That was it, The Memory. That one long afternoon when he was warm and soft and so painfully human. The day you and Dean made love, maybe.
dean winchester x fem!reader (friends to lovers)
summary : 15 poems +1, about loving and mourning dean winchester.
CW : major. character. death. y-e-a-r-n-i-n-g. grief, grief, and more grief. bit'o'smut. piv (but it's in poem form?). happy ending.
Word Count : 2.3k
a/n : a bit of an experiment, this was something i found in my fic graveyard i just couldn't make work. converting from prose to poetry started as an exercise but honestly, this was some of the most fun writing i've had in a while. it spans a bunch of different styles/techniques i wanted to practice, some of the formatting had to bow to the will of tumblr, but we persevere.
i really hope you enjoy.
title is taken from Led Zeppelin's song "Over The Hills and Far Away"
(
You : “What do you think happens when we die?”
Dean : “I dunno. Nothing? We’re just dead, I guess.”
You : “What do you think happens when we die?”
Dean : “I’ll burn your body so you don’t come back wrong.”
You : “What do you think happens when we die?”
Dean : “Don’t know about you, but this time next year I’ll be downstairs.”
Dean : “What do you think happens when we die?”
You : “The ones who love us will miss us.”
)
1.
Passing by a
Town. A
Motel. A
Dive Bar.
It feels like
Loss. And
Longing. And
Him.
You think of Dean,
remember him to life.
He doesn’t stop
Dying. And
Rising. From
the Grave.
You are left
Grieving. For
Him. For
You.
You didn’t mind it,
when he was still alive.
2.
You and Dean were never really lovers, but you were friends.
He would cross state lines to grab a beer with you, and you would drive all night for a bottomless cup of shitty diner coffee and a short stack. Sometimes there was some small town terror you’d team up on, but a lot of times there wasn’t. You never needed a job to work damn well together.
Whenever you laughed, he smiled so wide it would touch the corners of his eyes. It was the kind of thing that would have etched lines into your faces over time, transforming your topography, if either of you were allowed to live that long.
You made love once, maybe, one lazy summer day in Sioux Falls. It seemed so sappy to think of it that way, but you always felt it was different from just fucking, if the distinction even mattered. You don’t know if it made it better or worse, that you just loved each other rather than being in love. Whether losing him would have hurt more or less, one way or the other.
You always told him it wasn’t fair, having to mourn him in pieces. You did it anyway, fairness be damned, but one time you told him you couldn’t anymore even though it was a lie.
“If you come back this time, Dean, don’t…please don’t come back to me. I can’t–”
You hadn’t been able to finish, that word hanging, loaded, in the silence between you long enough that he asked if you were still there on the other end.
3.
He is twenty-eight.
He is thirty-three.
Thirty-six.
Forty-one.
He is dead.
He is shoving past you in a diner to take a leak.
He is bleeding into your upholstery.
He is telling you you’re awesome.
He is nowhere and everywhere.
He is stretching through time.
You are twenty-five.
You are thirty.
Thirty-three.
Thirty-eight.
You are living?
You are ordering him pie and coffee.
You are stitching up his wounds.
You are thinking that you love him.
You are everywhere and nowhere.
You are trapped inside one moment for the rest of your life.
4.
The sun through grime caked windows made the diner feel brighter than it should have. The coffee, if you could call it that, was hot but terrible and you both just held the cups of thin brown water for the warmth of it.
The world felt colder, now, without him in it.
You ordered pie, because he would have, but when the waitress brought it over you just stared at it until you couldn’t anymore, shoving it as far from you as possible without throwing it across the room. The fork clattered to the floor and you hid your face in your hands, suddenly too sick to even think about food.
“So, that’s it.” It wasn’t the first time you had had this conversation, but it was the first time he’d asked to meet in person for it. “He’s gone, and you’re hanging up your spurs.”
“That’s what he wanted, so. Yeah.” You could see his hand curl in and out of a fist on the table. “Jerk.”
“Bitch.” Call and response. It was a reflex, but not yours. He flinched when you said it. “I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s okay. It’s.” His shoulders shook once with laughter. It was sad, but not hopeless. You smiled when you heard it. “Good. I’ve missed him saying it.”
Sam waved the waitress over and asked for a slice of every other type of pie they had, sharing the remaining clean fork with you to work your way through all of them, together.
In the parking lot, he pulled you into the back seat of the Impala and you held each other there for a very long time.
5.
gas station
donuts and
cherry pie
and apple
pie and
pecan pie
and any
pie at
all but
never ever
cake
plaid and
denim and
steel toes
and oversized
leather and
off-the-
rack suits
and cheap
wingtips and
ugly fucking
ties
filling your
tank too
late the
light on
your dash
reminding you
because now
he isn’t
around to
do it
anymore
6.
You never stopped thinking about that sunny day in South Dakota, when Sam and Bobby had gone on a milk run and Dean had stuck around to wait for you.
That was it, The Memory. That one long afternoon when he was warm and soft and so painfully human. The day you and Dean made love, maybe.
You were the only person in the whole world who remembered it now, and you were so afraid you couldn’t hold on to everything it meant all on your own.
Maybe it was how he had held you down and pressed you open and lost himself in the mystery between your thighs in a way that was different from the heat and the urgency and anonymity of how either of you were used to having sex.
Sex, but not with each other.
Maybe it was how he’d cradled your cheek to his chest and whispered into your hair how afraid he was and didn’t want to go to hell and almost wished he hadn’t made that crossroads deal to save his brother’s life.
Almost, but not really.
The truth was, that morning was the most intimate you’d ever been with anyone, before or after.
You’d never told him that, and now you’d never get to.
7.
He wonders: do you feel it
the way he does? How it curls
in his belly. A shot of whiskey, or
arousal. When he thinks of you.
8.
You drive. The asphalt, a shimmering oil slick stretching out and filling the night for miles. The air is humid, thick, steeped in the rain drenched richness of ozone and petrichor. It tastes like lightning. It puts you ill at ease, gathering into a bottomlessness in your gut that makes you feel like you’re falling upwards, out of time.
You drive. The radio, crackling with a soft buzzing static but you don’t remember turning it on. You can’t remember where you’re coming from and don’t know where it is you’re going. It sounds like voices whispering to you, but when you try to turn the volume up, the hissing white noise drowns out whatever you thought you heard.
You drive. The glove box, overflowing with crap and you cannot find anything useful. Your phone, a map, something to orient yourself. It’s like the morning after a bender, retracing your steps to find out what the fuck happened after you blacked out. Dawn flickers between the long shadows of the trees, boreal ghosts lining the road, and you wait to recognize where you are in the daylight but it just doesn’t happen.
You drive. There’s someone riding shotgun beside you, you can see them but only from the corner of your eye and when you look over, no one is there. You’re hearing things again, not whispers this time, but a burner phone, buried in the back of your cab. It stops ringing before you find it, one notification waiting when you do.
Dean W
Missed Call
9.
Dean Winchester’s Greatest Hits
(studio release)
no crusts, store bought pie
holding his Mother,
holding his Brother,
a field, and fireworks.
Dean Winchester’s Greatest Hits
(bootleg sessions)
no alarms, soft fur
tucked in bed with Miracle,
tucked in bed with You,
your body, and fireworks.
10.
Gravel crunches under your tires as you pull into the junkyard, squinting as the sun glints off the immaculate Chevy already parked there.
He’s been waiting for you a long time.
The screen door rattles open and you stop breathing when it slams shut again, listening to the sound of his boots coming across the yard.
“Heard your old junker coming from a mile away.”
His hair is longer and he wears it swept to the side now, his smile crinkling even more around his eyes than you remember it.
“So, this is Heaven."
His arms wrap around you tight, the spaces between his ribs and yours pouring warmth into the place in your heart you kept for him that has been visited by only grief for so, so long.
“Yeah. We made it.”
You are a double exposed photograph, the ghost of one reality stamped across another, caught between them until the fact that you’re dead has finished sinking in.
“What happens now?”
11.
“Hey, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“Did I pick this day, or did you?”
Humming. “It’s the right day, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I mean…sure. I just...”
“It is the right day, isn’t it?”
Gravel scuffing the rubber of your shoe.
“Yes. I just didn’t think it was, for you.”
“I used to think about it, you know, when I couldn’t sleep.”
“Perv.” The back of your hand slapping his chest.
“Not like that. I mean, yeah, definitely like that, but.”
Silence. You and him and whispering fabric.
Laughing.
And laughing.
And laughing again.
“But only sometimes. Others…”
His thought, trailing away. His lips,
the crown of your head, kissing so softly it has no sound.
“Well, you know. Don’t you?”
But you’re not sure you do.
12.
“C’mon.”
You walk across the yard side by side, fingers brushing, then lacing together. When you reach the house he holds the door open for you. You hesitate, looking out at the yard, past it to the road.
“Hey. Um. Dean?”
You worry that, with how you clung so tightly to this day with him, you have built this Heaven for yourself, brick by stricken brick. You wonder if you still want it, if this Dean isn’t really Dean, if all you get is a copy.
“Are we…us, now?”
You are so afraid, want to stay on the porch, sure you’ll see it isn't him once you get inside. You want to leave this perfect memory, of you and him about to make love, maybe, intact and untouched.
You don’t have the courage to ask:
Were we ever?
13.
Of all things, it's the dog that convinces you because the canine miracle bounding out of the house was never yours
But his, then his brother’s, then gone and you’re not the type of person who’d remember all dogs get to come here, too
14.
Dean takes you upstairs and you take each other’s
clothes off and it is both the same as and
different from the last time you were here.
He kicks the door closed, saying sorry to Miracle,
but he wants you for himself, right now.
You start to cry when he slides into you, because the
place in your heart you made for him no longer needs to be left empty.
He holds you while you shake with quiet little sobs, until
you start to rock your hips against him and you’re no longer sobbing because of what you lost.
First: He loves you fiercely, like you have a lifetime to
make up for and you love him the same way, because you do.
He flips you over and holds you against him and drives
into you again and again while you meet him thrust
for thrust and he grips your hip and bites your shoulder
and almost comes when you reach behind
you to pull his hair and moan his name as if it’s the only one you’ve ever known.
He almost comes, but he doesn’t because neither of you are ready for that. Yet.
Next: He loves you slowly, like you have all the time in
the world and you love him the same way, because you do.
He cages you in between his forearms and you
lock him in the circle of your legs and you arch
your back and dig your nails into his ass
and almost say you love him when he holds
your face and looks into your eyes as if you’re the only person he’s ever known.
You almost say it, but you don’t because neither of you are ready for that. Yet.
Last (for now): He fucks you, or maybe you
fuck him, because you want to and he wants to, too, so you do.
You hook your ankles over his shoulders and he
drags your ass high off the bed and he folds
you in half and drives himself so deep into you
that Heaven itself almost dissolves around you and
his cock in your cunt is the only thing either of you ever want to know again.
He starts to weep when he comes, because he must have his own
places in him that are empty, that you hope someday you can help him fill.
You hold him while he shakes with a lifetime worth of sobs, until
his open mouth against your breast is no longer mourning everything he never got to have.
Dean cradles your cheek to his chest and whispers into
your hair how happy he is and it is both the same as and
different from the first time you were here.
You throw open the door, he calls to Miracle,
who curls up at your feet, fur tickling your toes.
15.
Heaven
is a scrapyard in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
is a roadhouse just outside of Central City, Nebraska.
is a ‘67 Chevy with the windows down
and a tank that never runs out of gas.
is him kissing you for the first time since the last time.
is him telling you you’re making love.
is him saying the distinction matters
because you missed out on so much.
when you were alive.
bonus a/n : special thanks to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth for planting the seed that got me thinking about "grief that is everywhere all the time it colours everything", your brain is the gift that keeps on giving, bud. thank you 💝
Thank you so much for reading! Gratitude for likes, comments, reblogs and vibes.
a/n : I guess this wound up being a Dean Study in misogyny? With the promise of smut that I have written but...it's kinda meh? IDK, let me know if you'd read the rest and I might post it.
This is from a graveyard fic, not beta'd, with only a couple passes on content editing. I'm using these as an exercise to get back into sharing my writing, and a way to nail down my style (much of the graveyard's an exercise in stylistic whiplash...) -- more musings on the piece at the end.
2003
He was in Harrisburg when he got the text.
Malone Inn R104. Ghoul? Rookie needs backup.
Babysitting fresh hunters was something his Dad had started sending him out more and more for since Sam had left for college. Dean hated it. Butting heads with guys who had a few more years on him but way less experience wasn’t exactly the extra responsibility he wanted to prove his mettle, but John said it was good for him. That it would build character.
Bullshit. He thought. He had plenty of character already, but here he was anyway, following orders. By the time he pulled into the motel six hours later, he was singularly focused on two things: draining the lizard and getting the hell out of Malone.
“Lemme in, Rookie. I gotta piss like a mother.”
He barely registered her as he shoved into the room, dropping his duffel at her feet. The door didn’t latch on the bathroom and it hung ajar as his groan of relief drifted out. He wiped his hands on his pants and busied himself shedding layers, finally taking a moment to assess her.
She was sitting at the table, pen tucked in the corner of her mouth, newspaper in hand, bare feet up and tapping to a rhythm he couldn’t hear. She was cradling a can of Milwaukee in the crook of her elbow and another was sitting across from her, waiting for him. At least there’s beer.
“You’re Dean?” She knew he was, but it felt fair to confirm since the last text she’d received was: Sit tight. Sending Dean.
“Sure am, sweetheart.”
“Huh.” She looked at him over the paper, watching him for a moment before folding it in half and tossing it aside, plucking the pen from her mouth and starting to twirl it around her fingers absently. “Your Dad called me sweetheart. I think I like Rookie better, if I get to have a say.” That made Dean pause, mouth full of beer. He shrugged, nodded. It seemed fair enough to him. She dragged her chair around the table, invading the space beside him, palming the messy pile of clippings and notes beside her and shoving it across the table in front of him. “Show you what I've got, Coach?”
It was solid work. A little roundabout, definitely unrefined, inexperienced but competent. He let her walk through her process, offered a suggestion here or there, nodding his approval when she’d turn to him for it. When she’d lean in close, he could smell sweat and old beer on her, motel soap, and something earthier under that and Fuck. He wanted to press his face into the soft spot behind her ear and find out what else she smelled like.
“Dean?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, definitely still paying attention to the case, grabbing his beer again. “Yeah, Rook, looks like you got yourself a ghoul all right. You know how to kill one?”
“Silver.” He felt like he was giving her a pop quiz.
“That’ll slow ‘em down, but to gank it you gotta take the head.” She nodded slowly, like she was memorizing the answer she got wrong on a test. “You ever done that, Rookie?”
“First time for everything, right?” She grinned and drummed her hands on the table, sweeping everything back into a messy pile. “When do we head out?”
He laughed, a low, tired rumble, covering one of her hands with his, big and warm and all encompassing. “I need sleep, at least six hours, and I wouldn’t argue with a hot meal in the morning.”
“Diner’s not bad, coffee’s hot. As for sleep,” She looked over her shoulder at the bed. “No need to stand on ceremony. If you want it, I can take the floor.”
“Looks big enough to share.” He ran his thumb across the back of her hand absently, the corner of his mouth ticking up at the way the hairs stood up as he did so.
“Nah.” She pulled her hand away gently, but not before twisting lightly beneath his and giving a soft squeeze. It almost made him shiver. He looked up, caught her eyes and she gave him a sly smile and a wink. “Might not get your full six if we did that, huh?”
“Jesus Christ.” He muttered behind his hand, dragging it across his face, as he raised his eyes to the ceiling. She was laughing at him, low, almost silent, and she dropped her hand to his shoulder and let it run down his back until her fingers followed her as she went to unfurl her bedroll.
In his experience, working with women pretty exclusively involved saving them, and it always wound up the same way afterwards: tangled up in sheets and supplication, his name a memento crafted from tender mouths that would never forget who protected them from the horrors of the night. Once, a few years back, he had his ass saved by one of his Dad's contacts, an older woman with threads of silver in her blonde hair, and the way that mommy fantasy still made his insides twist into magma, he's not sure he'll ever fully unpack it.
He listened to her restless sleep that night, haunted moans that were the birthright of so many hunters. She wasn't waiting to be saved, that chapter had closed for her. He was here to hunt with her, and in the morning she looked at him like she was ready for him to lead her deeper into the darkness, not show her a way out. It clawed at his insides.
The coffee was hot, and the food was fine, just like she'd said it would be. She sat across from him in a comfortable, slow silence, tilting her head toward the slatted sunbeam that poured through the blinds covering the window. She pulled her denim clad knee up to her chest, coffee cup rolling back and forth across her lower lip, and he wanted to reach across the table and replace it with his thumb, fingers curling around her jaw as he pressed the soft, plump flesh back and forth. He wondered what it would feel like to press into her mouth and hold it open.
“You do this a lot? The…coaching thing.”
“Sometimes.” He shrugged, sharing a smile with her, gnawing at a strip of bacon. She'd ordered extra without asking and slid it between them to share. “Dad's still getting used to letting me work my own cases. So…” He drummed his fingers on the table, flipped his hand over on the table, palm open in a gesture like a shrug.
“Huh.” She nodded, two fingers ticking in the air at the waitress for the cheque, half smile twitching at her lips. “Sounds fun.”
“Not really.” He said it before he could catch himself and immediately looked contrite, cleared his throat and busied himself looking for his wallet. She’d already dropped cash on the table and reached across to close the billfold into his hand.
“Let's wrap it up, then.” She patted his hand before sliding out of the booth and heading for the door.
The rest was easy, just like he thought, and they split up to cover ground faster. He’d found the ghoul easily, taking its head with minimal scuffle. Just a matter for a blade. He took his time, rolling the tension out of his shoulders, satisfaction settling into him when he heard her cry out.
Fuck. His body slid back into the shape of a predator, coiled tight and ready, trying not to think about the echo of his father’s voice telling him he should’ve paid more attention, shouldn’t’ve left the girl on her own, should’ve kept his head in the game and not…
That voice in his head roared when he saw the thing gnawing at her neck, almost loud enough that he didn’t notice how she was fisting her hands into the jacket stretched across its back, hauling forward with her whole body. It was when he heard the sound, so raw and primal it tugged at something hot and needy, that he fixed on her with singular focus. He frowned. The angle was bad, he could tell already she didn’t have the grip to flip the thing over her shoulder, but then…she was twisting out from under its arm, jerseying it like a hockey player, slamming its face into her knee with a sickening crunch before planting a boot in the centre of its chest and sending it reeling backward.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, waving him off. She stumbled a few steps, reaching for something in the corner of the room. The pry bar spun in her hand, a tidy twelve inches of carbon steel flashing as she let a couple lazy swings dance around her. It was so fluid, so fucking elegant when she finally arced the notched tip up and lodged it behind the corner of its jaw, that same soft place he wanted to bury his face in her neck last night, before ripping mandible free from cranium, black blood splattering onto the floor in long, thick sheets.
“This enough to do the job?”
“Not quite.”
The sound of it dying was thick, unctuous, slicking between her fingers and seeping into the leather of her boots. He could hear it gurgle. He flipped his machete, palming the blade carefully and handing her the hilt.
“You got this, Rookie. One clean swing to take it off.”
She gripped it like it belonged in her hand. Chest heaving, eyes alight, she winked at him and took her one clean swing.
“First time for everything.”
His mouth went dry and his jeans felt tight, the coil of readiness still primed In him now shifting to another purpose as he closed the space between them, just infringing on her, studying the spatter of blood across her cheek.
“How’d I do, Coach?”
She tilted her face up towards his so that her breath, still ragged from exertion, ghosted over him in hot little puffs. Exhilaration was radiating off her in waves.
“That was…Awesome.”
Thank you so much for reading & sharing space.
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I appreciate you!
More Notes/Self Critique : This is a bit of a learning exercise for me, so by all means skip this entirely. I haven't written in a long time, so self reflecting in this way feels like scouring off some rust. If you feel like adding to this I, I'm a goon for discourse.
I think I was intending this to be like a multi part think where She shows up at various times through the series (I love a god damn missing scene fic) but I felt like I lost the thread on it, which is why it wound up in the graveyard.
I feel like this overall was too wordy, and too big-wordy for something so Dean centric. I would have pared this down further but it woulda taken a couple more passes and I would have likely still scrapped it.
I feel like, to the wordiness, it lacked....interiority? Or maybe just flow. This is where I think I would have wound up fully rewriting the thing.
I felt like I had a decent handle on Dean's character but not necessarily his voice (see above re: wordiness). I think I would have tried to balance out his grumpiness with his playfulness, since this is a pre-series Dean and I would want more S1 energy out of him than I' feel I delivered here.
Legit, how TF do people write action. The movie in my head looks cool, but even when I rewrite something six ways from Sunday, it still feels chunky blocky. This may even be a formatting thing.
a/n : This is the last part of my love song to young, scumbag Dean Winchester. What a fun time it's been educating our little darling. Also a very fun exercise in reviving something that was originally abandoned for so long. And now, here we are, with a whole ass fic and ideas for a sequel, what more could I ask for!
Thanks to everyone who's been so supportive. You are the actual.
“I don’t think I need it. But. I, uh. Yeah, I want you to.”
“You’re really into that, huh?” Her voice was low, hungry. She pressed soft kisses wherever she could reach. She took his wrist and brought it to her mouth, licking his fingers clean.
A lot of times, Dean figured girls exaggerated that kind of thing, going over the top like they’d seen it in a porno once but weren’t actually into it. It was still sexy, even if it felt kinda fake, but goddamn was it good when it was real. She was real. She was so into it she started sucking his fingers like they were his cock, spit dripping down her chin.
“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. He imagined what her mouth would feel like on him for real. “Yeah, I. I am. Into it.” He growled, bit her shoulder. Not too hard. “Into you.” He started fucking his fingers into her mouth, the tips of them brushed the back of her throat. She swallowed around them. “Fuck. I like.” He liked that she took charge. He liked being told what to do. Liked that he still felt like he was fucking her, not the other way around. He liked that he still felt like a man. It was frustrating, not knowing how to say any of it out loud. He wished she could tell him how to do that, too. “Yeah. I really like it.”
She hollowed out her cheeks, sucked hard on his fingers, slid them out with a pop. She turned onto her side to look at him, his hand dropped to her waist. Her skin was soft under his calluses. She scooted closer to him. Her bottom thigh pressed against his, the other leg slung high over his hip. His cock twitched, bumped into her cunt, making them both gasp.
“Gimmie a sec, okay.” She dragged down pillows, shoved one under him, huffed as she nestled her head onto the other. It felt nice and, even though his cock was aching, he didn’t feel impatient. She kept touching him, light and attentive, like she could listen to him through her fingertips, and he was so close to the radiating heat of her cunt that nothing else seemed to matter. “Do you have a way you like it? Or something you’ve always wanted to try?”
“Hm.” He closed his eyes, thought back. He’d tried his share of positions, had made the most of some pretty bendy partners in the past, but his mind came up blank. “I. I’m not sure. I like a good blowjob, obviously.”
“Oh, obviously.” He bet she gave great head. “But you deserve more than just a blowjob, you’ve done such a good job so far. What else?”
“I like when I can see my dick, y’know, when I fuck someone. Like if she’s on her knees in front of me.” He licked his lips, pictured doing that to her, standing beside the bed, one foot up on the mattress, holding her hips so he could drive into her with all his force. “Yeah, I like how hard I can fuck you that way too.”
“That.” She pulled his hips closer to hers with her leg, heel pressing into his ass, and shifted her angle so that he was just barely pressing against her slit. “That sounds really good.” She started to slowly glide over him, coating him in her wetness. “Do you wanna do that? Fuck me doggy style. Watch your cock slide in and out of me while you rail me.”
He thought about it, her pussy on his cock made it difficult to focus on anything else. He frowned. “No. I mean, yes, but not.” He opened his hip, spreading her leg wider around him, pressing more firmly against her. “Fuck I can hear how wet you are still, just sliding against you.”
“I told you, didn’t I?” He nodded, lost himself in the wetness of her mouth and the wetness of her cunt against him at the same time. He tried to catch her clit with his cockhead, loved her jolting against him when he did. She gasped, breaking contact, catching her breath. “So not doggy style, or, not right now. What else do you like, Dean?”
“I like this.” He hadn’t really thought about it but, when he said it, it felt right. “I like feeling your tits against me.” He pulled her tight, squeezed her against him, adding a little extra friction where her nipples dragged over his chest. “You feel good and. Warm, and strong.” He buried his face in her neck, careful of the ghoul bite hidden under the bandage there. He dropped the lightest of kisses over it and she gasped. “I wanna feel you everywhere.”
“Yeah?” Her arms tightened around him and she tipped her pelvis, lining him up, so the slow drag of his cock along her slit now started to press him against her entrance. “I. Yeah. Me too.” He slid his tip between her folds, flinching when she clenched around him, trying to draw him deeper. “God, Dean.” She was starting to sound fucked out, delirious. “You feel so. Fucking. Good.”
She pulled him away from her neck, pressed her forehead to his, holding his face as he worked his way into her. He felt her stretch around him, the tight, enveloping heat of her cleared his mind of all thought. He rocked, inch by tortuous inch, until his hips were flush with hers and he was buried, fully, in her cunt.
He pressed his forehead harder into hers, noses brushing against each other, their hips locked together. She felt so good. Different than he’d imagined. The sportfucking he’d expected them to get into would have been athletic, but the slowness of this, the closeness, it was like drowning in pleasure. She flooded his senses, saying and doing things to him that nobody had ever said or done to him before.
“This what you want?” Her walls tightened around him, her leg tightened around him too. “I. Dean. God, I need you to move soon or I’m gonna fucking lose it.” She nuzzled against him, trying to find his lips with hers and failing. “Tell me what it feels like to fuck me.” He found her, kissed her, pulled himself out of her and then slid back in. Her fingers dug into his hips, rolling them up against her as he started to find his pace. She whispered against his lips, softly, repeating like an incantation. “Tell me.”
“Fuck.” His voice was ragged and his thoughts felt like they were marbles, spilled across the floor. “You feel. So good. New.” He was whispering, pressing his face against hers, starting to snap his hips into her as much as their tangled limbs would allow. He was speaking before his thoughts could catch up with his mouth. “Like driving a car. Or. Shooting a gun for the first time.” Some far off part of his brain was telling him to stop talking, that what he was saying was stupid and fucked up and a total turn off. “Like. Like.” He never had to think about this shit when he fucked other girls, what he liked and how to say it. His brain wasn’t calling the shots right now, though, and she kept whispering to him to Tell me. Keep telling me, so he kept talking. “Fuck. When you finally get the hang of it. Ngh. And. Hn. And it feels like it’s yours.”
“Unh.” She whined against him, licking her tongue into the space between their lips. She clenched tight around him again. “What feels like it’s yours?”
“Your puss.” He thrust into it harder, as if to prove his point. “You’re gripping me so tight, I can’t.” He barked, hoarse and primal, when she grabbed his ass to meet his thrusts, forcing him deeper. “I can feel the end of you. I. She. You feel like you were made for me.” She cupped his cheek, bringing him down to meet her lips, soft but deep. It was really slow, like molasses or the flow of congealing blood, and he hated that that was his point of comparison. “I like being able to look at you. Kiss you.” He couldn’t quite say, Feels like making you mine, but he wanted to. His cock ached, the slow build in him itched behind his eyes. “God, I feel like I’m gonna explode.”
“Easy, Dean.” She took a slow breath and he followed her lead, nodding. He grabbed her leg, tucked her knee up higher, Pressed it up into her shoulder, and rolled them so she was on her back. Other leg freed, she brought that knee up to match, holding her shin to keep it from dropping down.
His eyes rolled back, his full weight over her and the change in position drove him that much deeper, made her feel that much tighter. He started slow, but it didn’t last long, the depth and sensation of her so, so, tight. Too hard to resist. He pistoned his hips down into her, skin slapping, the cunt slick sounds of his cock in and out of her keeping its obscene rhythm.
He felt so close to her, like she was this perfect little package, folded up underneath him. It felt so good, fucking her this hard without worrying about her drying out at all. She kept rolling her eyes back, clinging to his shoulders where her arms were pinned between them. She made the most incredible noises. She held onto him with the tips of her fingers, face pulling into a grimace, mouth dropping open. “Dean, you’re gonna make me come again.”
“Fuck.” He tried to keep his eyes open to watch her. “You want me to tell you what it feels like when you come on my cock?” The high whine that came out of her made him shiver, slam his hips down into her. He could feel her start to flutter around him. She nodded, kept nodding, her head lolling from one side to the other. He groaned out her name. “God, I can feel you, you’re almost there.” He dropped his hips harder, driving deeper. Her knees cinched in tighter on either side of his chest. “Fuck you’re squeezing me so tight, it. It hurts. Fuck, fuck. No, don’t stop, I like it. So tight. Feels.” He kissed her. “Holy shit. You’re. You’re gonna make me come too.” He felt his balls pull up, the base of his cock twitch. He groaned out her name, curled around her, face buried in her chest. “Can I?”
“Yeah.” She locked her ankles around his back and wriggled her arms free to grab firmly on his ass. “Fuck yeah, come with me, Dean.” She started fucking up into him, as much as her position allowed. She ground against him, squealing, cries getting higher and higher until he felt her twitch and clench even harder around him, and she forced his hips to a standstill and she tried to mount him from below.
His name had never sounded so perfect in his life, whiny and nasal and happy. It was what sent him over, rutting into her with a few stuttering thrusts. He imagined thick, sticky ropes of cum painting the inside of her with him, her cunt milking him ‘til he was dry.
He waited until his arms started shaking, holding himself over her, before pulling out and rolling to the side. He held himself up on his elbow to look at her pussy, red and swollen and leaking his cum and hers, creamy and wet and slathered across her lips.
“What does it look like?” It was so low, so sexy, the fuckdrunk way she pleaded for him to describe her freshly fucked cunt.
“Perfect.” He looked from her slit up to her face, back down. “You’re so.” He shook his head, leaning down so he was hovering over her. “Can I taste you? Us?” He swallowed the spit in his mouth to keep from drooling. “I’ve never done that before.”
“God, yeah.” She dropped the sole of one foot to his back and ran her fingers through his hair. “That’s so fucking hot, Dean.”
He kissed her inner thigh lightly, emulating the way she’d shown him to caress her there before. Light kisses along the outer lips first, taking his time to work his way to her core. He stuck his tongue out and dragged it over her from her asshole to her clit. She flinched a little, hand going to his cheek. “Gentle. I’m not sure I can take much more right now.”
He nodded, passing over her slowly, finding a slow rhythm, avoiding her clit with his tongue and his nose, lost in the flavour of him and her and them together on his tongue like it was the first thing he’d ever tasted, stopping when she started to squirm away from him.
“One more, okay?” He whispered into her, a supplication to this haven of delight.
“You asking me or her?” It made him laugh, the vibration so close to her made her tremble.
“Her.” Her body rocked and he could see her pussy clench and unclench in approval. “She says yes.”
Tongue out again, he curled the tip trying to keep it soft, pressed deeper between her folds collecting as much of the creaminess still seeping from her into his mouth as he could and holding it there. He surfaced, easing her legs down, rubbing her thighs and hips and belly, came up to meet her, presenting her with his open mouth, pearly cum resting neatly in the curl of his tongue.
“Oh.” She shuddered as she leaned up for his kiss, lips parting, letting him press his tongue into her mouth, suckling and nibbling at him delicately to make sure nothing was wasted. She dropped back onto the pillows, running her tongue over her lips, hovering her fingers there. “You little freak. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Was it.” His chest tightened with shame, felt like it was caving in on itself. “Was that okay?”
“Oh hell yeah.” She grabbed him, kissed him roughly. She pressed him against her chest, cheek settling against the swell of her tits. “I don’t get surprised like that too often.”
He nodded, relaxed against her. He let his arm fall across her belly, burying his face in the valley between her breasts. He was quiet for a while, their breathing slowed and synchronized.
The room eventually got too cold to stay atop the blankets, and they crawled under them awkwardly. Dean flopped back across her chest, knee thrown over her leg, pulling the blankets around both of them.
“Comfy?” She giggled, sleepy and soft.
“You’ve got great boobs.” He gave one a squeeze, leaving his hand covering it. She snorted quietly. “What?”
“Nothing.” She shifted, getting more comfortable. “I do have great boobs.”
“Mhm.” He was almost asleep. “You’re pretty cool, too.”
“I know.” She laughed, dragged her nails over his scalp. He hummed, content. “Go to sleep, Dean.”
He woke before dawn, still curled around her. He moved carefully, didn’t wake her, and grabbed his phone when he went to the bathroom to take a piss.
Two texts from his Dad, both sent yesterday. One with new coordinates and one that just said Sitrep?
He thumbed the buttons. Confirmed ghoul. Rookie’s fine. Job done.
He let it mellow, didn’t want to wake her with flushing the toilet. He’d shower later, grab a whore’s bath at a truck stop if he wound up on the road longer than a day. He didn’t mind the slight tackiness around his crotch or the smell of sex clinging to his skin.
He dressed silently, glad he hadn’t bothered to bring his kit in from the car. Clothes on, boots in hand, he spun his ring on his finger, deliberating. He looked at her still asleep, cocooned in blankets, then down at his phone, message typed and waiting to be sent. Leaving Malone now.
He wanted to go over and kiss her hair. Catch a final whiff of her scent. Say goodbye, thank you, something instead of just skulking out like he did most of the time. He couldn’t, didn’t know how to. Not after all of it.
He wasn’t embarrassed, there’s no shame in hot sex, but he felt too raw after. Like an undressed wound. Whatever she had unlocked in him didn’t feel right, couldn’t settle, without her there to anchor it. It prowled around his gut and gnawed at him when he thought about how soft and open he’d been with her. He wondered if that meant anything different about him. It made his skin crawl and he suddenly wanted to be far, far away from that feeling. He hit send, flipped his phone closed, shoved it in his pocket.
Crossing the room, he paused, glancing at the pad of paper beside the room phone. He grabbed a pen, scribbled a short note, and was out the door before the pen had rolled from where he’d dropped it on the pad to the floor.
“Do you want me to say it? Y’know, the thing people say.”
dean winchester x fem!reader
summary : Dean copes after John’s death. set after 2x02
CW : Grief. Sexual content. Casual drinking & driving. Reference to character death (John Winchester)
Word Count : 5.8k
a/n : This is another graveyard fic. It’s complete but not much editing’s been done on it. I'm using these as an exercise to get back into sharing my writing, and a way to nail down my style. Thanks to everyone who's encouraged me to finish and post these.
The sun is still low when you pull into the yard, but the sky is that crisp, cloudless blue that promises a sweltering afternoon. You roll to a stop and you kill the engine on your truck, finishing your cigarette and grabbing the backpack beside you and hopping out of the cab.
He’s shaded by the tin roof of the garage, rebuilding Baby’s engine block, his brother leaning on the picnic table reading a book with headphones in. The car was abused, normally unmistakable right down to the way she purred, but her frame was still bare in places.
You don’t notice him, or the car, and he watches you silently as you shoulder your pack, shielding your eyes despite the aviators covering half your face. He’ll catch up with you in a bit, he thinks, he just needs a little more time.
They’ve been back from the Roadhouse for a week, maybe two? He hadn’t felt like himself, out in the world, had popped off at Sam on a hunt that should have been nothing but jokes, his little brother’s phobia served up on a platter for him to taunt Sam with. He’d biffed it with Jo, who was hot and into him, just gave up under a flag of wrong place, wrong time. It was one thing to fake it, wearing the wrong skin with strangers, entirely another when he knows you’ll see through his facade.
So, he watches you make your way across the yard to the house, bare legs long and dewy behind the knees, a lone bead of sweat tracing down toward your ankle that you brush away absently as you climb the stairs. You disappear behind the tarp on the porch, but he hears the screen on the kitchen door slam and the distant sounds of your greeting drift out the window and into the yard, no breeze to usher it away.
Inside, the heat is oppressive, even with the windows unshuttered and opened wide. You can see dust motes floating across every filtered sunbeam the morning has to offer and the musty smell of mouldering paper, leather and vellum hangs thick and humid around the house.
“Delivery for ya, Singer!” You holler into the emptiness, setting your pack down on the kitchen table and heading for the fridge, standing in front of the open door and pressing a bottle to your neck before opening it and taking a swallow. You hear boots on the stairs up from the basement and turn to see Bobby wiping sweat from his brow before tugging his cap back on his head.
“Get outta my fridge, girl.” He scolds, his face a mask of irritation but the look in his eye betrays his begrudging amusement. “You’re gonna run up my bill.”
You laugh, holding out a beer for him before bumping the fridge closed with your hip. He follows you over to inspect the burlap wrapped bundles you pull out of your pack and rest on the table. “Got two more for your collection.”
“So, whaddya figure?” He pulls on some work gloves before flipping open the cloth, studying them. ”Ain’t got all day.” He looks at you expectantly, your tutelage underway. “And get yourself some gloves, willya? Last thing we need is you cursin’ yourself before noon.”
You grab your own gloves from your bag and lean over the table, presenting the two items, a flask of curses and a wand of truth crafted from a fir switch. He listens, asks questions, answers yours, sips his beer, and then bundles everything up and brings it to the library to stow away safely for the time being. “Winchester boys’re here.” He explains as he does so. “Only fools more likely’n you to get into something they shouldn’t, just for fun.”
“Can’t argue there.” You snort, smiling fondly. “Haven’t seen them in a dog’s age. It’ll be good to…” You trail off, furrowing your brow at the two journals laid open on his desk, one written in a hand that is so familiar, the other clearly being used to transpose in Bobby’s shorthand. “Bobby, whatcha got John’s journal for?” He frowns, fingers tapping on the scrapbooked pages, and lets out a burdened sigh.
“Balls…” He flips the journals closed around each other to mark his place in each of them. “You ain’t heard?”
“Heard?” He's cagey, hand still pressed to the battered leather, and it gives you a sick, sinking feeling. “No. Heard what?”
“John got his ticket punched.” It kicks you in the gut and you curse, fingers brush the leather cover of John’s journal just next to Bobby’s. “Couple weeks back. Damn demon.” You gape at him, thought demons were practically a myth, but he nods. “Same thing that killed Mary.”
“Sonuvabitch.” You lift your eyes to the ceiling, to the sky, and tip your bottle up in acknowledgment even though it feels more likely, if a demon got him, John probably wasn’t hanging out Upstairs. “Sam and Dean?”
He gives you that classic Singer shrug that says if he knows, he ain’t tellin’. You cover Bobby’s hand with yours, a silent thank you for bearing bad news.
Sam is in the kitchen rinsing a couple mugs when you bring the empties to the sink. He doesn’t hear you come in, nodding along to a discman shoved in his back pocket. He doesn’t expect the sweat on sweat stickiness of your hand on his arm and he flinches when he looks down at his elbow and sees you setting the bottles on the counter beside him.
“Hey, Sam.” He blinks at you in surprise and you move off a pace, giving him room. He pulls out his headphones, still buzzing with thin tinny music you can’t quite make out. ”Thought you’d’ve seen the truck.” He’s studying your face, calculating the way you look up at him with your head tilted and the shadow of a frown. He nods, barely, and relaxes just enough to pull you into a hug. “I’m sorry about your Dad.” You mumble into his chest and his chin falls to the top of your head. He leans some of his weight into you and his shoulders slump, as if some of the scaffolding that holds him together is giving way. It’s too hot to be touching for this long and you can feel the dampness of his sweat seeping into your shirt. You tighten your arms around him anyway, as if it could make any difference at all.
“C’mon.” He gives you a squeeze and then pats your shoulder, as if to tell you that’s enough for now, comfort still closer to salt in the wound rather than a salve for it. “Dean’s outside.” He lets you go and grabs a couple bottles of water from the fridge and heads back out to the garage. You snag a few more beers as well and follow him out, waving to Bobby as you go.
Dean’s underneath your truck when he hears the two of you walk up, halfway through changing your oil. He doesn’t bother to slide out to greet you, but when you kick his boot he grunts and nudges you back, leaving his foot next to yours.
It’s been a long time since you’ve seen each other, four…no, five years since all of you were together last. He thinks it feels like forever since that first time the three of you were shoved into one side of a diner booth, eager teenagers practicing the liturgy of John Winchester, sharing a sacrament of burnt bacon and stale coffee. You had said Yes, Sir and No, Sir, dutifully, even though you thought that sort of thing was bullshit, and rattled off facts like credentials in a valiant effort to convince his father to let the three of you drive across the state to chase a lead you’d dredged up with Sam over the periodicals and microfiche in the library.
Unbelievably, it had worked, and Dean feels haunted suddenly by that morning: the amused look on his Dad’s face as you made your case, cajoling him in a way that he’d never let his boys get away with; how he crossed his arms and leaned against the side of the Impala as the three of you piled into your Ranger, poor Sammy shoved into the back on a fold down jump seat; the finality of his hand connecting with the door as he sent you off and told you to be back in three days, no excuses. He’s unsure if the memory is bitter, sweet or a bit of both and he sighs, shaking his head to dispel it.
At some point in his reverie the oil finishes draining and he replaces the plug, tightens it, slides out from under the cab, making sure he doesn’t spill the pan full of spent oil. He squints as the midday sun hits his eyes and takes a minute to just look at you, blinking as they adjust to the light again.
You’re stretched out on the hood of one of the scrapped cars, reclining on the cracked windshield while Sam leans against the side. The two of you are close enough to share his headphones, each of you with one bud tucked into an ear, nodding in unconscious synchronicity to the music he can’t hear. You’re talking off and on, mostly about your fascination with cursed and magical objects and the collection you’re amassing in Bobby’s basement. It’s not a bad picture, the three of you in the yard, sweating in the sun, comfortable. Normal. Well, sort of.
Dean’s always been a little envious of how simpatico you and Sam are, even though you and he had so much in common. You were almost the same age as Dean and both of you were the same kind of rowdy. You’d tell bad jokes and laugh like drunk hyenas, arguing about music: classic rock versus punk, metal versus grunge. Still, you always kept your guard up more with Dean, just a little, just enough to sting.
He replaces your oil filter and funnels in fresh engine oil, adding Lucas for some extra TLC for your girl. He takes a final look and lets the hood drop closed, wipes his hands on his jeans, comes around the front end and strides over to you and Sam, scrubbing his face with a clean rag.
“Hey, Dean.” He returns your smile with one that would rather be a smirk and reaches to accept the sweating, unopened bottle you extend to him: a greeting, a thank you, maybe just a beer. “You didn’t have to do that, y’know.”
“I know.” He pops the top, takes a long drink, and you watch his throat bob as he swallows, the angles of his jaw and neck accentuated by grime and sweat and heat. He catches you watching him and does smirk this time, a satisfied curl in his gut. He lingers on your mouth as your tongue flicks out to sweep your lower lip, unconsciously doing the same. “Don’t mind, she deserves it. Saves Bobby the trouble, too.”
He knows he shouldn’t entertain it, the little pit of desire that burrows into him when he’s around you. You told him not to once, long ago, and he’s tried, really tried, to not look at you like that since, to be the good friend you deserve. He quit calling you darlin’, or sweetheart, or doll. He still wants you to believe he respects you so badly, but he’s so damn tired of fighting his wandering mind lately. The catalog of delights that runs through it when he looks at you, basking in the mid-summer sun, is so tempting and it feels like such a relief to think about you, warm and wet and comforting, instead of everything else.
“I thought you said you were gonna start taking better care of her.” His voice is thick and gravelly, doing a poor job of concealing his thoughts.
“I take plenty good care of ‘er.” You huff, eyes hidden behind your sunglasses. “Sue me for not being a grease monkey.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Please. As if either of you can afford a lawyer.” Sam laughs at both of you and it’s infectious, spreading to you in a giggle while Dean contracts a chuckle himself.
“Let’s go for a drive.” You suggest, surprising yourself, looking between him and Sam. “Gotta run the engine anyway, right? We can head to that spot up the Big Sioux. Catch a little shade.”
“Yeah.” Dean looks at the sky and closes his eyes and thinks about air rushing through the windows of your truck, cooling the sweat on his face. He’s barely left Bobby’s in weeks and suddenly feels like something is crawling under his skin. He can’t tell if it’s grief or nostalgia or just the lust he’s supposed to ignore, but he suddenly needs to move. ”Why not, Bobby’ll want us to make a beer run soon anyway.”
“I’ll pass.” After all the times when his smaller self had to fold up his limbs, half hanging over Dean’s shoulder to fit in the back half of your truck, Sam isn’t interested in seeing how poorly he’d fit now. Plus, Dean seems more like his old self than he has in a while, it’s probably good for him to get away for a couple hours, from Sam and Bobby and the battered carcass of his beloved car. “I wanna check out what you brought in.” You give him a thumbs up and your empty beer and take a lap around the bed to check all the hatches of your topper are secure before hopping into the cab. “Bring food back with you.”
“Sure. Might be late, though.” Dean jogs back from the garage pulling a clean shirt over his head, slides in shotgun, leaning against the passenger door, and immediately flipping through your box of cassettes.
He watches you pull two cigarettes from the pack tucked into the sun visor, circling the flame of your Bic with your hand as you light them. You take a long inhale, keeping the filter of one held tight between your teeth as you offer the other to him. Smoke curls around your face, wreathing you in a gauzy haze, and when you grin at him it’s all white teeth and mischief. You look wild to him in a way he remembers, but never craved the way he does right now. “Fuck it.” He takes the smoke from you and sets it to his lips for a haul, lets his eyes close, expression leaving him entirely as he lets the heady rush of that first delicious drag wash over him. He shoves Physical Graffiti tape into the deck and cranks it. “Drive.”
Your tires spin and spit dust as you peel out of the lot and onto the road. You don’t talk for most of the drive, leave the engine running so he can listen to music as you dip into a gas station and grab a case of beer for Bobby, plus a six pack of cans for the road, and a pack of jerky that you toss to him along with two of the cans. You tug open the back of the cab with a creak and dump a bag of ice and the remaining cans from the sixer into a cooler. You keep yours low as you crawl out of town, forcing yourself to be discreet until you hit back country roads that don’t have addresses anymore, only fire route numbers.
He doesn’t say it, but he likes your truck, even though you neglect her. He likes you in your truck, always thought she suited you, this ‘92 Ford Ranger. She’s a beat up brown and chrome beast, starting to rust around the box and body, with a mismatched white topper you got second hand. He likes the languid way you drive, like you could do it in your sleep, likes the collection of cassette tapes you have still peppered with a handful of “Dean’s Mix”es. He even likes the way it smells—not bad or grody, but lived in. Loved. It reminds him of Baby, and the way you talk about her sometimes, fond and familiar, makes some part of him feel seen.
Or maybe it’s just a truck, he thinks, and he’s being a bit of a fucking girl about it all because his car is a barely salvaged wreck-in-progress, and being here with you, hot air whipping through the cab as you wind along the road, reminds him of how it felt before he became this man whose life has now been bartered, not once but twice, for someone else’s. The corners of his mouth turn down under the weight of his guilt, forever gnawing at his insides, knowing that two lives paid is a price far higher than his short and violent one is worth.
He jumps when you grab his leg, dropping your speed so you can hear each other without fully yelling over the din. He meets your stare as you clock him over the top of your aviators, eyes flicking between the road and the grimace he hadn’t realized had spread across his face. It looks like you’re thinking about something for long enough that he snaps at you to spit it out. “Jesus, Dean, I didn’t even say anything.” His expression doesn’t change and he keeps his eyes trained on you, staring you down. You roll your eyes at him. “Seriously, dude. What?”
“Just, don’t.” He sighs like a nail in a tire, deflates the same way. It feels like you’re pitying him, he can feel it under his fingernails. It makes him want to claw at something until it bleeds. “Don’t.” He starts again and drops his gaze to look down at the beer in his hand. “I know you know, okay?”
You nudge your sunglasses back up your nose and turn your attention back to the road, your lips forming a thin line. You lean on your arm already crooked out the open window and let the road whip by for a while without a word.
“Yeah, Singer told me.” You don’t know if he hears it when you finally say it, don’t think it would really matter, and you lose yourself in your own thoughts until you turn off the road onto a fire route, slowing as the truck bumps and jostles over washed out potholes and exposed rock.
You back down a shallow embankment and shift into park, turning to face him even though he still won’t look at you. It’s not the same place you used to go to, but it’s shady and it feels cooler by the river, even though you can’t jump in.
“Do you want me to say it? Y’know, the thing people say.” You ask so frankly that his head snaps around to look at you, you think his eyes are shining, but it could just be a trick of the light. “I can, if you want. But I can pretend Bobby didn’t tell me anything, too. We can sit on the tailgate like we used to, drink a couple beers, hack a few darts and I can talk bullshit until you’re ready to head back.” You’ve slid your sunglasses up onto your head so he can look you in the eye, and he thinks about what you’re saying and how long you just sit there, letting him decide, until he nods at the bed of your truck. You nod back, consider reaching out to him but think better of it, and pop open your door. “Spare deck in the glove box.”
He grabs the extra pack of American Spirits, only having to rummage a little for them while you pull out the cooler, and by the time you have the tailgate down and the back panel of your topper flipped up he’s shaken off the pall that fell over him on the drive. He lets you talk at him, stretched out to face each other across the open tailgate of your truck.
You tell him about all the weird shit you find hidden under floorboards and behind the walls of old houses when you’re working your day job and he tells you about the bugs he and Sam dealt with at the haunted housing development. You insist that there’s a business in ghostbusting for contractors and he laughs, honest-to-god laughs, for the first time since…well, since. It feels good and it feels wrong and he feels like the heat and the beers are getting to him. You toss a couple handfuls of ice into a canteen and share it with him. The water isn’t quite cold and it’s a little stale, but it’s refreshing.
You get up to pop a squat and he lies down on his back, looking at the sky, still cloudless, still blue. He sits up a little when you come back and nudge his shoulder so you can settle in again. You let him pillow his head in your lap as you talk more shop. You card your fingers through his hair when he tells you about the little boy he saved from drowning. He hums, closing his eyes, letting himself believe it when you say he was probably that kid’s hero now. God, if only the rest of his life could be that easy.
He’s a little buzzed, but so are you, and he thinks about how soft you are, your thigh still plush under him despite the strength he knows is there. He likes it. He turns his cheek into you and nuzzles into you, stubble scraping across sensitive skin, and his breath is so warm it sends a shiver through you. “You feel nice.” He murmurs and while his lips really aren’t that close to brushing against you when he says it, your skin tightens and pickles into gooseflesh as if they had.
“Dean.” You rest your hand on his shoulder, fingers splaying across the top of his chest, and you hold your breath, waiting to see if he’ll heed your warning. He doesn’t move but also doesn’t retreat, and you stay there in the liminal space on the edge of the one abiding rule between you.
You’ve been here before, just a handful of times, after too many drinks, too much adrenaline, needing too much comfort. His hands wander where they shouldn’t, some tempting bit of praise slipping out, testing the boundary of your resolve. You almost faltered once, the very first time, pinned against a wall with his knee between your legs, hot whispers of “Come on, baby, don’t you want to” tempting you like a curse against the shell of your ear until your fisted hand against his shoulder brought his eyes back to meet yours and he saw as well as heard you tell him “No.”
He’d apologized, awkward and adolescent but sincere, and when he asked you why not you told him honestly that you didn’t want him to treat you differently. You didn’t want him to call you pet names or look at you like there wasn’t anything else to you but what was between your legs and then, once he was bored of that, forget about you entirely. “You treat girls like shit, Dean, so I’d rather stay one of the boys.”
“Sorry.” He whispers and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers with yours atop his chest and you feel your chest tighten again. He turns to look up at you and his eyes are a stormy green before he closes them again. “Don’t…” He licks his lips and presses his fingertips into the back of your hand. “Just don’t say it. Okay?” He echoes what you asked earlier and you nod, understanding, and then squeeze his hand back gently because his eyes are still closed.
He tells you about his Dad.
Not just about what happened at the end, but all the things he’s remembered about him since. He doesn’t look at you, not even when his voice cracks with a mix of sorrow and rage, his lips wet and trembling, and a few stray tears escape the dam of his eyelashes. He holds your hand and he leans into the soft scrape of your fingernails at his temple and behind his ear, curling into the nape of his neck in your lap. You don’t say the thing, even though your heart swells and aches with it for him. You’ll hold onto it until he’s ready, even if he never is.
You light a cigarette when he’s finished and share it with him, letting his lips ghost across your fingertips as you hold the filter for each drag he takes. He doesn’t let go of your hand until he rolls up to sitting and slips off the tailgate. He stretches, the late afternoon casting long shadows around where you’re parked. You start closing up the back of the truck, tossing your cigarettes and the half-full canteen in through the open window of the cab.
When you return to him he turns to face you with a look that is raw and needy, his fingers sliding down your arm to catch your hand and bring it almost, almost, to his lips for a kiss. His name falls from your lips, the same warning as before, a halfhearted defence against whatever he’s about to ask you.
He wants to tell you how soft you are and how good you smell and how he wants to taste every part of you and bury himself in you as if it might fill the gaping void he feels inside him. He wants to call you sweetheart and mean it, ravish you until he forgets himself entirely. He wonders if he can fuck himself out of existence, if you would let him try to do it with you. He wants to kiss your fingers and talk dirty to you until you beg him to fuck you, like all the other girls do, but he knows you don’t want that from him so he tried not to entertain it.
“Please.” He can’t treat you like one of the boys, he thinks, so he pulls your hand to his chest, just above his heart and he looks you dead in the eye, and he begs. “Just once. I need…” It. You. Everything. “Please.”
He says your name like it will save him and you squeeze his hand with a sigh. “Okay.” You can give him this. “Yes, just this once.” He is enveloping you, hands running up your back to your shoulders, down to your hips, into the back of your shorts, skimming up your front to cup your breast between you, always pressing forward until your back hits something solid and warm that rocks against your weight.
When you fuck it’s fast, functional. He hoists you up around his hips, your body an exercise in tensegrity, each limb extended to girder the carnal architecture of your body and his and the hard plane of the side of your truck pressing into your back.
Your bicep aches, burns, gripping the bar of the rack on your topper, holding yourself aloft. Your other arm is crooked around the back of his neck, keeping him close, the smell of sweat and grease and beer thick between you as you move together.
Your faces are so close you have to tilt your head, just a little, to not be suffocated by the hot gusts of his exhales. You can almost taste his lips, you feel the dampness of his spit when he licks them leaving them glistening with want. He doesn’t kiss you. You don’t kiss him.
The way he’s holding you doesn’t afford much in the way of finesse or force. One of his hands palms your ass, fingers clawing at the crotch of your shorts and underwear to pull them aside enough for him to bury himself in you. It’s awkward, but in a kind of frantic, desperate way that only serves to deepen the ache between your legs. His thrusts are shallow, his cock hot and hard, stirring your heat, not wanting to lose the tension that’s keeping your hips pinned.
Your back arches and you start to shake as you roll against him. Your knees stay cinched at his waist. You use the strength of your thighs to alternate between helping him pump into you and grinding down, dragging him as close as you can, chasing friction and the delicious spark you feel when your clit catches between you with just enough pressure.
He cups your cheek with his free hand and the way his eyes bore into yours, Christ, it sears into you like he could mark your soul with a look alone. He never breaks your gaze and the intensity of that makes up for any creativity lost in the hopeless way he’s rutting into you.
“St-stay…” he half stammers your name and brushes his thumb across your cheekbone when your eyelids start to flutter, back arching a little more to press your breasts against him. “Stay with me.”
You know what it must mean to him, so secluded in his grief and guilt, so you keep your gaze locked on his, bringing yourself back to it with each delirious roll of your eyes. It’s the same way he struggles to keep his eyes open, intent, focused on you. You can feel yourself fraying, the seams that separate your bodies unravelling as he finds that perfect angle, each rock into you nudging you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. You can feel yourself starting to clench around him, draw him deeper, drag him with you to the brink.
“Dean.”
It’s barely a sound, but it guts him. Your mouth hangs open just a little, soft, huffing ah ah ahs keeping time with the rhythm where your bodies are joined. You claw at him, your legs tightening around him in a vice as pleasure, at once both white hot and freezing, washes over and through you. You dig your heels into his back, chasing that wave, and rock against him hard enough to almost make him stumble backward.
His grip on your face tightens, just enough to command your attention, forever keeping your eyes on him. He gnaws at the space between you, jaw tense as his spine goes rigid and his eyes go wide and he follows you, almost crushing you as he tries to press himself deeper into you when he comes.
The syncope of your climaxes fading, you can hear your breathing tangled in tandem with his. It rushes back with the rest of your senses and you feel consumed by him, completely. You finally break eye contact, letting your eyelids slide close and your head tip back to rest against the truck. He leans into you, letting his forehead rest against the side panel beside your ear and his ragged panting echoes in the cavern he’s created there. The steady weight of him against you is enough to hold you up now and you let your arms wrap loosely around him.
It feels like you stay there, wrapped around each other, for a long time. Long enough for your bodies to harmonize, hearts keeping time with each other, finding synchronicity in the space between your ribs.
He is gentle with you as he slides out, making sure you’re sturdy on your feet before slipping the condom off and tucking himself back into his jeans. His arm is still backed against the Ranger, caging you in, blocking you from prying eyes that aren’t there as you rearrange yourself into something decent. You take your time, feeling slow to return fully to your legs, and keep a soft hand on him to ground you.
“Fuck me…” You still sound breathless, astonished, shaking your head as if that could dispel the heady senselessness you feel.
“Pretty sure I just did.”
You giggle, fingers curling against his chest and he preens as if he’s more pleased with himself for making you laugh than he is for making you come.
You straighten, patting him softly on the cheek, fingers lingering at the corner of his jaw for a moment. He leans into it, wetting his lips and pressing them together, studying your face. The tenderness of it is dangerous and you both know it.
“You can say it now.”
You think your heart breaks a little as he lets you cradle him, finally ready for the words you’ve had on offer all day, and how darkly funny it is that they stick in your throat now that he’s asking for them. It all suddenly feels so insufficient and you feel too stunned and stupid and still thick from pleasure to find the words to make it meaningful. You bring his forehead to rest against yours anyway, thumb caressing his jaw, breath mingling.
“I’m sorry your Dad died.” You can feel his breath catch a little, feel his brow furrow as he lets the words sink in. “I know how much you miss him.” He nods against you, alternating between holding his breath and gasping for air to keep himself from crying. “It isn’t your fault.” You feel him fight against you at that, pressing all of himself harder against you, gritting his teeth against the words. “It’s not. I promise it’s not.” Your own tears slip across your face and let out a small, pained sob, just for him. “I’ll miss him too.”
He moves to bury his face in your neck, pinning your hand between his cheek and your shoulder. He lets you hold him, begging you to keep him together with his whole body.
Eventually, you pull your hand from his face and thread it through your hair, as if taming the wildness there would slow your still racing heart. “You wanna drive back?” You nod to the cab of the truck and hold your keys out to him, maybe trying to diffuse some of the intensity that lingers between you.
“Nah.” He shakes his head and holds the door open for you to slide in behind the wheel. “I like it when you drive.”
You’re both silent, not bothering with music for the drive. You don’t rush back and he’s grateful for it. He knows that things will be the same when you get back to Bobby’s, grief will be waiting for him. One afternoon of hot and heavy comfort is hardly enough to calm that tide.
He is content, for now, and lets himself enjoy it.
More Notes/Self Critique : This is a bit of a learning exercise for me, so by all means ignore. If you feel like adding to this I, I'm a goon for discourse.
I'm realizing I love writing Dean from early seasons. I feel a whole lotta ways about how his character changes at this point in the series, so I really enjoyed seeing whether I could express that narratively instead of just yelling about it at people as is my usual wont.
I actually was pretty happy with this, though I wasn't quite sure if the wrap up felt satisfying to me or not. I had more written, but it felt like it was taking them somewhere beyond the scope of this story.
I feel like I struggle to utilize non-central characters that I include sometimes, so I tried pretty hard to make Sam and Bobby purposeful in this. I think I got there with Bobby, but might've fallen short with Sam. It felt like good practice, though.
a/n : I guess this wound up being a Dean Study in misogyny? With the promise of smut that I have written but...it's kinda meh? IDK, let me know if you'd read the rest and I might post it. This is from a graveyard fic, not beta'd, with only a couple passes on content editing. I'm using these as an exercise to get back into sharing my writing, and a way to nail down my style (much of the graveyard's an exercise in stylistic whiplash...) -- more musings on the piece at the end.
“Hurry up and you can find out.”
He found her stretched out on the bed, waiting for him. Naked, over the sheets, lights on, legs spread like something out of a skinmag.
Sure, her boobs weren’t as big as a pinup girl’s, but they were real and they bounced when she moved in a way you just don’t see with silicone. She was softer than the models, a little rounder. Not too much, just enough to make her curves inviting. It gave her stomach a little ripple when she breathed. He decided that was pretty sexy.
She looked strong, too, which the glossy girls usually didn’t. He had seen it in action, possessed by want watching her swing a crowbar with force that seemed effortless. Muscle coiled around her thighs in taut bands, flexing when she moved. Her arms were the same, toned but not mannish, just definition squaring off her shoulders against her collarbones. You never saw that in the porn mags but he thought that was really sexy, too. He wanted to toss a chick around as much as the next guy, but a girl who could climb him like a tree if she wanted to? You just didn’t get that every day.
She touched herself, staring at him, fingertips on her chest and belly, watching him take in the show. He waited until she pulled him onto the bed with her to cover her with his body, pressing his semi into her hip.
“Squeaky clean?” She ran her fingers up his chest, really light, really slow, biting her lips as she watched his skin pucker into goosebumps. It tickled, made him jerk away. He pressed his hand into her hip, bent to kiss her.
“Sure, squeaky clean.” It sounded dumb when he said it, but it was cute and sexy when she’d asked him. He shook it off, focused on kissing her. It was deep, hungry, licking and biting in turn until her lips were puffy and swollen. A string of saliva connected them when he pulled away, and he dipped his head to capture it with his mouth when it dripped across her chin.
Her hips were irresistible, felt even better than they looked under his hands, against his dick. He pulled and squeezed, eager to feel her, and slid his hand lower to press one leg open. “Easy, Tiger. Start a little lighter for me.”
“Sure.” He frowned against her neck, adjusted his touch, continued to kiss her. Her fist was in his hair again, pulling so hard it felt good. He let her use it to guide him where she wanted his mouth, easing him away from the fresh dressing. He slid his hand up over her inner thigh. He wanted to feel her heat.
“Relax, Dean. You got somewhere to be?” She laced their fingers together, brought them back down to trail lazy circles back and forth. He kissed her, tried to pull their joined hands up towards the patch of hair between her thighs.
“C’mon, enough with the teasing.” He grunted, didn’t like how whiny he sounded, like he was being a little bitch. He tried to pull his hand up again. “Wanna feel you.”
“Dean.” Her tone lost its playfulness, turned firm. She closed her legs, gripped his hand tight and pulled it up between their bodies. He was trapped far away from her cunt and couldn’t even fondle her tits.
“What’s your problem?” His nostrils flared, angry. Frustrated. Embarrassed? He didn’t get shut down, not twice in a night. “You’re giving my fuckin’ dick whiplash.”
“Poor baby.” She snapped at him, rolled her eyes, and leaned back on her elbows. Hand set free, he sat back on his heels. He glared at her. “What? Am I supposed to just lie back and take what you give me?”
“I–”
His mouth hung open, blinking at her stupidly. She was being mean and…he liked it? Heat flared up his chest and across his cheeks, part shame and part arousal. His father’s voice was there telling him he should’ve been able to handle her. He’d sent him one hell of a woman, a character building fuck, and Dean balked like some bush league pantywaist.
“No.” He hated this, felt like a let down. A disappointment. It was making him lose his hard on. “I’m just trying to make you feel good.”
“Then why won’t you listen to me?”
“I–” Dean never tried to be an asshole. He really didn’t. Nobody wanted to be a bad guy, he just wasn’t very good at the alternative. “I thought I was, okay? You don’t have to be such a bitch.”
“Well, back atcha.” She crossed her arms over her chest and it pushed her boobs up. He wanted to get his mouth on them, they were great boobs. “Haven’t you ever had someone tell you how to fuck them before?”
“Uh.” That made him feel…something. He frowned, actually considered the question. He scoured his memory, mostly his spank bank, for an answer. Aside from a couple MVPs, the women he’d slept with just blended together. “I don’t think so?”
“Christ. Seriously?” She sighed, let her arms drop and scooted a little closer to him. “Look, you can’t just manhandle me out of the gate, okay? I like that, but I’m sensitive. It doesn’t feel good until after I’m a little more into it.”
“Yeah, I get it. You don’t need to keep harping on it.”
“Dean!” She grabbed his face, not gently. It squished his features together, felt weird. Kinda good. She gripped him tight and made him look at her. “Stop sulking. I’m trying to give you a roadmap here, man.” Her fingers curled around his temples and the corners of his eyes, like she was going to claw them out of his head. Her lip curled, baring her teeth. “Do you have any idea how bad I wanna fuck you, dude? Can you please stop making it so goddamn difficult.”
He groaned. His head was still confused as to what he liked so much about being told he sucked in bed, but his dick sure a shit wasn’t. That was suddenly rock hard. It flexed and bobbed against his abs, brushed against her when it did.
She chuckled, looked down at him. Smirked. “Can I take that as a yes?”
“Yes, Coach.” He didn’t think about what he was saying until he said it, definitely didn’t think it would make his cock throb the way it did. She kissed him, her hold on his face made it hard for him to kiss her back. That made his cock throb too.
“Oh.” Her face changed around the smirk, turning wicked, settling into something. A costume. A role. “Okay…Rookie.” His pulse quickened and his head felt light. “Want me to show you? You‘ll have to watch and listen real close.” He nodded. She pecked his lips and released him, scooting down onto her back. He sat beside her but didn’t lie down, stayed hovering over her. Her legs were open again and he couldn’t stop staring. Forcing himself not to touch thrilled him. He rarely saw the need to deny himself, if at all. It felt new, exciting. “Enjoying the view?”
He dragged his eyes up the rest of her body, lingering on her tits. They had no right to look that good that effortlessly. Falling out to the side, firm enough that they weren’t saggy but soft enough for him to want to pillow his face against them, and dusky, pert nipples that begged for him to taste them. She was so unbothered by them, so confident in her body. She arched her back, pushing her tits together for him. He stared at them, remembered how they felt pressed against his back, tongue running over his lips.
“Tease me. Like this, feel?” The very tips of her fingers ran along his forearm, from his wrist to his elbow, so light it made him shiver. She did it again, traced down over his knuckles, took his hand. Bending her knee, she lifted her leg and draped it across his lap. “Light, okay? Just your fingers. Barely there to start with.” She placed his fingertips lightly on her inner thigh, guiding him, slow and lazy, from her knee to just below the crease of her hip. He repeated it on his own, surprised by his lack of frustration when she adjusted his pressure. Her breath quickened. “Can you tell how much that gets me going?” He nodded, throat bobbing as he swallowed. She was moving around a little every time he came closer to her hip. He ran his fingers higher, dipping across the crease at the very top of her thigh and she arched her back, letting out a little gasp.
“Shit, you really are sensitive, huh?” He did it again and she laughed, squirming beneath his touch.
“I am.” She flexed her hips as if to back up the statement, spreading her legs wider for him. It made her tits and tummy ripple. “It gets me so fucking turned on.”
“I can tell.” He moved his hand between her legs, just held it there, waiting. When she moaned it felt like permission, he let his fingertips ghost across the curled tips of the hair there. It was damp, sticky. “I can… smell you.”
“Me too.” She kept trying to “Tell me what I smell like.”
“Uh. Good?” He kept rustling her curls with his fingertips, bent down closer to take a long, slow breath. Her scent was earthy, rich. “I can’t tell. Clean, like soap, I guess. But.” He took another breath and folded himself over her to press a kiss into her curls, just over her public bone. “You smell like girl, but better.” He nuzzled into her, closing his eyes. Her curls tickled his nose, her fingers in his hair again, this time pressing him closer to her instead of pulling him away. “I could stay down here all day.”
She cursed, deep, long and low. Her hand left his hair and went to the one between her legs again. Her other fingers rested on his arm, tugging at the pit of his elbow to get his attention. He sat up. Her eyes were dark and glassy, almost drunk. “Want me to show you how to finger me?”
“Ye–” He cleared his throat. It should have been emasculating, he knew how to fingerbang a chick. He wasn’t sure how to fingerbang her, though, and she was offering to tell him how to do it right. He wanted to find out. “Yeah, show me.”
She was looking at him, hot and needy. He licked his finger, coating it with spit, and she laughed at him. “Rookie move.” She took his hand again, keeping his middle finger extended and curling the rest back against his palm. “Don’t need it. You’ve already got me so wet, just need to spread it around.” She nestled the tip of his finger between her folds. Wetness had started to collect there, just like she’d said. It was hot and slick and felt good. There was a lot of it. “See?”
“Fuck.” She guided him over her slit, painted her juices across her pussy with his finger, collecting more with every stroke. He grinned at her. He wanted to kiss her but she was too far away. “All that for me, Coach?”
His cock ached, the hardness, the lack of friction. His hips thrust against nothing. He wanted to drag his cock along her lips like he was doing with his fingers, coat himself in her, bury himself inside her.
“Lie down with me.” Her hand on his shoulder, hips and back shifted to make space for him, she was so soft. So inviting. He settled in beside her, nestled in even closer so her whole body was pressed up against him. He ground his cock hard into her hip and she rocked right back into it. The feel of her was incredible, pulled a groan from him. He wanted more.
Close enough to kiss her, he leaned in. It was messy, desperate. She whined into his mouth, high and nasal, nothing you’d normally want to hear. It was the sexiest thing in the world. Her fingers touched the back of his hand again so he would keep rubbing her slit. “You wanna say hi to the man in the canoe?”
She giggled, blushed a little, shy despite all her confidence. He cursed, shook his head at how that contradiction could be so attractive. He laughed with her and she knocked her forehead against his, too hard, pawed at him to make sure he wasn’t hurt. He tried to remember if he’d ever done that in bed before, sharing awkward laughter without a side of shame. He might have, but didn’t think so. It felt like goofing around, like an inside joke. It made him feel warm and horny at the same time. He kissed her cheek. “Sure, let’s say hi.” He whispered in her ear, pretended that was why he kept his face beside hers, but it was the closeness that really made him stay.
She coaxed him up to her clit, rolled it between two of his fingers, danced around it in a lazy figure eight, starting to close in around the swollen node with tighter and tighter circles. Slicked up, ready, he flicked his finger, light and teasing, across her clit. She bucked up into him with a yelp. His head snapped up and his free hand went to her hip, holding her down.
“Shit, are you–” His heart leapt to a triphammer in his chest. He’d fucked up again. If she was pissed enough, she might even kick him out. She didn’t, just held his wrist to keep contact with him. Rocking her hips to try and grind against his fingers. He chuckled, relieved. “How’m I doing, Coach?”
“Mhm.” She opened her eyes wide to look at him, blinked, took a few quick breaths to regain her senses. “Why is it so fucking hot when you call me that?” He preened, the heat across his cheeks made him worry he was blushing. Her head dropped back when he rubbed her a little harder. He could feel her slit twitching below, empty cunt clenching around itself. “You’re a quick fucking study, Rook, I’ll tell you that.”
“Its not exactly my first day.” She just panted up at him, nodded, as her hips bucked up against him again. “I wanna feel you.” She bit her lip, breath caught in her chest. “You wanna show me, or can I try on my own?”
“Keener.” He grinned, slipped his finger down to tease at her hole again. “Yeah, give it a whirl.” He waited, hoping for instruction. “You know how to find my G-spot?”
“The come hither thing, right?”
“Yeah, that’s right.” He pressed against her, just penetrating her, then stopped. She stuttered, had to close her eyes. “But not like you’re scratching an itch. Do it like a wave, right? ” She showed him against his arm. “More from your wrist than your finger.”
“‘Kay.” He murmured against her temple and she turned her face into him, nodding her response. He eased in, trying to go slowly, but the wet grasping heat of her cunt sucked him in up to the knuckle almost immediately. “Fuck me, you feel incredible.”
“Tell me what I feel like.” She started to knead lightly at her breast, teasing and flicking and tugging at her nipple. His other arm shifted beneath him, holding him up so he could watch her.
“You feel so good.” He closed his eyes and focused on his finger gliding in and out of her, dragging across her front wall, trying to feel for where her sweet spot was. “You’re soft, like…Unh. I dunno. Just soft. But sexy.” He couldn’t see it, but she was watching him, rapt. “And warm. You’re. Fuck, you’re really, really tight.” He rutted against her, a few slow rolls of his hips. “I wanna fuck you so bad, holy shit.”
“I want to come for you like this first.” She pulled his hand out and uncurled his ring finger, let him know she needed more. Two digits slid into her, attuning to the feel of the spongey, almost gummy spot that made her clench around him. “Can you hear how wet you’re making me?”
“I hear it.” He could. Suction, slickness lapping against parting of flesh. It sounded sweet, gluey, he wanted to feel it all around him. “Fuck, I feel it. You’re dripping down my wrist, you know that?”
“I know.” She grabbed his bicep, rocked her hips against him. Her whole body moved with it. “Tell me how you wanna fuck me, Rookie. Make me come on your fingers, I’ll let you do anything you want.”
“Ah, fuck.” Her hand found his hip, slid between their bodies, the most delicate touch grazing the length of his cock. He couldn’t think, thought he might’ve gone blind but his eyes were just closed tight. “Fuck. Fuck. What. Wh—”
“Woah. Hey, Dean. Deep breaths.” She gripped him firmly at the base of his cock, matching her tone to it. He rocked against her, breathing hard through his nose. “Think about baseball.” They both laughed, a little time out as he tried to regain himself. Her other hand covered the one between her legs, not letting him forget his business there completely. “Stay with me, okay? I know you can. Tell me how you wanna fuck once you’ve got me ready for you.” She gave him a squeeze, a motionless little tug that pulled on his insides. “It’s gonna make me twice as wet, coming for you. This cock is going to slide right into me, I wanna know what you’re gonna do with it.”
He pulled back, hissing, puffing his cheeks out as he tried to think. Normally he had no problem coming up with dirty talk, was happy to spew filth if it got his dick wet, and god damn she was really wet, but there he was with just his fingers in her and her hand on him, completely useless.
“I can feel you squeezing my fucking fingers. Sonuvabitch. You just keep sucking them in deeper.” He bit back a grunt when her walls gripped him tight and she rolled her hips against him. “I, just…whatever makes you feel like that. Do that around my cock, come all over it while I’m inside you.” He growled, trying to maneuver so his thumb could catch your clit while his fingers kept working inside you but he didn’t have the angle. “That's what I want. Will. Will you?” Words failed. Brows knit together. Nostrils flared. He groaned.
“Will I, what?” She reached down, touching his wrist so he would pause for a second. He moved, giving her space to scoop some of her wetness onto her own fingers, before letting him resume. She started petting herself in tandem with his thrusting, nasal little cries escaping her when his stroking inside aligned with hers outside. ”Will I tell you how to make me squeeze you til you pop?”
“Yes.” Whatever noise came out of him was a distillation of raw, unfiltered need. “Please.” He felt dazed by how much he liked her taking control, that he was shamelessly begging for more of it. “Wanna know how you like it. Nice and soft? Fast? Hard?” His tongue stuck around the words, pasty in his mouth. He quickened his pace and the thick, wet sounds of him fingerfucking her was all he could hear in the room around them. “Tell me how to fuck you right, Coach.”
“Teach you how to ruin me.” He could feel her moving faster against her clit, tried to match it with his hand. His wrist ached, but he could feel her walls clenching and fluttering around him now, wished he could switch his hand for his cock, but that would happen soon enough. He didn’t want to cheat either of them of this, not after he’d gotten her this far. “God. Dean. Knew you would make me come. You feel so good. Just listen to how well you’re fucking me.”
He did, they both did. She closed her eyes, arched her back, her fingertips brushing against his hand as they worked furiously at her clit. No sounds but wetness and the barely there smacking of skin over skin, and her panting his name over and over again.
He couldn’t remember anyone saying his name quite like that, throaty and whiny and needy, he wanted to record her so he could listen to it every time he jerked it. He ground his dick against the softness of her, matching the rhythm of his hand. Her feet rubbed back and forth on the bedspread beneath her, everything about her messy and wild as she licked her lips, fluttered her eyelids at him.
She sounded so desperate she was almost crying. Her words punched out of her in ragged, fucked out syllables, barely coherent. “Fuck, I’m c- Rookie, I need. I’m com– I. I. Fuck, Dean. Please, please.”
His balls tightened. If he’d been less focused on taking her over the brink of orgasm, he probably would have spurted from hearing her reduced to begging. For him. Like her life depended on it. “Come on, Coach. I need to feel you come for me. Need to know I’m doing you right.”
He felt her arch higher, the strength of her legs driving her into his hand, fingers working furiously at her clit. Renewed wetness kissed his fingertips as she came, thighs clamping around his wrist. She twisted, writhed, burying her face in his chest, whining and clinging to him. He wished he could move his other arm better to wrap it around her, hold her against him as she shook, riding out her orgasm as she coiled around him.
“That good, Coach?” He kissed her once she pulled herself away from his chest to stare up at him. It was uncomfortable, bent his arm at a weird angle, and he sort of missed her mouth at first, asking against her cheek. “Did I make you come the way you like it?”
“Yeah.” She laughed, tilting her head back a little, cupping his cheek. “Yeah, you did great, Rook.” She purred, nipping at his cheek. “You still think you need me to tell you what to do next?”
“I don’t think I need it. But. I, uh.” His cheeks warmed and he ducked his face down to kiss her neck, breathing her in. “Yeah, I want you to.”
a/n : This is the continuation of a graveyard fic, not beta'd, with only a couple passes on content editing. I'm using these as an exercise to get back into sharing my writing, and a way to nail down my style (much of the graveyard's an exercise in stylistic whiplash...).
Many thanks to everyone for the feedback and encouragement on part 1, you are the actual. I hope this doesn't disappoint! For my fellow pervs, all the real smutty stuff
More blah blah blah after our show.
“That was…Awesome.”
He kissed her. Fast. Fierce. Filled with adrenaline. Still breathless, heart pounding, splatters of tacky ghoul blood smearing from her face to his, he pressed her body against him in one long, taut line for a fleeting second before pulling away, tongue pink and wet and peeking out between her lips. He followed her retreat, catching her in another kiss, licking the glistening spot on her lower lip, chasing the taste of her.
He wanted to hoist her up around his hips. He wanted to slam her up against the wall, rut into her heat over and over, pull that ragged sound out of her again over the corpse of the monster he'd watched her kill. He had to get it together.
“Job's not done yet.” His voice was gravel catching in his throat. Her teeth pulled at her lower lip, nodding. “You take this one, I'll get the other. Wrap it, we'll grab shovels and–”
“I saw a burn barrel out back.”
“Even better.”
The smell was horrific. It always was: burning flesh, accelerant and pallet wood. Acrid, chemical, toxic in every sense of the word. They watched the flames for a while, the rush of adrenaline a low simmer now instead of boiling in their veins. He dropped a heavy hand to her shoulder, thick fingers stealing a caress, letting her know they were finished here.
She followed him back, accepting the first aid kit he tossed her, tending to the bite on her neck as he drove them back into town. He'd already assured her that ghoul bites weren't infectious, but she still hissed muttered curses as she cleaned and disinfected the wound. She flipped the tin shut and let out a full body sigh, leaning back against the door and turning her face out the window.
“You're good at it.” She said it into the wind and the words were almost carried away. She turned to face him at his curious grunt, memorizing his profile for a moment. “The Coach thing.” She traced her fingers over the wound on her neck. “Thank you.”
It wasn't the sobbing, clinging gratitude he was used to. It was quiet, heartfelt. Strong. Something in her gaze was weighted with something dark and still, calm. Promising. He stared at the road, licked his lips, shifted slightly to relieve the pressure in his jeans. They turned into the motel lot and he pulled the Impala into the stall beside her Jeep. He let the engine idle for a moment before killing it, mirroring her repose against the door, legs spread wide on the bench seat, offering a promise of his own.
“C'mon.” She was almost holding her breath, chewing her lip, hand ghosting over her neck again before checking herself and reaching behind her for the latch of the door. “If we're gonna do what I think we are, I gotta shower first or I'll feel like I'm enabling necrophelia.”
He barked out a sharp laugh and his cock jumped, straining to follow her as she left the car. She was already mostly undressed by the time he shut the motel room door and locked it with a click. He closed the space between them in a few short strides, shedding his jacket, flannel and boots with each step until he was close enough to back her up against the table.
“So what is it you think we’re gonna do?”
“I think we’re going to fuck, Dean. That was some kiss back there.” He heard the wet glide of her tongue in her mouth, the languid tilt of her head felt almost predatory, and the grin he gave her in return was all teeth and dimples and filth. “God, that mouth of yours should be illegal.”
She reached up, hovering her hand over his features, her thumb not quite brushing the dimple that curled at the corner of his smile. He groaned, leaning into her hand ever so slightly, just enough to turn the ghost of her touch into a whisper. The pads of her fingers dragged down his temple, thumb finally smearing across his lower lip, about to press into his mouth, the way he'd imagined doing to her at breakfast. There was something obscene about having that fleeting fantasy reversed on him, and he started to draw her knuckle between his teeth. Her eyes widened in too-late realization, wrist going rigid and she started to pull her thumb away.
“Oh shit, no. Don’t.”
“Oh god, yeah, no…” His face twisted in disgust, trying to scrape the taste off his tongue almost immediately. “That’s all kinds of nasty, woman.” She started to giggle, dropping her hand to his shoulder and pulling him against her into a shaking embrace, face tucking into the crook of his neck. He was grinning, and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. “You think that’s funny, huh?”
”I do. And you fully did that to yourself.” He could feel her lips brushing against him, the fluttering heat of her laughter tickling his collarbone. “I told you I needed to shower first. You couldn’t just wait?“
“I can’t help it, you’re practically naked and—” He palmed the back of her neck, nuzzling her into him before pulling away again. He studied her face, merriment caked in dried gore and dirt, chest still heaving with the rich sound of her laughter. He was hard, hot and aching, slotted between her legs. He considered what a particular kind of magic it was to have this moment, not awkward, not taking anything away from what was building between them, but adding to it somehow. Like taking the scenic route on a long drive, because the sun is shining and the breeze is warm and because you can. “You’re so fucking cool.”
”I know.” She smiled, soft and warm, wrapping her arms and legs around him. “But you’re still gonna have to wait while I have a shower.”
“I thought.” He lifted her. Hands under thighs. Knees cinched around his waist, holding onto him on her own. He carried her to the dingy bathroom, set her on the shallow counter. “I could join you.”
“Nah. I just wanna wash this crap off me first, yeah?” Palm pressed into this chest, she slipped out of his grip. He almost pouted. She reached around him, turned on the water, let it get hot. “I’ll let you catch a preview though.”
“I can't turn down a free show...” He skimmed his hands over her, squeezing, kneading, lifted her arms and pulled her sports bra over her head in a fluid sweep. "But I gotta clean up, too. Seems stupid not to do it together.”
He knelt, dropping a kiss just over her public bone, sending a deep shudder through her. Her panties, simple, cotton, hit the floor. He pressed his face into the softness of her belly, mouthed at the tender flesh there.
“Dean.” She poured his name over him in a slow warning. “I’ll leave it running for you, okay? Promise I won’t use all the hot water.” Hands over his, firm, halting. “What’s your rush? We’ve got all night.”
“But–” He did pout. She gripped her fingers in his hair, hard. It stung, pulled at the root. She tipped his head back, neck bent uncomfortably, and made him watch her step past him into the shallow tub.
“Patience, young grasshopper.” The curtain tugged closed, but she peeked her head out to grin at him before she disappeared.
He stood up, patter of the water on tile, on skin, pervasive in the small room. Girls didn’t quote Kung Fu to him. Ever. They sure as shit didn’t use it to shut him down. It confused him. It confused his dick. He went to grab a beer.
Normally he’d be in there, pinning her against the tile, maybe entering her from behind, her wet hair sticking to his face. She’d push back against him, she’d make incredible noises for him, like the one she made earlier, fighting that ghoul.
He knew she’d feel amazing, like if you warm a fleshlight up and really douse it with lube before getting started. She seemed like a bit of a freak, to boot. The way she’d pulled his hair and wrenched his neck back? She could have straddled his face right then and there and he would've gone to town on her.
“Still sulking?” She stood wrapped in a towel, hair damp, brushed back from her face. She was hot before, when she was filthy, sweaty, and covered in gore from the things she’d torn apart. She was just as hot now, fresh from the shower, dewy skinned, and smelling like soap instead of death. She smelled clean, nice, when she leaned down to kiss him.
“What? No.” He looked up at her and his jeans tightened. "I don't sulk."
“'Course not. Shower’s all yours.” She pulled him to his feet, he dragged her against him, palming her ass through the towel. “And since I showed you mine.” She stayed pressed against him, walked him backwards until they were engulfed in steam. Humidity clung to the tile. “Wanna show me yours?”
Her fingers were warm and it tickled him when they crept under the hem of his shirt. She slid the poly-blend up and over his head, took a moment to appreciate the view of him. This felt more like it. He watched her unbuckle his belt, unbutton his fly, shimmy the denim down over his hips.
“I don’t see why we didn’t just do this together.” He fingered the knot in her towel, loosening it a little.
“Because I didn’t want to.” She shrugged and he frowned at her. “It’s not a big deal, it’s just not my thing.”
She pressed her chest against his back, slid her arms around him, and raked her nails over his chest. He laced his fingers with hers, brought one hand up to his mouth, dragged his teeth over her knuckles.
“C’mon.” She rested her chin on his shoulder, had to reach up on her toes to do it. Her arms were tight around him, keeping her balance. He could feel the places where her towel was slipping, her skin warm and smooth against his. He wanted to feel it everywhere. “I’ll be thinking about how to get you dirty again while you’re getting clean.”
He grunted, tried to turn around and let her hands go as he did. She tutted, staying behind him. She hooked her fingers into the band of his Jockeys, bit his hip as she eased them down for him. “You’re a little fucking tease, aren’t you?”
He saw her grin before she kissed his shoulder, slapped his ass, and pulled her towel off to hand to him. Then she was gone, into the other room, with the door closed behind her.
“Hurry up and you can find out.”
Thank you so much for reading & sharing space.
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I appreciate you!
More Notes/Self Critique : This is a bit of a learning exercise for me, so by all means skip this entirely. I haven't written in a long time, so self reflecting in this way feels like scouring off some rust. If you feel like adding to this I, I'm a goon for discourse.
In combing through other pieces in my graveyard, I found another foundering fic that actually could fit as a second installment to this, so I've been trying to complete this and that to see if I can link them together successfully.
I decided to break this up into an extra two (maybe three) parts because apparently I cannot write concise smut. Go figure.
I feel like I'm maybe toeing onto thin ice with Dean, and a lot of his characterization is informed by my headcanons about young Dean Winchester. IDK if they're popular opinions, but they're mine and I'm usually ready to die on any hill, so why not this one?
Seriously, though, like...how do you write smut that doesn't just turn into the fanfic equivalent of a 20 minute psych rock solo?
I’m so glad you’re here! You can find a list of my collected fanfic work here. Supernatural is the name, angst with a healthy side of smut is usually the game.
I like to write about deeply flawed people doing highly questionable things. Guaranteed I’ve overthought how to sneak critical theory into hobby writing.
Currently working on updating this collection to include ratings/SFW/CW information, both in this compendium and in each fic itself. Until then, all works can be assumed 18+ with adult themes, explicit content and an implied biohazard warning unless otherwise specified.
JUST THE FICS MA'M.
WRITING BY KBOGS : @vellumandvice
CURATED BY KBOGS : @vellumandvice-vault
SUPERNATURAL : DEAN WINCHESTER
ROOKIE LEAGUE • 1st base | 2nd base | 3rd base | Home Plate • 10.1K WRD • smut, pre-series
GRIEF, FOR THE GRIEVING • 5.8K WRD • angst with a dash of smut, set after 2x02
OVER THE HILLS (AND FAR AWAY) • 2.3K WRD • poetry experiment, angst (grief) with a dash of smut
EVERYTHING NICE • 3K WRD • fluff, post series/unspecified timeline
CAROUSEL (OF TIME) • 3.2K WRD • tearjerker, post series (15x20 canon divergent), winchester family dynamics
SUPERNATURAL : SAM WINCHESTER
LACUNAE • 7.8K WRD • missing scene, takes place during the events of 5x15
GORGEOUS MORNING • 3.45K WRD • pwp, unspecified timeline
CEREAL AND COFFEE • 2.9K WRD • fluff with a dash of smut, s2/s3 era
SUPERNATURAL : GENERAL / OTHER CHARACTERS
ADVANCED PLACEMENT • KEVIN TRAN • 575 WRD • post-series, drabble
THE PRANK : A THEOLOGICAL ANALYSIS
OR : THE ECUMENICAL IMPACT OF LAUGHTER ON THE HUMAN SOUL • SAM & DEAN, ET AL. • 2.6K WRD • missing scene (if you squint) takes place in the ballpark of 10x18-21
THE DEW : A DEDICATED PRACTICE
OR : THE MOLECULAR THAUMATURGIC EFFECT OF YELLOW 5 AND OTHER DYES ON THE HUMAN TEMPERAMENT • SAM & DEAN, ET AL. • 6K WRD • missing scene takes place between 9x01-09
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Thank you so much for reading! Gratitude for likes, comments, and vibes.
