A breakdown of the five specific places Dean Di Laurentis loves to claim you with his palms.
word count : 1.5k — explicit — SMUT minors DNI — spanking / slapping kink — impact play — established relationship — consent is sexy — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was one thing Dean Di Laurentis particularly loved in the bedroom—one vice he was completely, unapologetically obsessed with—and that was giving you the sharp, intoxicating sting of a slap.
He loved the friction of it. He loved the way the sudden, biting heat of his palm against your skin shattered whatever wall you had up, pulling you violently and beautifully into the present moment with him. Dean was a man who commanded space, whether he was dominating the ice or wearing that smug, untouchable grin around campus. But behind closed doors, that confidence turned into something primal, intensely vocal, and deeply tactile.
Before a single hand ever came down, there was always that quiet, heavy conversation—the checked boxes, the established safewords, and the dark, intense look in his eyes when he asked, "You ready for me?" and only when he heard your breathless, enthusiastic "yes" did he let that cocky hockey-star exterior melt away into something demanding. He didn't just want to touch you—he wanted to mark you with your full permission, to hear the breathy, undone sounds you only made for him, and to feel the physical evidence of his possession warming up against his hands.
He had five very distinct, highly choreographed ways of taking exactly what he wanted.
One — your ass
This was his go-to when he wanted to assert total control, usually happening late at night when the rest of the off-campus house was dead quiet. He’d have you on your hands and knees in the center of the mattress, completely exposed to him.
Dean never rushed this. He would stand over you for a moment, his eyes tracking the line of your spine, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips just to watch you shiver. Then, his large, heavy hand would anchor firmly on your waist, keeping you perfectly in place so you couldn't shrink away. When the first slap landed, it was a deep, heavy, echoing thud that seemed to vibrate through the entire room.
The shock of it would make you arch your back, a sharp gasp ripping from your throat as your skin instantly blooming into a deep, burning crimson. Dean loved the rhythm of it. He would use the slaps to drive the pace of the sex—worshiping the way the heavy impact made your ass cheeks roll and jiggle violently with every hit. He’d bring his palm down hard just to watch your flesh shake against his thighs, the visual driving him absolutely crazy as you trembled beneath him. By the time he was done, his wide handprints would be burned into your skin, a visual map of exactly where he’d taken you.
Two — your tits
This was a purely visual, frantic kind of worship that usually happened when the tension between you two had been building all day. He would be sitting up against the headboard, and you would be straddling his lap, taking him in slowly while your hands rested on his broad shoulders for balance.
Even though you technically had control over the depth and the speed, Dean’s hands were never lazy. He would watch you intently, his gaze heavy and darkened as he tracked the flush rising from your throat down to your chest. Suddenly, his right hand would leave your waist, his palm flattening out as he brought it down in a swinging slap right across the plush fullness of your breast.
The sound was entirely different from the ones before—it was wet, heavy, and loud. The sudden, biting sting would make your hips stutter, your spine locking up as you cried out, your chest immediately blooming a vibrant, angry pink under his touch. Dean would smirk, a low, pleased rumble vibrating in his chest as his other hand came around to strike the opposite side. He would alternate his palms, striking the soft skin of your breasts in perfect time with the frantic rhythm of your hips, driving you into a breathless, desperate haze where the burning heat on your chest mixed with the friction between your thighs until you were completely unhinged. Only when he was satisfied with the deep blush did his harsh strokes melt into a heavy, thorough massage, his large hands kneading the flesh to soften the sting while his lips followed behind, soothing the fire with hot, bruising kisses.
Three — your pretty face
This was reserved for the most intense, emotionally raw moments in the bedroom—the times when he needed you completely bare, with nowhere left to hide. It usually happened while you were kneeling between his thighs giving him head, or right in the middle of sex when the pleasure became so overwhelming you tried to close your eyes and turn away.
Dean wouldn’t let you. His large hand would slide up your throat, his fingers framing your jaw and tilting your head up, forcing absolute, unbroken eye contact. He would look down at you, his expression dead serious, completely stripped of his usual cocky playfulness.
Then, his palm would snap against your cheek. It wasn't a heavy, brutal blow meant to cause real harm, but a sharp, delicious slap that sounded like a quick clap echoing in the quiet room. The sudden shock of it would make your ears ring a little, a breathy sob catching in your throat. Before you could even blink, Dean’s thumb would gently, almost clinically, swipe over the hot, flushed mark on your skin. "Look at me," he’d rasp, his voice thick and demanding. "Keep those pretty eyes right on mine." Another slap would follow on the opposite cheek, shattering any lingering thoughts, leaving you utterly helpless and entirely focused on the weight of his gaze.
Four — your pussy
This was an exercise in pure vulnerability and exhibitionism. Dean would drag you off the bed entirely, pulling your shaking body down onto the hardwood floor. He would sit with his back pressed firmly against the wooden frame of the bed, pulling you back between his thighs so your spine was flush against his broad chest. Your legs would be forced wide apart, spreading you completely open in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the opposite wall.
"Look," Dean would whisper against your ear, his hot, uneven breath making you shiver as his heavy arm wrapped securely around your waist, trapping you against him. "Watch what I'm about to do to you."
You would be forced to watch in the reflection as his free hand slid down between your thighs, his fingers damp as they parted your sensitive skin. He would draw his hand back, and instead of one heavy strike, his fingers began to rain down on you in a flurry of small slaps—very, very fast, small taps that peppered your swollen, wet pussy. The sound was a rapid, obscene, pattering rhythm that echoed off the glass. The sheer speed of the tiny taps sent a jolt of pure, blinding electricity straight up your spine. You would try to twist away from the ticklish, hyper-sensitive ache of it, but his grip around your middle would only tighten, holding you perfectly still as his fingers continued their relentless, rapid pacing, reducing you to sobbing his name into the empty room.
Five — his personal favorite (both at the same time)
This was the absolute finale—the position Dean turned to when he wanted to completely break you down and rebuild you. He would lean comfortably against the headboard and drape your body completely over his lap. You would be lying flat on your belly across his thick thighs, your head hanging uselessly off one side, your legs slightly parted over the other.
Dean loved the absolute helplessness of this position. You couldn't see him, you couldn't move away, and you were completely at the mercy of his hands.
He would start slowly, building a relentless, punishing rhythm that you had consented to, but that still made your mind go entirely blank. His heavy palm would come down on your ass first—a deep, thudding strike that left a wide, pale imprint that slowly turned a throbbing crimson. But before the heat could even begin to fade, he would slide his hand lower, his fingers catching your highly sensitive pussy. He would alternate between the two: a heavy, resonant thud on your ass cheek, followed instantly by those rapid, stinging slaps directly to your slit.
The contrast was maddening. The heavy, aching bruise of the spanking on your ass cheeks followed instantly by the blurring, rapid-fire electricity of his fingers stinging your front. Your hands would grip the bedsheets so tightly your knuckles turned white, your hips twitching helplessly against his thighs with every single variation. Dean would take his time, listening to the shift in your cries, building the heat higher and higher until the sting transformed into a heavy, uniform, throbbing ache that colored your entire lower half red. He wouldn't stop until you were weeping openly, completely undone by the overwhelming intensity, right before he finally pulled you up into his arms to hold you close against his chest in the quiet afterglow.
cw: 18+ | no use of y/n, drunk reader, jealousy on both sides, making out, car sex, size kink, dacryphilia, fingering, pantie ripping, stomach bulge, pet names (baby, sweetheart, big girl, dirty girl)
word count: 2.3k
You knew his reputation. Flirty, cunning, alluring. He liked his women the same, whether he found them at bars or diners. He found those teasing women to be the best of the bunch, ones who knew what they wanted and got it they did.
Women who had pep in their step and eyes watching their every move. Women who weren't anything like you. An inexperienced sulky girl who didn't know the first thing about taking care of a man. So you watched as Dean picked up women in every small town you happened to drive through.
Unfortunate to hear the moans and slamming of headboards outside of the motel rooms. You had always wondered what it would be like to sleep with Dean. To make love with him and have him want you just as much as you want him. These feelings ate you up every chance they got, leaving you restless night after night.
Particularly this night, you had gone with said man to a dished out dive bar, serving cheap beer and a dream. You weren't planning on getting wasted but here you were chugging bottle after bottle. Letting the agonizing pang in your chest thud alive as you watch him eye up a cute blonde with a rack across the shitty lit bar.
You forced yourself to not pay attention to the scene folding out in front of you, turning your head to the man sitting two seats down. You usually wouldn't do something like this, throwing yourself onto any breathing person willing to tolerate you. But today was an exception you told yourself. Finding any reason to excuse whatever you were about to do.
In the blink of an eye all you remember was your lips somehow finding the strange mans after a boring conversation. The taste of beer and cigarettes was nauseating, your lips not knowing what to do. Yet you pushed through, simply wanting to feel something, anything.
A strong hand gripped your shoulder, tugging you away from the man. "Hey, it's time to go." Dean's stern voice rang in your ears. Pulling out his wallet gives the bartender the tab. "Lets go" you scoffed at his demands, none the less you let his arms snake around your waist, holding you upright. "I don't wanna go." you muttered.
"You heard the lady, she wants to stay." The man said directly to Dean, mad his entertainment was getting pulled away. Dean looked over at him, a dark glare met the guys eyes, "How about you mind your own damn business."
Without any more and's or but's, his strong arm maneuvered you through the bar. Once outside making your way to the Impala, the street light above illuminated the parking lot. Dean opened the door as usual, guiding you into the cushioned seats. Reaching over you, his cologne flooded your nostrils. You hum in content, letting your drinking eyes follow him. He soon accompanied you slipping into the drivers seat.
The engine roared, driving forward away to the motel. The drive was silent only the low sound of his cassette tapes playing. Your drunk eyes didn't seem to leave the side of his face. Following the curves of his profile, then the way his hand gripped the wheel.
You shimmy towards him, closing the gap between you further. "Are you mad at me?" you whispered as the guilt started to swallow you whole. "Why would I be mad at you, sweetheart?" he questioned, the grip he had on the wheel loosening at your soft voice. He was mentally slapping himself, he hadn't been paying attention to your obvious drinking and let you over do it. But he was just pleased with the fact he was there to take you home before anything he couldn't stop happened.
You hummed, "You looked pretty mad back there, that's why." your fingers fidgeted in your lap, not liking the silence. His eyes shifted from the road to your sulking face. The pout on your lips and the gloss coating your eyes. His free hand cupped your cheek, "I wasn't mad at you, just at that idiot taking advantage of you." You turn to face him, subconsciously leaning into his warm palm.
The confession of him caring about you, wanting to get you away from an evil man like that made your head spin. You were too out of your mind to ever care for what you were about to say. "Dean, can I kiss you?" your smaller hand caressed his larger one.
The sudden question made him swerve into the nearest abandoned lot. He turned towards you, scanning your face if this was just the drinks talking or if somewhere behind it all his sweet girl was wanting him.
His hand came up to caress your face, letting his fingers brush against your cheek. "Where's all this coming from, sweetheart?" the genuine concern on his face saddened you. His eyes looked over you as if you were a puppy who had just been kicked, you didn't want that. You wanted him to see you as a women. As his girl.
"Just want you to want me," Letting the little courage you had took over your body. Your delicate hands ghosted over his, slowly you pulled into him. Lips meeting his, moving rusty against his before he pulled away. That act broke your poor heart into pieces. Were you really that undesirable to him? To have him disgusted at your desperate attempt to make him yours?
He sees the effect his words have on you, seeing the quiver of your bottom lip. He just doesn't understand why now of all time. After years of hunting and being by one another, why now? Drunk and impaired? His green eyes take you in, letting out a sigh "Sweetheart these are drunk words talking."
You whine at the dismission, getting frustrated "No its not its me talking, its stupid me." You don't dare look him in the eyes, too emotional and wasted, knowing you'd end up crying.
He inhaled through his nose, weighing the pros and the cons. He looks at your face, watching the sulky look you wore. He would be lying if he said he hadn't known your girlish feelings for him. He was a man but not that stupid. The way you tucked the hair out of your face when he'd compliment a new outfit you bought. or those times he'd catch your gaze on him when he drove in the rear view mirror.
He wouldn't be fooling anyone or himself if he said hasn't wished for a moment like this to come. Having you look at him with those doe eyes he loves so much, fluttering long lashes. You couldn't bear the silence, soon the tears started traveling down your cheek. Small sniffles caught his attention. "Oh, no don't cry." he softly said wrapping his arm around you, bringing you in closer to him.
His lips met the crown of your head, feeling your body shift with every quiet sob you released. Your arms snaked around his waist, grounding yourself clinging to his jacket. Through hiccups you spoke, "J-just want you to want me.." your grip tightened drawing your knuckles white, "Like those girls you like so much."
The confession left your lips before you could process it fully. Never once would you have admitted this sober. Not even now would you look up at him if you wanted to. Dean's eyes whiddened just a tab, then he huffed as a smirk grew on his face.
Hearing the quiet laugh, you whined; wanting to disappear completely. He moves you gently away from him, opening the gap wanting to see you. He looks at you for a moment: eyes bloodshot and glossy, nose running, lips swollen from your biting habit. "Now when did I say I didn't want you."
Looking up at him in disbelief, "what?" he chuckled at the puzzled look on your face.
"You heard me," His hands traced little patterns on your bare thighs, causing your mind to wonder. "I want you, baby. I've been wanting you."
Your trembling fingers dragged up his clothed chest stopping when you reached his neck, wrapping your arms fully around him while you lifted yourself onto his lap. Your tears were gone now, replayed with desire. Your lips pressed onto his: messy and unsycronized. Wanting nothing more than to taste him all for yourself.
Teeth clashed against each other, saliva mixed together with the sounds of your whines and kisses. Your fingers racked through his short hair, pushing him onto you. In between kisses your soft voice whispered against his lips, "Need you so bad dean.." slowly you began shifting in his lap.
He groaned at the friction, hands digging into your hips helping guide the shallow runts. "Sweet girl just needed me?" nodding your face scrunched at the movement. You moved back to messy kissing him enjoying the string of spit that connected you two once you pulled away to catch your breath. The taste of whiskey not bothering you as much as it would have been sober.
His hands explored your lower body, pushing the skirt you had on to your hips showcasing the cute polkadot panties you adorned. Slick socked through the cotton, leaving nothing to his imagination. His indeck finger teased your clothed cunt, watching as your body reacted to the faintest touch.
"Is this from me or that guy at the bar, hm?" his lips twitched, trying not to smirk at your hopeless face. "F-from you, only you.", stuttering the words that fell out your lips in a rush. A pleased hum left his lips, going back to toying with the fabric. Moments after his fingers pushed it aside, making skin to skin contact. The pads of his fingers circled your sensitive bud slow, applying just enough pressure to please you but have you craving more.
Your hips bucked onto his hand wanting more than what he was giving you. "Please." you whimpered, knowing exactly what you needed. His eyes shifted up to you, "Please what? Use your big girl words." as he said this he teased your entrance, relishing in the way your lashes fluttered at the contact. "want your fingers in me, p-please-", gasping you felt his middle and ring finger push into you.
A weak moan slipped past your lips, sounding like music to his ears. His pace quickened wanting to bring you to the brink of release only for when your breath started becoming uneven, he pulled back. Chuckling when you whine at the loss of feeling full. "No baby, you're not gonna finish on my fingers," Roughly he halted you up, going to unbuckle his jeans. When the button came done, he pushed out his dick from its restraints. After went his jacket and shirt, feeling the heat radiating from his body.
You watched from above seeing its length, you gulped. Dean's fingers wrapped around your underwear in one big movement the sound of them ripping filled the car. "Dean!" you huffed, caught completely off guard. "Yeah, yeah I'll get you a new pair after." Dismissing you completely, he aggressively grabbed your waist. The harsh grasp is sure to leave marks if he keeps it up.
Aligning you two together, he teased your hole drawing circled around it. Without warning he slams you onto him, bottoming out. Struggling to breath, a broken moan escaped past your throat. Your nails dug into his biceps grounding yourself from crumbling. If you felt full with just his fingers inside you, you sure were feeling stuffed to the brim.
"Kissing up on some bum all because you wanted my attention?", your walls clutch around him, quite the confession. Feeling betrayed by your own body you whined shifting your body, asking him to move. "Could have just asked baby, would have fucked you right there for him to watch." the mocking tone didn't do anything but turn you on more.
You felt utterly pathetic being called out on your actions from earlier. It was entirely true though, there was no point in denying it now; not when caught red handed. Pulling you up Dean watches the bulge disappear from within you. To his amusement he plops you down, admiring its reappearance.
The sloppy pats and moans filled the enclosed space, sounding so sinful but feeling so heavenly. Your back arches with each thrust, feeling the burn in your thighs. Your smaller hands found balance on his knees, tits bouncing in his face. "That's right, sweetheart put on a show for me, just for me." He roughly yanked your head towards his, capturing your lips. It was messy once again; yearning and craving.
Your hips falter, tired. Dean notices so he takes over, lifting you up as his hips snap up into you. Over, and over again; thrust after thrust. You play with your nipples, twisting and pulling. He groans with each impact, feeling your pussy wrap around him all warm. Your hand snacks down your body, finding your clit. Rubbing tight circles you runt your hips chasing your release.
Feeling the familiar coil tighten, so so close you started begging. "p-please dean, I'm gonna c-cum." His hips snap harder, wanting to chase his end soon. "Yeah dirty girl, cum all over my dick." He smirks feeling your pussy tightens around him, hearing the filthy moans spill from your swollen, abused lips. Close behind he kisses you again masking the low, rough grunts he makes. His harsh drive falters as he paints your walls with his release.
He pulls away with drool covering your chin. It was a nasty, filthy even but he found you so sexy in this state. Fucked out beyond repare. His fingers rack through your locks, detaingling. You shift from his lap lifting off him, just to feel the sticky residue leak past your pussy. You complain with a low whine when you feel his fingers push it back into you.
"Don't think so baby, need you to remember who you belong to."
a/n: ugh I loved writing this even tho it look forever lol
$ log - ex-bf!dean winchester broke up with you because hunting together was killing him slower than anything supernatural could. now imagine his reaction when he finds out you've become the very thing he tried to protect you from.
$ warn --sfw --angst(heavy) --hunter!gn!reader --guilt-ridden!dean
$ wc -w 1.3k
$ cd masterlist / dean-winchester
# note = unfortunate poll loser!
# fic inspo = songlink. thinking of a place — the war on drugs.
The worst part about Dean breaking up with you was not the excuse — some hand-wavy bullshit about Winchesters, the open road, and how settling down gets people killed. The worst part was that he almost sold it.
He would have, too, had he not left the promise ring on.
EX-BF!DEAN who ended things under the guise of "a true Winchester never settles down" when really his protectiveness had deepened into something that scared even him.
You were efficient, capable, frankly better at the job than half the hunters in his circle, yet every time you returned with so much as a scratch, his chest caved in a little more.
Long before you actually took a hit, he was already flinching, reading the trajectory of a fight and visualising every horrific version where you failed to walk away.
None of it was rational, a fact he knew all too well, which only compounded the issue because no amount of logic could dislodge the sick dread pooling in his gut whenever you loaded your shotgun.
Driven by desperation, he chose the most Winchester response available and lost you on purpose — practising the breakup in the bathroom mirror at four in the morning, barely managing to get through the routine without cracking.
EX-BF!DEAN who still wears the promise ring.
He has not taken it off once — not for hunts, not for showers, nor when Sam notices it and gives him that look blended of equal parts pity and frustration.
On his worst nights, he rubs the silver band raw, his thumb tracing the metal like a rosary while replaying your voice promising him the apple pie life — "picket fences n' all that" — as though you genuinely believed he deserved it.
What wrecks him most is that you actually meant it; rather than performing hope for his benefit, you truly envisioned that future, leaving him torn between wanting to laugh or put his fist straight through a wall.
EX-BF!DEAN who keeps hearing whispers in hunter circles about some solo runner obliterating cases left and right.
This unknown force operates with no partner, no hesitation, and no fear of the end of the line — ruthless, efficient, simply getting the job done.
Other hunters bring up the name at bars and over phone lines like folklore in the making, while Dean nods along, buying the next round because the hunting world could genuinely use someone like that.
Embarrassingly enough, he fails to connect the dots for a long time.
EX-BF!DEAN who feels physically sick the moment he finds out it's you.
Not figuratively — he actually has to excuse himself from a diner table when another hunter drops the specific detail that finally clicks everything into place.
You are the hunter everyone has been talking about: tearing through fangs, limbs, and wings as though something hollowed you out and filled the remaining space with teeth — a solo runner with a rising reputation and a rapidly shrinking regard for your own life.
Sam finds him outside, braced against the Impala with his head pinned between his knees, wisely choosing to remain silent for once.
EX-BF!DEAN who recognises exactly what you're doing because he wrote the playbook.
The mechanics are painfully familiar — recklessness disguised as efficiency, the way throwing yourself into hunt after hunt feels productive when it is merely a controlled free-fall.
Hunters who fall in love get a brief, blinding warmth sweet enough to render the whole nightmare bearable, a warmth he ripped from you with both hands out of sheer fear masquerading as nobility.
Running the math repeatedly yields the exact same agonising result: in his attempt to protect you, he transformed you into something that does not bother protecting itself.
EX-BF!DEAN who spots you slumped against a graveyard headstone at two in the morning, drenched in blood that's mostly not yours, but enough of it is.
The creature you hunted lies in pieces across the cemetery, left unsalted because you dropped where you stood the moment the fight ended.
As you lie out cold from sheer exhaustion, he crouches beside you, using a flask of water and his own flannel to clean what he can off your face and arms, his hands trembling uncontrollably while leaving you behind never even crosses his mind.
Finishing the salt and burn himself, he returns to find you haven't moved an inch, the silver ring catching the moonlight while he bundles you and your gear into the backseat of the Impala like cargo he would kill to keep.
EX-BF!DEAN who holds you so carefully transferring you from the car that his arms ache from the restraint.
He memorises the weight of you against his chest and the way your head lolls against his shoulder, his jaw clenched so hard it hurts while every instinct in his body screams to pull you in tighter and never let go.
You smell of iron, graveyard dirt, and underneath it all, faintly of yourself — a combination that nearly buckles his knees right there in the car park.
EX-BF!DEAN who has to pull over on the highway shoulder twenty minutes later because the grief finally breaches the wall.
Shifting the Impala into park, he sits for a full thirty seconds attempting to white-knuckle his way through it before accepting he can't, prompting him to walk far enough into the tree line off the I-90 that you won't hear him.
Bent over with his hands on his knees in some anonymous stretch of forest, he sobs until his ribs ache and his throat feels stripped raw.
Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he gets back in the car and checks the rearview mirror to ensure you are still asleep, relieved that he didn't wake you with his breakdown.
EX-BF!DEAN who checks you into a motel three stars above anywhere he'd book for himself.
Booking the comfiest suite available, he pays cash without blinking at the price.
Laying you on the bed like you are made of something fragile, he arranges the pillows so you are genuinely comfortable.
On the bedside table, he lines up water, food, and first aid in the exact order you always kept your kit — remembering every detail.
Spending a meticulous hour cleaning, loading, and organising your equipment, he tops off the ammo, sharpens the blades, and secures the weapons without rushing a single second of it.
EX-BF!DEAN who doesn't leave a single trace of himself in that room.
He wipes down everything he touched and takes his flannel back, despite a deep desire to leave it draped over you.
His hands shake so violently against the urge to kiss your forehead that he shoves them deep into his jacket pockets and physically backs away from the bed.
Surprisingly, you still sleep like you're somewhere safe — face slack, breathing even, jaw relaxed — a sight that quietly wrecks him given the fierce reputation you've built.
He feels an odd, painful pride that you've made a name for yourself as a sharp, brutal hunter nobody dares to cross; he simply wishes your independence hadn't cost you the softness he used to love.
EX-BF!DEAN who sleeps in the Impala in the car park with his seat reclined just enough and his gaze locked on your window.
His sleep remains light — just enough to stop his body from shaking, just enough for quiet tears to track down his face uninterrupted, and just enough to snap fully alert if anything comes within thirty feet of your door.
He leaves the moment the sun cracks the horizon, pulling out of the lot before the receptionist even starts their shift, his eyes fixed on the road as the silver ring catches the first light against the steering wheel, never looking back because he knows if he does, he'll turn straight around.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu @sb-bitch @feralzombae
Summary: When an injured Dean Winchester shows up at your door, caring for him reignites the feelings you’ve hidden for years. But one forbidden kiss leaves you both torn between guilt, fear and wanting more.
DISCLAIMER: Everything is purely fiction. I do not intend to attack or hurt anyone. The story is, of course, entirely made up and meant for entertainment purposes.
Dean’s face changed the second he heard Sam’s voice. All the heat and hunger collapsing into something frantic, guilty and wrecked. For a heartbeat, he just stared at you with his hands still on your waist and his chest heaving like he’d run a mile.
Then he let out a harsh, ragged breath and gently slid you off his lap.
"Shit”, he whispered with his voice shaking.
You tried not to shiver at the loss of him.
Dean raked a hand through his hair. His face was flushed and his mouth still red from your kisses. He stood too fast and had to pause, one hand hovering awkwardly in front of his jeans, trying to hide the obvious and failing miserably.
“Son of a—”, he muttered under his breath, shifting his hips as if that would help.
Another ring and Sam’s impatient voice: “Dean! Dude, I saw the Impala, c’mon! I´m freezing my ass off out here!”.
You hugged your knees to your chest, heart in your throat. You watched as Dean took another breath. His jaw was clenched, every muscle in his body screaming tension. He looked at you with guilt and longing and panic flickering behind his eyes.
Finally, he gritted his teeth, turned for the door, and hesitated just long enough to adjust himself with one hand sneaking low.
The bell rang again, longer this time. Dean barked over his shoulder “Coming, Sam! Geez, give me a damn sec!”.
He fumbled with the lock, hand still trembling, then opened the door a crack.
Sam stood on the porch in a soaked jacket and hair that was dripping in his eyes. He peered in, smiling, oblivious. “Took you long enough. You look like crap, man—”.
Dean grunted, avoiding his gaze. “Long night. C’mon, get inside”.
Sam stepped in, shaking off his boots. He glanced around and smiled as he spotted you curled up on the couch. “Hey! Good to see you”, he said, dropping his duffel by the doo, befire he crossed the room and pulled you up off the couch into one of those bear hugs that only Sam Winchester could give. He smelled like rain and road salt, and he squeezed you a little tighter than he probably meant to.
You let out a breathy laugh, patting his back. “Easy, Sasquatch. Gonna break me”.
He let you go, grinning. “Sorry. It’s just been… way too long”. He looked you over, concern flickering in his eyes. “You doing okay?”.
You nodded, managing a half-smile. “Yeah. I mean, as okay as anyone gets around here”.
Sam’s gaze flicked to the kitchen, where Dean was noisily rummaging for another beer, still studiously avoiding the living room. Sam glanced back at you, lowering his voice a little.
“When did Dean get here?”.
You swallowed, glancing at the wall that separated you from Dean. “Last night. He just… showed up out of nowhere”.
Sam’s brows furrowed with worry. “Was he… okay?”.
You hesitated, not sure how much to say. “He was in rough shape. Beat up pretty bad. I had to patch him up”. You dropped your voice even lower. “Bobby’s still out with Jodie. I didn’t want to bug them unless it got worse”.
Sam nodded, clearly concerned but not surprised. “That tracks. He’s been shutting me out for weeks”. He paused, worry flickering in his eyes. “Was it a hunt? Did he say?”.
You kept your voice low. “He wouldn’t say much. I think it went bad”.
Sam closed his eyes for a moment, sighing heavy. “Yeah… Hell did a number on him”. He shook his head, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Messed with his head. He’s not the same since he came back”.
You were biting your lip in worry, because the words hit harder than he knew. You kept seeing Dean’s face, wrecked and hungry, guilt flashing in his eyes. His hands on your skin. The taste of him on your lips.
And now, all you could wonder was if it was really you he wanted at all. Or if you were just the closest thing he could grab, drowning and desperate for anything that felt alive.
Was that all it was? Dean’s pain, looking for a place to go?
Sam didn’t notice your silence, or maybe he did and chose to let it sit. He just kept rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “He pushed me away. Said he needed space. But I don’t think he should be alone”.
You nodded, because you were not trusting yourself to answer.
Sam gave you a gentle but searching look. “You’ll let me know if it gets worse? Or if he needs—”.
“Yeah”, you interrupted, voice just a little shaky. “I promise”.
He nodded, like he believed you, but his eyes lingered a beat longer, maybe wondering if you needed help, too. You managed a tired smile, mumbling something about needing some sleep and slipped away before he could say anything more.
Upstairs, in the safety of the dim hall, you leaned your forehead against the wall and let yourself breathe. You still tasted Dean’s kiss. Still felt the shape of his hands on your body, the ragged want in his voice, the way you’d melted for him.
And you hated that a part of you, no matter how small, was afraid it didn’t mean anything real. That you were just an anchor in a storm, and when he was steady again, he’d let you go.
You didn’t want to be just a lifeline.
You wanted to be wanted.
For a long moment, you just stood there, caught between guilt and hope, the ache of wanting more than you were allowed to ask for.
Flashback
It was late spring, and Dean was home between hunts. Seventeen, impossibly cool in faded jeans and a Metallica shirt, like he didn’t even have to try.
You’d been his shadow since morning. You followed him everywhere, fetched tools before he could ask for them and tried to copy the way he leaned beneath the hood of the car. You even drank your soda the way he did—one-handed, pinky sticking out slightly—just to see if he’d notice.
“Gimme the socket wrench, kid”, he called without looking up.
You already had it waiting in your hand.
Dean glanced over, grinned, and took it from you before ruffling your hair with the kind of warm, absent affection that made your heart pound hard enough that you were sure he had to hear it.
“Not bad”, he said. “You ever think about being a mechanic?”.
You shrugged, suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “Maybe. If I get to work with you”.
He laughed, bright and easy.
“Stick with me, you’ll learn all my secrets. Bobby says I’m the best damn driver in Sioux Falls”.
You beamed, heat rushing into your cheeks. You were just a kid, but that didn’t stop the butterflies. Dean was safe and wild all at once, and somehow he always knew exactly what to say to make you feel big instead of small.
Later that afternoon, you sat on the porch steps, picking at blades of grass while Dean sang quietly along to some Zeppelin song playing on the radio. Sunlight caught in his hair, turning the edges gold, and for one ridiculous second, you wanted to tell him he looked like one of the heroes from the stories Bobby used to read you when you were little.
But you didn’t. Because you were twelve, and he was nineteen, and he called you kid and squirt and trouble.
And if your heart fluttered whenever he smiled at you, well— You told yourself it was only because he was Dean.
He wiped the grease from his hands onto his jeans, then tossed you a wink over his shoulder as he headed inside for lunch.
“C’mon, Y/N! Food’s up. Last one to the table does dishes!”.
You bolted after him, barefoot and grinning, desperate to keep up, to stay close, to remain in his orbit for just a little longer.
Dean never noticed the way you watched him. He just kept you close. Like a little sister. Like a shadow he never wanted to lose.
You didn’t know what you wanted yet. Not really. You only knew that wherever Dean was, that was where you wanted to be.
Sunlight slanted across the cluttered kitchen table. No Sam this time; he was off at some summer camp. It was just you, Dean, and Bobby.
Dean dropped into the chair beside you, your elbows bumping as you both reached for a plate. He only grinned and nudged you gently with his shoulder.
Bobby loaded up his own plate before eyeing the two of you with mock suspicion.
“You gonna eat real food this time, or just potato chips and pie?”.
You copied Dean without even thinking about it, fork in your right hand, a generous scoop of mashed potatoes, carefully avoiding the pile of green beans Bobby tried to send your way. Dean didn’t notice. He was too busy drowning his roast in gravy. Bobby did. He hid a smirk behind his mug.
Dean took a bite, then flashed you a proud grin. “That’s how you do it, kid. Meat and potatoes. All you need”.
You nodded solemnly and copied his exact bite, only for your nose to wrinkle when your eyes landed on the green beans again.
This time, Dean caught it. He leaned closer, lowering his voice as though he were about to let you in on classified information. “Just push ’em under the mashed potatoes”, he whispered out of the side of his mouth. “Works every time”.
Your face lit up and you did exactly that.
Bobby shook his head, but there was no real irritation in his voice. “Bad habits, Winchester. She’ll be following you right into trouble”.
Dean glanced over at you and winked. "She already does”.
Something squeezed pleasantly in your chest, and you ducked your head, suddenly very interested in your food. Your foot bumped his beneath the table—accidentally, maybe a little on purpose—and Dean nudged you right back without even looking.
It was easy with him. That effortless kind of affection that made it feel like you belonged right there beside him, no matter how small you sometimes felt.
-
You woke in the night to the sound of rain and stared at the ceiling. Down the hall, you could hear Sam’s gentle, even snore. Somewhere downstairs, a floorboard groaned. You pulled on a sweater, drifted down the hall and peered out the kitchen window.
Dean was outside, little more than a dark shape on the porch, barely visible through the storm.
You watched him for a moment. His shoulders were hunched, his hands buried deep in his pockets as the rain blew sideways beneath the awning, catching in his hair and along the edges of his jacket. He was staring out into the rain like he was waiting for something to crawl out of the shadows and drag him under.
He couldn't stop replaying that night. Your lips against his. The closeness between you. The terrifying ease with which he'd forgotten every reason he was supposed to pull away.
He'd wanted it. That was the part he couldn't forgive himself for.
You were Bobby's daughter. You'd spent years trailing after him, his shadow, someone he'd always thought of as family. Someone he was supposed to protect.
Except none of it felt simple anymore. Not after he'd kissed you back.
Dean exhaled shakily and dragged a hand over his mouth. He should go inside. Pretend it hadn't happened. Pretend he could shove the whole thing into one of those locked rooms in his head and never look at it again.
But his feet wouldn't move, because pretending wouldn't change what he'd done. And it sure as hell wouldn't change the fact that some part of him still wanted to turn around.
Behind him, the kitchen light flicked on. Your silhouette appeared in the window. You stood on the other side of the glass, watching him through the rain. You didn't open the door. Didn't call his name. The old screen door remained between you, flimsy and useless and somehow feeling like the only boundary either of you had left.
When Dean finally glanced back, something twisted painfully in his chest.
Part of him wanted you to come outside. Wanted to pull you close, feel your warmth against him, and pretend for five damn minutes that the world might let him keep something simply because he wanted it.
The other part of him, the part that remembered promises, responsibility, all the lines he'd spent years telling himself he would never cross, wanted to stand in that rain until it washed the thought out of him completely.
Then Dean turned away. His shoulders settled into that stubborn, carved-from-stone posture you knew too well.
You understood. He didn't want you out there. So you let the curtain slip from your fingers. Shame burned through your chest, hot and nauseating as you stepped away from the window.
Maybe Dean had really simply been alone for too long. Maybe the nightmares, the injuries, the things Hell had left buried beneath his skin had finally worn him thin enough that he'd reached for the first bit of warmth he could find. Maybe he'd needed something, anything, to remind himself he was still alive.
And you'd been foolish enough to think it had meant something more.
You bit your lip until it hurt.
Had you made everything worse? Had you pushed when you should have stopped? Had you become one more thing Dean had to carry?
The thought made your stomach twist.
You hated yourself a little for wanting him. Hated the small, stubborn piece of hope inside you that still wanted him to turn around, walk back through that door, and tell you that you hadn't imagined it. That he wanted you too.
But more than anything, you hated the idea that you'd made his life harder. Dean already carried too much. He already looked like a man trying not to drown. You couldn't stand the thought of being another weight tied around his ankle.
So you went upstairs. You crawled into bed and curled tightly beneath the covers, trying to chase away a cold that had nothing to do with the weather.
Maybe morning would make things clearer. Maybe daylight would put everything back where it belonged. Maybe the two of you would find your way back to whatever safe had been before this—or at least become good enough at pretending.
-
You barely slept. For hours, you lay staring at the ceiling, rehearsing what you would say when you finally saw Dean.
You'd tell him it was okay. You'd tell him you understood. You'd promise to keep it between the two of you, to never mention it again if that was what he wanted. You'd find some way to make it easier for him. Or at least… less unbearable. You would forget. That was what you told yourself, anyway.
You'd pretend it had never happened. Let Dean go back to being what he'd always been to you—impossible, untouchable, safely out of reach.
He deserved that. He deserved to breathe without you making everything heavier, without your feelings and your mistakes becoming one more thing he had to carry.
By morning, your eyes burned from exhaustion.
You finally dragged yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water over your face until the shock of it made you gasp. You shoved your hair into something that almost passed for presentable and stared at yourself in the mirror for a second longer than necessary.
You looked terrible and your heart wouldn't stop pounding.
Still, you made yourself leave the room. You padded quietly down the hallway, already imagining Dean in the kitchen. He'd be hunched over a mug of coffee, probably pretending to read the newspaper like nothing had happened. Maybe he'd glance up when you walked in. Maybe there'd be an awkward second where neither of you knew what to say. And then you'd fix it. You'd make sure he knew he didn't have to worry.
But when you reached the kitchen, Dean wasn't there. Bobby and Sam sat at the table instead, their voices low beneath the soft clink of plates and silverware. Bobby looked tired, but relieved to be home.
You stopped in the doorway and your stomach went cold.
Bobby looked up first, his face breaking into a crooked, affectionate smile. “Mornin’, kid. Didn’t expect you up this early”.
Sam grinned, his mood lighter now that Bobby was back. “Hey. You want eggs? Bobby made a mountain”.
You hovered in the doorway, searching the room with your eyes and trying not to sound desperate. “Where’s Dean?”.
Bobby and Sam both paused. Bobby shot Sam a look, then turned back to you, his voice gentler. “He left before sunrise. Said he needed to hit the road. Didn’t say much else”.
You felt the words like a punch to the chest. Gone. Just like that. Not a word. Not a note. Not even a good-bye.
Sam watched your face, concern flickering. “He didn’t say where. Just packed up and went. You know Dean… he gets itchy when he’s stuck too long in one place”.
You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. That sounds like him”.
Bobby eyed you a little longer, like he wanted to ask what he was missing, but he didn’t. Just poured another mug of coffee and pushed it your way.
You tried to smile, tried to act like it didn’t matter, tried to pretend you weren’t already breaking inside. You sat at the table, picking at your eggs, pretending not to notice the empty chair, pretending you could just erase the last twenty-four hours and start again.
But you couldn’t forget.
-
A few weeks passed and you tried not to check your phone every night. Tried not to glance at the screen whenever it lit up, hoping for his name. A text. A call. Anything that might mean Dean was somewhere out there thinking about you too.
You told yourself you were giving him space. That was what he needed. What he deserved. But knowing that didn't make the silence hurt any less.
Every day that passed without a word from him left behind a dull little ache, settling somewhere beneath your ribs and refusing to leave.
Flashback
You were fourteen that summer, caught in that awkward, hopeful space between girl and woman. Your body was changing faster than you could keep up with. Your chest had grown the past few weeks, and every time you wore your usual shirts you felt exposed.
You’d finally saved enough for a real bra, not just a sports top. You’d hidden it away in a little bag, pink and soft and mortifying, crammed deep in your backpack where nobody could possibly find it.
Except Dean was in the kitchen that afternoon, leaning against the counter, shoving half a cookie in his mouth and looking way too pleased with himself for someone who’d just stolen the last of Bobby’s stash.
You tried to sneak through, clutching your bag, cheeks already burning.
Dean clocked you immediately. He grinned, his eyes glinting with mischief as he swallowed. “What’s with the sneaky face, Y/N? You got beer in there?”.
You clutched the bag tighter, trying to keep your cool. “It’s nothing. Just laundry”.
He pushed off the counter, moving toward you with the swagger of someone who’d never once been embarrassed in his life. “Sure it is. Lemme see”.
“Dean, no—”, you yelped, but he was faster, long arms and quick reflexes on his side. He snatched the bag from your grip, holding it high out of reach as you jumped for it, mortified.
“Whatcha got, huh?”, he teased, flipping the bag open, clearly expecting to really find a beer or maybe candy.
Instead, his eyes landed on pink fabric and a tangle of straps.
He went silent. You watched his brain stutter, mouth open in horror.
You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. “Dean, give it back!”.
He closed the bag in a flash, cheeks turning red for the first time you could ever remember.
“Oh. Oh—uh. Shit. Sorry, I—uh—here”. He shoved it back into your hands, suddenly unable to meet your eyes, ears turning pink. “Didn’t know it was, uh, girl stuff”.
You snatched the bag back and clutched it to your chest, your face burning. “It’s not— It’s just a—”. You couldn’t even finish the sentence.
Dean cleared his throat and immediately looked anywhere but at you. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—uh. Sorry”.
You rolled your eyes, still pink to the roots. “It´s fine, but… it’s just…”. You pulled the bra halfway out of the bag and gestured helplessly at the straps. “These stupid things. They’re either way too long or way too short. I’ve tried fixing them, like, a hundred times”.
Dean blinked. Then he stared at the straps with the same suspicious concentration he usually reserved for unfamiliar engine parts. “Those little plastic things move, right?”.
“Yes, Dean”.
“Okay. Just checking”.
Despite yourself, you laughed. Dean shoved his hands into his pockets, suddenly looking far less like the cocky Winchester you knew and much more like somebody who desperately wished Sam were here to deal with this instead.
“I mean… how complicated can straps be?”.
You gave him a flat look.
Dean immediately grimaced. “Yeah, okay. Dumb question”.
“I watched a commercial and still couldn’t figure it out”.
“That’s because commercials lie”.
You snorted.
For a moment, Dean studied the problem from a safe distance before reluctantly holding out his hand. “Give it here”.
You raised an eyebrow.
“The bra”, he clarified quickly. “Not while you’re wearing it. Obviously. Just let me see the straps”.
You handed it over and Dean held it at arm’s length like someone had passed him a suspicious piece of evidence.
“Okay”, he muttered. “This looks basically like the adjuster on a backpack”.
“It is not a backpack”.
“I know that”.
“You’re holding it like one”.
“Do you want help or not?”.
You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.
Dean fiddled with one of the sliders, pulling the fabric through carefully.
“So… this way makes it shorter”.
“I think”.
“You think?”.
“I told you I don’t know!”.
“Fantastic. Blind leading the blind”.
A few seconds later, Dean handed it back with an expression of cautious triumph.
“There. Try that”.
You disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. A minute later, your frustrated groan carried into the hallway. “Dean!”.
“What?”.
“They’re worse!”.
There was a pause before you heard a very offended: “No way”.
“They’re practically falling off!”.
“I followed the system!”.
“What system?”.
Another pause.
“My system”.
You cracked the bathroom door open just enough to stick your head through.
“Your system sucks”.
Dean pointed accusingly at the door. “Hey, I fix cars, not underwear”.
“Can you try again?”.
He sighed dramatically and held out his hand.
You slipped one arm through the doorway and passed the bra back to him without opening the door any farther.
“Okay”, Dean muttered. “Attempt number two”.
He adjusted the straps again while you waited behind the closed door.
“Try now”.
You took it back and another minute passed.
“Oh!”.
Dean straightened outside.
“Oh good or oh bad?”.
“Good. I think”.
You stepped out of the bathroom wearing the bra beneath a loose shirt, twisting awkwardly as you tried to see your own back in the mirror. “Dean?”.
He looked up from where he’d been waiting in the hallway. “What?”.
“Can you just check if the straps are sitting right? I can’t tell if they’re digging into my shoulders”.
Dean hesitated for half a second, then shrugged.
“Yeah. Turn around”.
You turned your back to him and pulled your hair over one shoulder. The back of your shirt hung low enough that the straps were visible across your shoulders, but everything else was covered.
Dean leaned closer, squinting at them,
“Okay… left one looks fine”.
“And the other?”.
He hooked one finger beneath the edge of the strap near your shoulder and immediately frowned.
“Yeah, that one’s way tighter”.
“I knew it”.
“Hold still”. He tugged gently at the little adjuster through the open back of your shirt, trying to loosen it without making you take everything off again. “That better?”.
You rolled your shoulder experimentally. “A little”.
Dean adjusted it once more. “There?”.
“Yeah. Perfect”.
And naturally, that was the exact moment Bobby came around the corner.
He stopped.
Dean was standing directly behind you, one hand near your shoulder, fiddling with a bra strap visible through the open back of your shirt.
Bobby stared. Dean looked at Bobby. You looked over your shoulder.
And nobody said anything for one painfully long second.
Then Bobby's eyes narrowed.
“Dean”.
Dean immediately stepped back and lifted both hands.
“Not what it looks like”.
Bobby's expression somehow got worse.
Dean grimaced. “Yeah, okay, terrible choice of words”.
You turned around quickly. “Dad, he was fixing the strap”.
Bobby looked between you.
“The strap”.
“Yes. It was cutting into my shoulder”, you explained. “I couldn’t reach the adjuster properly”.
Dean pointed toward your shoulder as though presenting evidence in court.
“One was tighter than the other”.
Bobby stared at him and Dean slowly lowered his hand.
“I'm gonna stop talking now”.
“That’d be smart”.
You groaned. “Dad”.
Bobby sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, some of the alarm finally leaving his expression and Dean visibly relaxed.
“Maybe next time you find yourself standing behind my daughter with your hands anywhere near her bra, take about three seconds to think about how that's gonna look when somebody walks around the corner”.
Dean glanced at you, then back at Bobby.
“Yes Sir”.
Bobby shook his head and started down the hallway.
“Both of you are gonna put me in an early grave”.
Dean waited until Bobby was several steps away before muttering, “For the record, the strap was definitely too tight”.
Without turning around, Bobby called back “Winchester”.
Dean shut his mouth and you bit down on a laugh.
-
The days blurred together for Dean. Case after case, motel after motel, rain-slicked highways and truck-stop coffee cooling in his hands. He’d let himself slide right back into old habits, hunting down anything with teeth and a heartbeat, filling the empty hours with work and whiskey and one-night stands that never quite touched the sides.
Woman after woman, name after name. The more he tried to lose himself in the taste of someone new, the more your memory stuck to him like salt on skin. Sometimes it was in the softness of a stranger’s hair, sometimes in the way a laugh echoed through a bar. Always, always it was your face. Smiling, pink-cheeked and looking up at him like he was worth saving.
He hated himself for it.
Hated how good you had felt in his hands, how every touch, even the innocent ones, had burned themselves into his palms. He remembered the shiver of your skin, the way your breath had hitched when he leaned close. He remembered how you’d tasted, sweet and desperate and so much more than all the rough distractions he’d found in parking lots and hotel rooms since.
Nothing worked. Nothing washed you out of him.
Sometimes he wondered if he'd broken you. If whatever had happened that night on Bobby's couch had hollowed something out inside you the same way it had him.
The thought usually came late, when there was too much whiskey in his blood and not enough noise in the room to drown himself out.
Other nights were worse.
Those were the nights when the darkness closed in and Hell came crawling back beneath his skin, when sleep meant screaming and waking wasn't much better.
And on those nights, all Dean could think about was you.
How safe he'd felt with you there. How, for once, breathing hadn't seemed so damn hard. How easy it had been to let himself stop fighting for a minute and simply want something. Want you.
He'd sworn he would stay away. For your sake as much as his own. He told himself you deserved better than whatever wreckage he'd brought back from Hell. Told himself Bobby would skin him alive if he ever found out. Told himself that eventually, if he stayed gone long enough, you'd be happier without him haunting the edges of your life.
It sounded reasonable. Almost noble, if he didn't think about it too hard.
But Dean had never been very good at running from the things that mattered.
And he couldn't outrun you. Not really. Not for long.
Because every time his phone buzzed against the nightstand, his hand moved before he could stop it. And every single time, some stupid, desperate part of him hoped it would be you.
Flashback
You were sixteen, barefoot on the porch in cut-off shorts and an short shirt, sprawled across the steps with a book in your lap and your hair tangled from the wind. Sam was here for a weekend, arguing with Bobby in the kitchen. Dean was half-listening, half-watching you through the open screen door, pretending to be more interested in the carburetor on the table than in the way you tucked your legs under yourself.
He didn’t mean to stare. He didn’t mean to notice, not like that. You’d always been Bobby’s girl, his tagalong. But that day, your laugh was lower, your eyes lingered longer and something in Dean’s chest twisted up hard.
He didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t recognize it as attraction. It just made him restless, hot under the collar, his jokes coming out sharper, his glances a little too long. It wasn’t until Bobby’s voice thundered behind him that he realized he’d been caught.
“Dean”.
Dean nearly jumped, knocking a wrench off the table.
Bobby stood behind him, arms crossed, eyes flat and dark as a thunderstorm. “You got somewhere else to look?”.
Dean bristled, defensiveness snapping up like armor. “Just keepin’ an eye out, Bobby. Place is full of rats lately”.
Bobby didn’t smile and didn’t move. “She’s sixteen, Dean”.
Dean looked away, his throat tightening. “I know”.
Bobby stepped closer. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, quieter now, but hard enough to cut. “Don’t play dumb with me, boy. I know your type. I know your damn track record”.
His jaw flexed. Anger sat plainly in the lines of his face, but underneath it was something heavier. Worry.
“You so much as look at her the wrong way, you’re gone. You hear me?”.
Dean forced himself to meet Bobby’s eyes. For a second, the room seemed to shrink around him. He felt like a kid again; dirty sneakers, trouble written all over him, standing in front of someone who could see every bad decision before Dean even had the chance to make it.
“She’s off limits, Dean”, Bobby said. “Always will be. You get me?”.
Dean nodded. Shame burned hot beneath his skin, sharp enough to make him want to look away again. But somewhere beneath it, something stubborn had already begun to take root.
He didn’t want to hurt you. He sure as hell didn’t want to hurt Bobby. But somewhere along the way, that instinct to protect you had started tangling itself around something else—something unfamiliar, something Dean wasn’t ready to look at too closely, much less put a name to.
“Yeah”, he said quietly. “I get it”.
Bobby studied him for another long second, his stare sitting heavy on Dean’s chest. Then he clapped a hand against Dean’s shoulder. Not gently.
“Good. Now go clean up. Lunch is on”.
Dean gave another short nod and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to shake off the conversation as he headed for the sink.
He told himself not to look back. Told himself there was nothing to look at. Still, his eyes drifted toward the porch. Toward you. And somewhere deep down, in the place he tried hardest not to listen to, Dean felt it. Something was changing. He just didn’t know what it was yet. And worse, he didn’t know how to stop it.
Outside, you caught him looking and only smiled. Easy and unaware. Completely unafraid.
-
The air was sharp with cold, every motel parking lot washed in the same dull winter gray. Dean sat hunched behind the wheel of the Impala, both hands wrapped around a Styrofoam cup of bad coffee. The radio played low beneath the hum of the heater while wind chased scraps of paper and plastic across the asphalt outside. He stared through the windshield and thought about nothing. Or tried to.
His phone buzzed against the passenger seat. Dean nearly ignored it. Nearly. But old habits died hard. He glanced at the screen.
Sam
His thumb hovered over the button for a second before he finally answered, his voice rough from too many nights without enough sleep.
“Yeah?”.
He could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he answered, cautious but honest.
“Hey, man”.
Dean dragged a hand over his mouth, eyes fixed on the windshield.
“Hey, Sammy. You alright?”.
“I’m fine”, Sam said, in a way that made it sound almost true. “Just—checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while”.
Dean grunted. “Been busy”.
A beat of silence followed.
“You gonna be busy for Christmas, too?”.
Dean said nothing. Something in his chest tightened and Sam took a breath.
“Look, Bobby’s making dinner this year. And Y/N invited me”. A pause. “She’s, uh… been asking about you. Said you oughta come back, at least for a day”.
Another pause.
“You know how she gets”.
Dean closed his eyes. Yeah. He knew exactly how you got.
He could picture you in Bobby’s kitchen, stubbornly determined to make the place feel warm and lived-in no matter who was missing. Probably stringing up decorations Bobby complained about while secretly leaving every single one exactly where you put it.
Your voice would be bright. Too bright. Like if you smiled hard enough, nobody would notice the empty chair.
Dean swallowed.
“I dunno, man”.
“Dean”. Sam’s voice softened, but there was something firm beneath it. “It’s been weeks. You can’t keep running forever. Bobby’s getting worried. She—”.
Sam stopped.
Dean’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. “She what?”.
Another hesitation.
“She misses you”.
Dean’s throat worked. Something raw threatened to climb its way out, and he shoved it back down before it could become anything he’d have to explain.
“I’ll think about it”, he managed barely louder than a whisper.
“That’s all I’m asking. Just think about it”. His voice softened again. “It’s Christmas, Dean. We’re supposed to be together”.
Dean nodded even though Sam couldn’t see him.
“Yeah”. He stared down at the steering wheel.
After they hung up, Dean stayed exactly where he was. The silence inside the Impala seemed louder than the radio now. His breath fogged faintly against the cold air leaking through the windows as he pictured you sitting at Bobby’s kitchen table. Stubborn and waiting.
Then he remembered your hand in his. Remembered being close to you, and how impossible it had felt to pull away once he'd let himself have even a second of it.
His chest tightened again. That was when the passenger door opened. Cold air rushed inside, followed by the blonde bartender from earlier—Candy or Mandy, Dean genuinely couldn't remember anymore.
She slid into the seat with an easy grin, running a finger along his arm like she already knew exactly what kind of night he was looking for.
“You ready?”, she asked, her voice syrup-sweet.
Dean looked at her. For half a second, he almost said no. Instead, he pulled together something resembling a smile. “Yeah”.
He turned the key and shoved everything else somewhere deep enough that he wouldn't have to look at it. At least for a while.
He followed her directions out of town to a run-down apartment building with a busted elevator and hallways covered in carpet that smelled permanently of smoke.
Twenty minutes later, Dean sat on the edge of her mattress. The room was half-dark, her perfume heavy in the stale air. She was close, fingers working at his belt with practiced confidence, treating the whole thing like a game she'd played a hundred times before.
Dean let her. That was the problem. He just… let her. Because he wanted to feel something. Anything. Anything that wasn't guilt. Anything that wasn't wanting the wrong. Anything that wasn't the impossible mess he'd been carrying around for weeks.
She laughed softly at something he didn't hear, leaning closer and Dean felt absolutely nothing.
He closed his eyes. Tried to remember what it was supposed to feel like to want this. Instead, his mind betrayed him. He saw you. Felt the warmth of you. Heard the way his name had sounded in your voice.
Dean's jaw tightened. He tried to shut it out. Tried to replace the memory with the woman in front of him.
Couldn't.
Because underneath all the noise, all the whiskey and motel rooms and strangers whose names he never bothered remembering, there was only that same hollow ache.
And when Dean closed his eyes, all he could see was you.
Still he let Candy or Mandy pull him closer, but he was a million miles away. No matter how he tried to chase it, the only thing he wanted was the one thing he could never have.
She tugged his jeans down just enough, freeing him from the confines of his boxers. He was already half-hard from the mechanical anticipation, veined and heavy in her hand.
She wrapped her fingers around the base, giving a slow, teasing stroke that made him twitch, her grip firm but not too tight, like she’d done this a hundred times before. And hell, she probably had.
“Damn”, she murmured, her breath hot against his skin, “you’re packing, aren’t you?”.
She licked her lips, painted red and glossy, before leaning in, her tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his shaft from base to tip. Dean’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her bleach-blonde hair, not guiding yet, just holding on as she worked him over.
She was talented, no doubt about it, swirling her tongue around the head, sucking lightly at first, then deeper, her cheeks hollowing as she took him in inch by inch. The wet heat of her mouth enveloped him, her lips stretching around his girth, and she hummed low in her throat, the vibration shooting straight through him.
She bobbed her head deliberately, saliva slicking him up as she twisted her hand in rhythm with her mouth, pumping what she couldn’t fit.
Dean groaned, his hips shifting involuntarily as she picked up the pace, slurping noisily, her free hand cupping his balls, rolling them gently while she deep-throated him like a pro.
“Fuck”, he muttered, eyes squeezing shut, but even as the pleasure built, it felt distant, like he was watching it happen to someone else.
She gagged a little when she pushed too far, but she didn’t stop, pulling back only to dive in again, faster now. Dean’s fingers tightened in her hair, urging her on, but his mind was elsewhere.
It wasn’t enough. It never was.
He pulled her off him with a wet pop, her lips swollen and smeared, a string of saliva connecting them for a second before it broke. She looked up at him, eyes watering but grinning like she’d won a prize. “You want more?”, she purred, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
Dean didn’t answer. He just hauled her up, rough, flipping her onto the bed face-down like she weighed nothing. She laughed, arching her back, ass up as she spread her legs, already shimmying out of her skirt and panties. “Yeah, baby, give it to me hard”.
He grabbed a condom from his wallet and rolled it on, positioning himself behind her. No foreplay, no tenderness; this was how he did it, how he always did it to take the edge off, to drown out the noise in his head. He gripped her hips, nails digging in, and thrust into her in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in her.
He fucked her roughly, hips snapping forward, the room filling with the sounds of skin on skin, her moans turning into breathless pleas and his own detached grunts.
Twenty minutes later, Dean dressed in the half-light of that unfamiliar bedroom, the air thick with the scent of cheap perfume and sweat. Her soft laughter were echoing somewhere far behind him as she sprawled across tangled sheets. He barely heard her, barely felt the bruises on his hips or the scratch marks down his back. It all faded as soon as he pulled his jeans on, buckled his belt, and looked at himself in the mirror above her dresser.
He didn’t see the usual cocky smirk that used to come after nights like this. He just saw someone tired. Someone haunted.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight, the shame rising up to choke him. He’d thought it would help, just like every other time. He’d thought maybe, if he went hard enough or long enough, if he let someone else’s voice drown out your name in his head, he’d finally be able to forget the shape of you, the taste of your lips, the warmth of your hand in his. That the ache might fade.
But it never did. If anything, it just made it worse.
As he tossed the condom in the trash, zipped his jacket, and mumbled something half-hearted to the woman in bed, he felt emptier than before, like every time he tried to fill that void, it just carved him out a little more.
🚬— deans head rises and falls along with your breaths. his body drapes over yours like a blanket, you watch as his eyelashes rest on his freckled cheeks. the room still smells of sweat and sex. his tired form shifts as your nails scratch his scalp, soothing any nightmares that might come his way. you press a few light kisses to the crown of his head and he nuzzles into your chest like a cat. his soft snores carry through the room like a lullaby, coaxing you into a deep sleep too.
a/n: pls send drabble requests for dean, sam, or cas im rusty after weeks of not writing!
Summary: Covered in blood and sat in mob boss Dean Winchester's office was not how the reader planned on spending her Saturday night. But things are not as they appear...
Pairing: Mafia boss!Dean x reader
Word Count: 2,100ish
Warnings: language, mentions of blood/murder/kidnapping/dismemberment, implied child abuse, threats of violence, all the usual mafia things
A/N: Trying a little something new out. I might continue this if there's interest. Please enjoy!...
You smoothed out your bloody skirt out of habit. Why your brain was worried about wrinkles when the fabric was ruined was beyond you. Just one of those nervous ticks your mother would sigh at you about your entire childhood.
Stop fidgeting. Sit up straight. Cross your ankles. For heaven’s sake, at least pretend to smile.
If only she could see you now.
Your whole body flinched when the door of the ornate wood office you sat in opened. You didn’t bother to stand. Civility was out the door tonight. The blood staining your hands was proof enough of that.
The door thudded shut behind you, your eyes locked on the roaring fireplace before you. Flames danced in the dim space before a light flickered on from somewhere behind you, most likely the one on the large mahogany desk in the center of the room.
Your back was ramrod straight at the very least. Maybe your mother was looking down at you with a smile for that.
Hell, who were you kidding. She was looking up. Knowing her, she’d made friends with the demons and was working on charming the devil himself.
Your body was perched on the edge of the cognac brown leather couch, barely sitting on the cushion, poised for…something. To flee? To fight? To accept death?
Why was your neck suddenly itchy?
Oh, right. The dried blood.
You absently scratched at it, heart stopping when footsteps echoed off the hardwoods, making the way from the grand rug over in your direction. You breathed slowly, feeling the man’s gaze on your back. The footsteps fell away, the distinctive sound of a record catching behind you.
Rita Hayworth’s voice filled the air, breath catching.
Put the blame on mame, boy.
Your visitor said nothing, just let the sound play through. Once. Twice. Three times.
What the fuck was this person getting at? Put the blame on…but you did it. There was nothing else to…
Footsteps sounded again, heart in your throat as they continued closer this time. Hands rested on the back of your shoulders, not gripping them but simply…resting there.
“It’s almost insulting really. You, not having a clue what you were doing, slitting Harrison Blackburn’s throat like it’s your fuckin’ day job. You put my boys to shame. They tell me they ain’t never seen something so ruthless out of someone so…innocent. I should put you on the payroll.”
Ah. That explains why two burly men picked you up, blood still wet and sticky, shoving you in the back of a car and driving you straight to a massive estate in River Forest. This guy was in the mob too and if he was happy about Harrison’s death then that meant one thing.
Winchester.
“Is that why I’m here? To join the crew?” The man didn’t laugh at the bad joke, simply removed his hands from behind you. He stalked around the right side, into your field of vision. You swallowed thickly at the man in the suit before you.
Harrison had been handsome, your fatal flaw for ever getting involved with him right there, but this man?
Oh, this man could turn a saint into a sinner with nothing more than a flirty smile.
“Dean Winchester.” Oldest son. He walked over to a matching leather chair off to the side, taking a seat, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He held it out to you, an offer, and you gracefully took it, Dean not seeming to care that your blood stained hand touched his.
You sipped down the burning drink, unsure if it was a whiskey, a scotch or whatever the hell it was. All you knew was if you were about to be killed by Dean Winchester, you wanted to be drunk for it. You threw back the rest of the glass, Dean’s eyes flaring wide for a split second.
“That’s a sipping whiskey, sweetheart. Burns even the hardiest of men. You’re full of surprises.”
“It’s been a day,” you said, handing him back the glass. He hummed as he took it, setting it aside on a end table.
“That it has. So. To what atrocity did your beloved commit to be met with a grisly fate at your delicate hands? Surely you knew who Harrison was.”
“Not until it was too late. You don’t exactly get to break up with a mobster’s son. You just hope they get bored of you.” Dean licked his lips, narrowing his eyes.
“And yet…seems you were the one to end the relationship after all. What changed? Cheat one too many times? Force himself on you? Beat you so badly you had to hide inside for weeks?” Dean leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What made you snap?”
“He was making plans to kidnap a child. One of the rival families. Was going to send the boy back in pieces. He was proud of himself, proud of how happy his father was with his planned brutality.” Dean watched you cautiously, sitting up straight. “Only the truly evil hurt children.”
“So you slayed the demon,” said Dean, looking you up and down. “It was my cousin.”
“What?” Dean nodded.
“My cousin, Jack. He’s about four, cute as a button. We found out and I was planning on making Harrison pay deeply. You want to fuck with the grown ups, with the men, fine. But you leave the women and kids out of it. End of story. Blackburn crossed a line. The only thing I didn’t know was Senior was all for it. That’s an injustice that still needs to be corrected.”
You stared at him, Dean running a hand over his mouth, slumping back into his chair.
“I didn’t want him to die that quickly.”
“I stabbed his dick too if that makes you feel better.” Dean smirked, tilting his head.
“It does to a degree. But now I have a conundrum.” You made fists with your hands, Dean spotting the movement. “You did me a favor, not for any personal gain but simply to protect a kid. I respect that. Greatly.”
“But.” He smiled, almost sad like.
“But as far as anyone knows, my men killed Harrison in retaliation for the planned kidnapping and murder. You, you are just Harrison Blackburn’s girl that we grabbed.”
“So un-grab me.” Dean cocked his head, shaking it. “Why not?”
“Because daddy Blackburn sees you as part of the family. The daughter he never had. You and Harrison were engaged. No, no. I hold a valuable card with you, sweetheart.”
You swallowed, closing your eyes. “You’re saying…you’re saying I did you a massive fucking favor and my reward is to be kidnapped by you?”
“Kidnapped is such a mean word,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Think of it as an involuntary stay at a sprawling estate where your every want and desire will be fulfilled until such time as the Blackburn family empire has come crumbling down. I’ll give you more than enough money where you never have to work or depend on a man again once it’s through. I’ll leven relocate you to a place of your choosing.”
“The Blackburns have been in the mob since 1893,” you growled.
“So only some fifty odd years. Bound to fall apart sometime soon,” said Dean, standing up with a smile. You finally stood, Dean eyeing you up and down. Blood spatter on your face. Jacket and blouse soaked. Blue skirt stained almost black and tar like. “I can treat you like a princess or a prisoner. Your choice.”
“Senior doesn’t give two shits about me and we both know it.” You lifted your chin, narrowing your eyes. “So what the fuck do you really want with me?”
“Such a nasty mouth on such a proper appearing lady,” Dean snickered. “One might think you were raised in the gutter. Tell me, why would I, leader of the Winchester family, want you? If not for ransom or leverage, then what?”
“I’m done with this.” You stalked around the coffee table, Dean easily shifting and walking around the chair, nonchalantly blocking your path to the office doors. “You saw what happened to the last guy that fucked with me. Move.”
“Baby, there’s nothing more that I’d love than to…fuck,” he let the word linger, eyes raking up and down your body, “With you. But you killed a boss’ son. I let you go, Blackburn will find you and torture you and this place will seem like heaven compared to the twisted games he’d play with you. If he was so willing to let a child suffer, imagine what he’d do to you?”
“I’ll leave Chicago.” Dean shook his head. “Yes, I-”
“The Winchesters are indebted to you.” Dean stepped once, twice, closer until he was in your space, staring you down with a smirk. “We repay our debts. You will be protected until it is safe. No exceptions.”
“Why do you even care?” He reached up a hand, stroking over your jaw, catching your chin between this thumb and forefinger.
“Someone will come escort you to your new quarters so you can wash. Feel free to roam the house and grounds.” He dropped his hand and walked past you to his desk, refilling his glass with more liquor. “You’re dismissed. Wait.”
You peered over your shoulder, Dean’s green eyes dark, predator like. It made you shiver, his subtle warmth from before gone.
“It does make a man think…what are the odds that Harrison meets his demise by another the same night I was planning to end his life?” Dean carried his glass over, swinging it back in full like you had, gritting his teeth through the pain. “Not even a tremble during the act. Just…brutally efficient.”
You swallowed and faced forward, Dean pressing up behind you, leaning in, ghost of his breath caressing your ear.
“Almost like…it wasn’t the first time. Reaper.”
Your stomach dropped, body rigid as stone. Dean chuckled softly behind you.
“Unfortunate for you I have a source inside Blackburn’s organization. He’s always known his son was psychotic which is why he hired you, to keep an eye on the schmuck. Senior was outraged at the thought of his son going after a child. Senior ordered the hit on Harrison. How am I doing so far, sweetheart?”
You kept your mouth shut, Dean humming.
“And all the while, he gets to blame it on a mugging gone wrong, a rival family taking out his second born. Doesn’t matter. Senior took care of a problem and you just…float on away back into the shadows like you do. Until she’s called upon again by some criminal socialite to do the dirty work of the mob or the police or a scorned ex-wife. You’re a dangerous woman, Y/N Y/L/N. You were so close to getting away with it, with me believing your little story. Problem is, Senior knows the rules. He’s a bastard but a respectable one. No women. No kids. That man would never be proud of his son for going outside the bounds.”
You stared dead ahead, forcing your body to stay steady. “So you caught Reaper. I’m done with the foreplay. Kill me already, Mr. Winchester.”
“You’ve done nothing to me. Why would I kill you? Your reputation precedes you. Vixen of death. Reaper of souls. The smile that sends evil to hell. Quite impressive for a murderess to have such a strong moral code. Never the innocent, only the cruel.” Dean walked around you, tilting his head with that dark smile again. “I can’t just let someone like you with your…skills…walk away. Now that you’ve moved on from New York and LA to make Chicago your new hunting ground, I can’t let you wander about. Not until we can trust one another and trust takes time.”
You shook your head. “You’re afraid someone will hire me to kill you. Or kill some corrupt player that’s important to your organization.” Dean hummed. You licked your lips, tasting the hint of iron, flashing Dean a dark smile of your own. “You’d be better off killing me. Letting me wander about, keeping me caged…never know what kind of secrets I might find out about you, Mr. Winchester. Because that hit? Oh, I’ll do that one for free.”
“So that’s a no on the working for me thing.” You feigned a pout, quickly narrowing your eyes. Dean laughed quietly, eyeing you up and down. “You’ll change your mind eventually.”
“Careful there, Icarus. You don’t want to play with this fire.” Dean gave you a look that said he very much did. You rolled your eyes, bumping into him hard as you went for the office door.
“Breakfast is served at eight,” he said and you could just hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Reaper.”
“You’re going to regret this, Winchester.”
A/N: So, what did you think? Would you like to see more? 👀
smut smut smut, fluff, comfort, established relationship! service top! dean x f!reader, mentions of love, babygirl. fingering. dean just loves making you happy.
not proofread :)
moon's note: this one is longer than what i usually write. please read it with a pinch of salt :) lowkey rubbed one out to this... kidding... or not?
on your bad days the drill is simple. dean has the routine down to the last bit. it starts with a check-in. gauging the intensity of stress. slumped shoulder ✅
pouty lips ✅
intense long drawn out sighs ✅
and its his time to shine! asking you if you would like to do anything else or... him :) and as soon as you whine into his warm, soft embrace he is UNDONE. dragging you on to his lap, you facing him, his arms around your body in a soft but strong hold. afraid to let go.
"baby i will take such good care of you..."
"forget your worries and stay with me right now"
"let me take care of you..."
slow, deep kisses. taking his time to make your breathing comfortably rapid, pauses. looking into your eyes gently, kissing your cheeks. your forehead, your eyelids a trail of kisses follows. behind your ears, down your neck, and he rests his head there.
but he sighs get deeper. and you try to look into his glassy emerald green eyes... a spark, a thought lights up. slowly turning you around as your back rests on his chest, legs falling into place with each leg spread out on the side of his thick, thighs. resting. his hands come back wrapping it around your stomach and your chest. slightly squeezing you. trying to pull you back closer than you already are.
"spread your legs wider for me love..."
"i got you. just relax."
and his hands find their place. inching closer towards the inside of your thighs. one hand rubbing slowly, patiently on one thigh and the other hand moving towards your centre. the hands rubbing on the clothes result in a friction so soothing that you melt further into his lap. back arching. and little sighs escape your lips. but now this is getting frustrating. he is so close yet so far.
"deano please~" and unfortunately your body knows what it wants but your mind is relaxed and numb that it just gives up. dont worry. dean will do all the thinking for you. he is there to make it easier for you.
so he slowly takes of your smooth PJ shorts, finding your bare, yet slightly warm underneath. all he needs to do is cover your entire core with his palm and slowly press in. the slight pressure gets you excited. he is finally going to do what you have been waiting for. dean takes his palm and slowly moves it up and down. figuring out the pace. and then he places his fingers. it finds it way around. like it has known you. the fingers set a familiar rhythm. slowly gathering the slick and moving itself up and down.
but dean knows that the friction isn't enough for his babygirl. so he slowly pushes his middle finger and then the ring finger inside your pussy. finally his fingers curl. curling exactly to the spot that sends a shiver down your spine. and dean then moves the fingers at a slow but steady pace. curling it inside, your pussy squeezing. opening and closing and dean feels it around his fingers. a sharp inhale and a low grunt that translates into kissing the back of your ear, almost biting on it. dean maintains the correct pressure. it is not rapid or just a simple in and out.
rather dean keeps the fingers inside and massages the spot. his other hand holding you close, whispering sweet, sugary praises into your ear. and what is wondrous about all this? dean finds himself moaning. coupling it with your time. moaning as you let out a grunt and sighing as you take a deep inhale. his fingers, at a smooth pace, he keeps curling it, pulling his fingers inwards, shaking it up and down. and he relishes in your squirming body as he knows you are closer. you are so close that dean drags his fingers out. and you make a mistake that he is taking a break but his fingers immediately lands it on your clit.
using the juices he dug out of your pussy he rubs sideways on your sensitive nub. it starts at a mild tempo and then he picks up the pace, relentlessly he rubs on your clit as you reach out to him. he finds it endearing how you are arching your back and curling into yourself, but he keeps the pace. it feels like you are ascending planes. and his pace is brutal yet the correct amount of stimulation you need on your clit as you shake and quiver into a climax.
dean shushes your high pitched moans and his other hand slowly brushes the hair from your face. he kisses your cheek again lovingly as his hand on your pussy rubs slow circles around it.
"i would continue, only if you say yes."
dean has always been the sweetest most caring guy.
Synopsis: Desperate to save Dean from the Mark of Cain, you've been pulling all nighters behind his back to research, even after he asked you to stop looking for a cure. Dean's been unaware, until he wakes up one night to find you missing from your bed.
Warnings: VERY unhealthy sleep habits, excessive caffeine consumption, lying to a partner (for noble-ish reasons), self-deprecation and low self esteem from Dean, minor reference to k*lling oneself, let me know if I missed any!
~~~
Of all the things the Mark of Cain had done to Dean, the one thing it hadn’t done was make him less observant. But God, you wish it had. You wish he wasn’t noticing the dark circles under your eyes, or the times you fell asleep for a few seconds in the middle of case briefings or interviews with witnesses. You wish he wasn’t noticing how your instincts had become slower, how your quips had become infrequent and soft, and how you struggled at times to form even the simplest of thoughts.
You also wish the Mark of Cain had made him care less. It was a terrible thing to wish for, but you needed him to care less about you, so you could care more about him. Everyday, Dean asked you what was wrong. Everyday, he begged you to let him in. Everyday, he did everything he could to make your day easier, even if you wouldn’t tell him what exactly was making it harder.
Truly, you wanted nothing more than to open up to him, to shed all the secrecy and just be a normal couple again. But little by little, Dean was losing himself to the Mark, and you’d promised yourself you’d always save him. Right now, that meant keeping him at arm’s length so you could do what you needed to do.
It had been a couple weeks since he’d asked—no, demanded, ordered—you and Sam to stop searching for a cure for the Mark. Of course, you and Sam had never even considered doing that, but for the sake of placating the already testy Dean, you’d told him you would. And as far as he knew, you had stopped looking. It was the best possible outcome for your secret research, but Dean, as he was wont to do, was blaming himself for the decline in your health.
He’d asked if he’d been talking or lashing out in his sleep, he’d asked if you still wanted to be with him, he’d begged you to not worry about him if this was what it was doing to you. You’d assured him every time that it was nothing he was doing, that you’d never want to be with anyone else, and that you would always worry about him, Mark or not. You did everything you could to reassure him, because he deserved to have at least one weight taken off his shoulders, but he was Dean, so of course he wouldn’t stop worrying either.
But you couldn’t stop what you were doing. You wouldn’t. You’d been up all night, every night, slipping out from Dean’s arms once he’d fallen asleep to sneak away to the library. Almost manically, you’d been making your way through the Men of Letters books and archives, hoping to find something that would free the man you loved from his curse. Your search had so far been fruitless, but you were confident you could solve this. Or maybe you were just desperate. You couldn’t lose Dean to months of demonhood again. You couldn’t lose him, period. So you’d keep going. However long it took.
You were at it again tonight, hitting the library around midnight once Dean finally gave in to unconsciousness. He’d been up later that night, fussing over you after he found you unconscious in the workout room, curled up in the corner as you slumbered. You hadn’t remembered falling asleep, only waking up to Dean and Sam over you, the former cupping your cheeks and begging you to wake up. In Dean’s eyes there’d been agonized concern, and in Sam’s there’d been concern as well, but also knowing, and disapproval.
He was aware of what you were doing, and he liked it no more than Dean would, but he was also aware that if he told on you, you could tell on him right back. So he’d kept his mouth shut, and Dean had carried you to your shared room, where you’d been forced to remain the rest of the day as he doted on you. You wouldn’t mind such pampering normally, but there was no rest to be had when Dean’s life and soul were at risk. So when Dean finally settled and began snoring softly with you tucked into his chest, you took the opportunity to return to the library.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t beyond exhausted as you grabbed the book from the 1850s that you’d gotten about halfway through. You felt the weariness down to your bone marrow, a heavy feeling that made every step you took dragging and slow. You wanted so badly to return to bed, even just for one night, but you knew that if you got out of your habit now, if you allowed yourself to relish in the comfort of Dean’s sleepy embrace again, you wouldn’t be able to talk yourself back into more all-nighters. So, armed with three cans of your favorite energy drink and a ferocious devotion to the man you loved, you fought through your tiredness and read on.
~~~
Dean didn’t usually wake up in the middle of the night. Though he usually only slept four to six hours any given night, he never woke up before it was time for him to rise for good for the day. But he’d roused that night, though only a little bit at first, coming out of sleep just enough to be able to sense that something wasn’t right. The space around him felt too empty, too cold, too harsh. That small gut instinct was enough to jerk him awake, sending him shooting up into a sitting position as he checked the room wildly.
He didn’t have to search for his answer for long, however, because he always looked to where you should be first. In truth, his body knew even before his mind could catch up, because he felt the hollowness of your body missing against his. His eyes confirmed it as they adjusted to the darkness, finding your side of the bed empty.
His first thought was that you’d simply gotten up to go to the bathroom, but when his hands ran over the sheets where you should be laying, they responded to his touch with the coldness of a long absence. No more than a second after feeling that was Dean out of bed, his pace hurried as he ran first to the kitchen, hoping you were taking a long midnight snack. When he found that room empty as well, the panic really set in, and he all but sprinted down the halls to the main area of the bunker, worried that he would find some sign of a break-in, or perhaps more heart-wrenchingly, that you’d left the bunker of your own accord.
That you’d left him.
Dean had never had the highest self-esteem. Maybe it was a product of living on the road as he had, never really being significant—at least not for many people to remember him—anywhere he went. Maybe it was his dad’s harshness and constant criticism of how he hunted, how he looked after Sammy, how he did much of anything.
But now, with the Mark of Cain making someone he himself wouldn’t even want to be around, he woke up everyday feeling it was only a matter of time until everyone saw him as no longer being worth their time or energy. He felt like the luckiest son of a bitch when he still found you in the kitchen every morning, nursing your own cup of coffee while you waited to hand him his.
But maybe this was the day that it all changed. Maybe yesterday morning’s coffee had been the last you’d give him. Maybe you, in all your goodness and light and joy and optimism, had finally realized you were never meant to live in the shadows with hunters. With him. Maybe you’d realized that you could do so much better than Dean, that you could find a nice, safe man who made an actual salary and could give you a home, a life, a family. Someone who would see that you’re struggling and actually know what to do.
You’d been falling apart in front of him. Dean would have to be blind not to see it. Falling asleep everywhere, barely able to think, a shell of yourself. He’d asked you a million times, and you’d reassured him just as many that it wasn’t the case, but he knew it was because of him. You wouldn’t tell him exactly why, or how to fix it, but he knew. And maybe the truth was that there was no fixing it, not while you’re with him. Maybe you’d finally accepted that, and left for a better life. The selfish bastard in him prayed to everything out there that that wasn’t the case. If he didn’t have you, there was no hope left for him at all.
Coming into the main room, he looked first towards the door, worried that he’d see it wide open. When all was as it should be there, he looked towards the library, and felt a tidal wave of relief wash over him so strongly it nearly knocked him off his feet. You were hunched over one of the library tables, head resting on a thick book laying open. In front of you was an empty energy drink can tipped on its side. Clearly you’d been trying to stay up all night, but had failed miserably, even with the excessive caffeine.
With a sigh, Dean strode over to you and stroked gently down the back of your head to wake you up. When that didn’t work, he bent down to kiss the cheek that wasn’t pressed to the pages of your book, and whispered your name in your ear. You stirred then, groaning as you lifted your head. Dean smiled at the sight of you squinting at him with bleary eyes, trying to make sense of what was in front of you and around you.
“What time is it?” you asked, voice raspy.
“Past your bedtime,” he remarked. “What’re you doin’, sweetheart?”
~~~
At first, when Dean had woken you, you’d forgotten where you were and what you’d been doing. You’d been dreaming about Hawai’i—you and Dean had never been, of course, because you couldn’t afford it in a million years, but in your dream, you were on a beach together, kissing in the water as the waves rolled past you.
Returning to reality was thus, as one could expect, jarring. At least Dean was there, you’d thought as you’d blinked up at him. Then you felt the book page still stuck to your cheek, and remembered everything, and realized Dean was there.
You jolted, which didn’t bode well for keeping Dean’s suspicions low and your secret safe. You hoped he’d take it as you readjusting to being awake, but then he asked what you were doing, and you took too long to answer, and his gaze slid to the book in front of you.
The words were too small for him to read from where he was, but then his eyes found your notebook, scrawled with writing about the Mark of Cain. You watched Dean’s face with baited breath as he took everything in, and saw the fond amusement give way to disappointment, concern, and anger.
“I thought I made myself clear, baby,” he spoke with a frown, his voice low and restrained. “You promised me you’d stop.”
With a sigh, you responded, “Would you stop if it was me?” Dean didn’t answer, but his silence was more than enough. “Don’t ask me to do something you couldn’t.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
“I’m guessing this isn’t your first all-nighter. Or your third. Or your fifth.” It was your turn to give him his answer wordlessly. Dean nodded, features pulled taut with frustration. “Right. So I ask you to stop, and instead you start killing yourself.”
“I’m not-“
“I found you unconscious in the gym today,” Dean snapped, voice rising in volume. “You wouldn’t wake up, baby; I was two seconds away from taking you to the hospital.”
“It’s not that bad-“
“Don’t.” Dean’s eyes were on fire. “Don’t try to downplay this. You’ve been half of yourself, and less with every passing day. And I’ve been asking you, again and again, begging you, to tell me what’s wrong, to let me help, but you just kept telling me you were fine. Kept lying to me, when I have perfectly functioning eyes. This is exactly what I didn’t want, why I told you to stop: you and Sam would drive yourselves into an early grave for a lost cause!”
Those last two words had you rocketing up from your seat, eyes blazing and mouth open to protest with everything you had, because you would never let Dean talk about himself like that if you were there to do something about it. No part of you was ready to be on your feet, however, and especially not so quickly.
You swayed like a dead tree in a storm, destined to fall and fall hard. Dean was faster though, and caught you before you could topple, pulling you into his chest. As if you weighed nothing at all, he set you back down in the seat, turned it to face him, and crouched before you, hands gentle but immoveable on your thighs to keep you from trying to rise again.
“What could have possibly made you think I’d want you doing this to yourself for my sake?” he asked, voice much gentler and quieter now as his eyes ran over you with the sweetest worry.
“You’d do the same for me.”
“I know I would, but this isn’t about what I’d do for you. I’m the one with the Mark, sweetheart, it should be my say how we go about this.”
“I’m not going to listen to someone who calls himself a lost cause,” you murmured, voice trembling under the weight of your emotions. Your gaze dropped to your lap as you focused on your fiddling hands to try to keep yourself from crying. “I love you, Dean, and I’m not going to live without you. Not ever. So if this is what I have to do, this is what I’m going to do.”
“Sweetheart, look at me.” When you refused to, Dean took gentle hold of your chin and tilted your head so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. “When did I ever say I was leaving you behind? Hm? I’m not going anywhere without you.”
You sniffed. “You already did. You were gone for months, Dean, and I didn’t know what to do. It didn’t feel like there was anything I could do. But I can do something now. I can help you now. So I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna stop.”
“But who helps you? Who helps you, when you’re running yourself into the ground and you won’t tell me anything? Me, whose job it is specifically to take care of you?”
“And I can’t take care of y-“
Before you could finish your sentence, Dean’s hand was covering your mouth, his eyes finally glinting with amusement rather than agitation. “Stop arguing like a five-year-old and listen to me.” With your speech taken away from you, all you could do was roll your eyes. “This ends now. I’m not letting you destroy yourself.”
You pried Dean’s hand away from your mouth in earnest. “You’re giving up on yourself, Dean. Nothing is going to destroy me more than losing you.”
“Do I ever get to finish a thought?”
Despite the seriousness of the moment, you couldn’t help the mischievous smirk that tugged at your lips. “No.”
It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes as he continued, “I promise I won’t give up on myself. I’ll keep fighting, and we’ll keep looking for a cure, but…we do it together. We’re a team. You and me against everything, right? I won’t go it alone, and neither will you. Deal?”
It was the easiest thing you’d ever agreed to. “Deal, Winchester.”
Dean smiled softly as his hand cupped your cheek and brought your lips to his for a sweet kiss. It was chaste, but you felt every ounce of love and devotion behind it. After a few moments, he pulled away and rested his forehead against yours. “Now…you’re going to bed, and I’m sleeping on top of you so you don’t try anything.”
You scoffed, but it was closer to a laugh than anything else. “Did I not just agree to your terms?”
“Yes, but you’re stubborn. Can’t be too careful.”
Before you could protest, Dean was scooping you up out of the chair and into his arms, making swift work of returning you to your shared bed. True to his promise, he slept on top of you, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to mind one bit.
