lurch and his cock throb all at once.

“jesus christ,” he breathes, forehead falling to her shoulder as he grins, nearly giddy. “you’re such a fuckin’ menace.”

she hums sweetly, smug and unbothered, shifting beneath him just to watch his breath catch again. “you like it.”

“i love it,” he mutters, dragging his teeth along her collarbone. “love when you’re mouthy, love when you’re bratty—hell, i even love when you’re bein’ a fuckin’ pain in the ass.”

he lifts his head, gaze dark and burning, eyes flicking over her like he’s starving and she’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to eat.

“but you’re mine, mal,” he says, voice low, lips barely brushing hers. “you always come to me.”

she doesn't even hesitate. her eyes flash with something wicked and warm, her tone all heat and syrup. “always,” she promises.

and that’s it. that’s all it takes. his mouth is on hers again, brutal and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of her promise between his teeth.

“enough of dean, bring back officer winchester,” she playfully demands.

he pulls back just an inch, lips kiss-swollen, chest heaving like she’s just knocked the air out of him again — but this time, it’s with that tone. all teasing, all trouble, all her.

his brow arches slowly, something wicked curling at the corner of his mouth. and then it shifts, like a curtain drawn—dean gone in a flash, replaced by that dangerously smooth persona that always has her heart racing and her thighs clenching.

“officer winchester,” he says, low and serious, voice like molasses and smoke. he adjusts his weight, straightens his spine, suddenly all authority and sin wrapped in denim and a badge that hangs askew from his belt. he clicks his tongue once, eyes dragging down her body like a man inspecting a crime scene. “i’ll have you know, ma’am,” he says, voice tight and professional, “that impersonating innocence is a very serious offense.”

he leans in close, barely touching her, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“i’m afraid i’m gonna have to conduct a full search. for evidence.” then he pulls back, flashing his badge — the plastic kind, crooked and worn — right in her face, deadly serious. “any objections, miss?”

she shakes her head — slow, tantalizing — before kissing his badge without her eyes leaving his.

his breath hitches just slightly, and he watches her with a kind of predatory focus, the way she moves, the way she kisses the badge — deliberate, slow, making sure to savor every second of it. the intensity of her gaze doesn't slip for a second, like she's daring him, challenging him. he can feel the heat building between them again, thick, relentless.

"you've got a lot of nerve, you know that?" he mutters, voice rough around the edges, fighting the urge to pull her closer, to lose himself in her like he always does. he pulls the badge away, tucking it into his pocket, his fingers brushing over the edge of her chin as he cups her face, forcing her to look at him.

“you think you're so clever, don’t you, little miss perfect?” he teases, just the hint of a smile tugging at his lips, but there’s nothing playful about the way his eyes narrow.

he presses his forehead to hers, breaths coming a little too quick now. “you don’t think i’ll punish you for that, do you?”

“why do you think i did it?” she purrs, lips barely brushing his. he snorts, kissing down her neck, greedy hands rucking up her shirt. “ma’am, you’re awfully — mmm, naughty. don’t bite me, ma’am.” he laughs, trying to keep up the righteous act.

her laugh is warm and wicked against his cheek, hands already tugging at his shirt like she’s trying to strip the law right off him. “then stop putting your throat so close to my mouth, officer,” she breathes, catching his earlobe between her teeth for just a second — a tease, a threat, a promise.

he groans, deep and ragged, the sound vibrating against her skin as his hands slide down her sides, thumbs dragging over her waist like he owns her. “you keep testing me,” he murmurs, biting at the hollow of her throat, “and i’m gonna start adding charges.”

“oh no,” she gasps, mock-sweet. “whatever will i do with all those charges?”

he pulls back just enough to look at her, all dark amusement and barely-restrained want, eyes flickering down to where her shirt’s riding high. “reckless endangerment,” he counts off on his fingers, “assaulting an officer. resisting arrest. public indecency — you wanna keep going?”

she grins, smug and unrepentant, wrists still cuffed but body writhing under his touch. “that depends, officer,” she hums, licking her lips. “how many charges before i get a conjugal visit?”

“about five minutes, maybe six,” he shrugs, pulling his black tee over his head and chucking it over his shoulder. “six minutes?” she echoes, lashes fluttering as she gives him that slow, sultry once-over, gaze dragging down the line of his chest like it’s something sacred. her smirk grows, lazy and wicked. “that’s not very long, officer. hope you’re not all talk.”

“ma’am, i assure you.. hey. stop that,” he laughs, catching her ankle as she nudges at his crotch with her foot.

she giggles, biting her bottom lip like the picture of innocence — save for the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. “just trying to see what i’m working with,” she says sweetly, tilting her head as she flexes her foot again, teasing. “you keep making promises, officer. just want to be sure you can deliver.”

he leans forward, slow and predatory, still gripping her ankle as he presses a kiss to the inside of her knee — hot breath, stubble-rough and lingering. “you really wanna test me?” he murmurs, voice dropping low, his grin taking on that sinful edge that always makes her breath catch.

“i’m not scared of you,” she whispers, eyes daring him. “in fact, i’m kinda hoping you arrest me.”

he lets out a breathy chuckle, dragging her leg over his shoulder and crawling up the bed, all fire and gravity. “oh, sweetheart,” he rasps, mouth brushing her thigh, “you’ve got the right to remain loud.”

“cringe. new dialogue,” she laughs. he groans, dropping his forehead to her thigh with a dramatic sigh. “you wound me, ma’am,” he mutters, voice muffled and full of mock despair. “here i am, baring my soul, offering you peak one-liners, and you call me cringe?”

“you sound like a hotel pay-per-view budget porno,” mal snickers, kicking his ribs gently with her other leg.

he gasps like she’s stabbed him, hand splaying over his heart as he lifts his head with wounded theatrics. “wow. wow. that’s how you talk to a decorated officer of the law?”

“decorated?” she scoffs, laughing as she curls her fingers around the headboard. “your badge says privates investigator, dean.”

he snorts, eyes crinkling as he grins up at her. “and yet you still kissed it.”

“because i’m generous,” she shrugs, stretching like a cat beneath him. “and maybe a little into public service.”

he growls low in his throat, ducking to nip her hipbone. “you better watch it, ma’am. sarcasm’s a punishable offense in this county.”

“yeah?” she hums, breath hitching as his lips skim lower. “what’s the sentence?”

“long. hard. repeated.” his voice is gravel and promise.

“oh, now that’s a line,” she purrs, arching a brow. “see? progress.”

“well, i aim to please, ma’am.” dean snorts, biting her side.

she squirms with a yelp, swatting at him through her giggles. “that is not how you please a lady, officer.”

“ma’am, i disagree,” he says solemnly, grinning like the devil as he does it again — just to hear her laugh, just to see that sparkle in her eyes when she’s writhing and flailing and trying to wriggle away from his playful torment.

“stop it!” she laughs, breathless now, kicking her legs as he pins her hips down with one hand, the other creeping up to tickle her ribs like a man possessed. “you sadistic bastard—”

“you wound me again,” he croons, nose brushing the hem of her shirt as he finally relents, laying his head on her stomach with a soft huff of air. “this is what i get for being a public servant.”

she’s still giggling, fingers threading through his hair almost absently. “you’re a menace,” she murmurs fondly.

he hums against her, smug and content. “yeah, but i’m your menace.”

“unfortunately,” she sighs, but she’s smiling. all teeth and trouble and love so warm it could burn a man alive.

“damn right,” he mumbles, nosing at her side again. “now hush. officer needs his five-minute cuddle break.”

“better not be just five,” she warns, already sinking her fingers a little deeper into his hair.

“depends on if you behave,” he teases, already kissing a trail back up to her mouth. “but knowing you...”

she smirks against his lips. “yeah. good luck with that, officer.”

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