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Concrete Claim

***GIF IS NOT MINE***

 Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

 Summary: Dean Winchester's jealousy explodes when you ditch the bunker for a date. He lures you back with a lie, igniting a vicious fight about trust and danger. To prove his point – and his claim – he pins you against the cold garage wall. Fury collides with raw need, detonating into brutal, possessive hate-sex. Dean marks you as his, fucks you relentlessly against the concrete, silencing your defiance with overwhelming pleasure until his name is the only word left on your lips. He won't let anyone else have you, and he'll make damn sure you know why.

Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Dubious Consent (initial physical restraint/pinning, argumentative context, eventual physical arousal/response), Possessive Behavior, Jealousy, Rough Sex, Wall Sex, Marking (Hickeys/Fingerprints), Name-Calling/Verbal Argument During Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Creampie, Aftercare Lacking, References to Canon-Typical Violence/Danger, Enemies to Lovers Dynamics, Strong Language.

Also any mistakes are my own, please do not repost my work anywhere however reblogs are fine and welcome :)

If you love it, please comment and/or reblog. Let me know your thoughts! :)

**IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT DON’T READ IT**

A/N: This was written for an anonymous request! This was fun to write and it gets hot and heavy! Hope you enjoy! ;)

“Hi!!! I absolutely loveeee your writing! 🥰🥵Can I request a smuttyyy dirty rough hate smut enemies to lovers/friends with benefits vibe with Dean please. Marking, rough, the whole possessive "if I can't have you no one can" passion🥵”

The heavy bunker door slammed shut behind you like a gunshot, echoing in the sterile concrete corridor. You adjusted the strap of your little black dress, the unfamiliar feel of it a stark contrast to your usual flannel and jeans. Tonight was different. Tonight was escape. From the monsters, the lore, the damn Winchesters… especially him.

The rumble of the Impala’s engine cut through the quiet before you even reached the garage entrance. You froze, a familiar irritation tightening your shoulders. Dean Winchester leaned against Baby’s gleaming fender, arms crossed, face a thundercloud. He wasn’t in his usual layers; just a worn grey t-shirt stretched tight over his chest, sleeves shoved up his forearms.

"Going somewhere?" His voice was deceptively casual, like gravel poured over ice.

"Out," you clipped, refusing to stop walking towards your own beat-up sedan parked nearby. "Not that it’s any of your damn business, Winchester."

He pushed off the car, falling into step beside you, matching your pace too easily. "Actually, it is. Got a ping on the scanners. Possible Hex Bag activity downtown, right near that fancy little bistro everyone’s raving about." He pulled out his phone, waving it vaguely. "Thought you’d wanna know. Since you’re technically still on the payroll."

You stopped dead, whirling on him. "Hex Bag? Right now? Convenient timing, Dean." You glared at him, taking in the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes raked over your dress with a look that wasn't admiration—it was possession. "Save it. I’m off duty. Sam can handle it."

"Sam’s neck-deep in Djinn lore, sweetheart. It’s you or nothing." He stepped closer, invading your space. The scent of motor oil, leather, and cheap diner coffee clung to him. It was infuriatingly familiar. "Besides, you don’t even know this schmuck you’re meeting, do you? What's his name? Brad? Chad? Some asshole you swiped right on?"

Your temper flared white-hot. "His name is Ethan. And he’s an architect. And it’s none of your goddamn business who I go out with! You don’t get to dictate my life just because we share a glorified basement!"

He barked a harsh laugh. "An architect? Oh, that’s rich. Bet he can’t even change a tire. You think he knows what you do? What you’ve seen? What you are?" His voice dropped lower, rougher. "You’re trusting some random dick you met on an app? That’s just stupid."

"Stupid?" You shoved his chest, hard, but he barely budged. "Says the man whose idea of a deep connection is a bar fight and a quick screw in a motel bathroom! How is that any different, huh? You hook up with random girls every damn week!"

His eyes flashed, green fire in the dim garage light. "It’s different," he snarled, leaning in until his face was inches from yours. His breath was hot on your skin. "I can handle myself. If things go south with one of them? I can put them through a goddamn wall if I have to. What are you gonna do? Talk the big bad wolf into submission with blueprints?"

The condescension was a red rag to a bull. "I am plenty strong enough to handle myself, Dean Winchester! I’ve been hunting beside your arrogant ass for years! I don’t need your protection!"

"Prove it," he growled, the words a challenge dropped between you like a gauntlet.

Before you could blink, before you could even draw breath to retort, his hands shot out. One clamped like an iron manacle around your wrist; the other slammed into the concrete wall just beside your head, his body surging forward to cage you in. Your back hit the cold wall with a thud that knocked the wind out of you for a second.

"Get off me!" You snarled, twisting violently, trying to wrench your wrist free. His grip only tightened, his fingers digging into the delicate bones hard enough to bruise instantly. You brought your knee up sharply towards his groin, but he anticipated it, shifting his hips and pinning your leg against the wall with his thigh. His other forearm pressed across your collarbones, not choking but immobilizing, forcing your upper body flush against the unyielding concrete.

"You see?" His voice was a low, dangerous rumble against your ear as you strained uselessly against him. Every muscle in your body coiled, pushing, fighting, but he held you effortlessly, his strength absolute and infuriating. His chest pressed against yours, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of your dress. "This is what happens when you overestimate yourself, sweetheart. When you trust someone stronger than you."

Rage and something else, something terrifyingly hot and liquid, surged through you. "Screw you, Dean!" You spat, trying to headbutt him. He ducked smoothly, his stubble scraping harshly against your temple.

"No," he breathed, his lips brushing your ear, sending an unwelcome shiver down your spine despite the fury. "No one else gets to have you."

The possessiveness in his voice was absolute, primal. It didn't feel protective; it felt like ownership. "You don't own me!" You gasped, still struggling fruitlessly. His forearm pressed harder on your collarbones, making you gasp as the pressure bordered on pain.

"Don't I?" He ground his hips forward suddenly. The hard ridge of his erection pressed unmistakably against your lower belly through his jeans and your dress. The shocking contact made you freeze for a split second – long enough for him to register the sharp hitch in your breath, the involuntary clench of your thighs. A predatory smirk touched his lips. "Tell me to stop," he dared, his voice thick and dark. "Tell me to walk away right now."

Your traitorous body was humming, blood roaring in your ears where fury tangled with a sudden, shocking wave of arousal. Your core clenched tightly, dampness flooding against your will between your thighs. You saw the knowledge flare in his eyes – that dark green gaze dropping to your parted lips, then back up, holding yours captive.

"Fuck off," you whispered, but it lacked conviction, breathless and ragged.

He answered by crushing his mouth against yours.

It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claiming. Hard, bruising, demanding. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue invaded without finesse, tangling with yours in a furious clash. You bit him back, tasting copper on your tongue, and he growled into your mouth, the vibration resonating deep in your chest. One hand released your wrist only to fist roughly in your hair, tilting your head back further against the wall. The other slid from your collarbones down, fingers digging possessively into the soft flesh of your hip before dragging up to roughly grope your breast over the dress fabric.

You tore your mouth away with a gasp that sounded suspiciously like a moan. "Get... off..." you panted, arching your back instinctively against the wall as his thumb found your nipple through the material and pinched hard.

He ignored you, his mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of your throat. "Liar," he breathed against your fluttering pulse before sucking hard, marking you with a deep, possessive bruise that would bloom purple by morning. The sharp sting made you gasp again.

His hand on your breast pushed the thin strap of your dress down your shoulder roughly. The neckline gaped, exposing the swell of your breast and the top edge of your bra. He didn’t bother with finesse; his mouth followed, teeth scraping lightly over sensitive skin before latching onto another spot just above your bra cup. Another sharp suck pulled a choked whimper from your throat – anger or pleasure indistinguishable.

"Admit it," he growled against your skin, his free hand sliding down your side, over your hip, bunching the fabric of your dress up around your waist with rough impatience. Cool air hit your thighs. "Admit you wanted this." His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties – simple cotton tonight, practical – and yanked them down roughly to your knees.

"Never," you hissed, bucking against him as his calloused fingers found your bare center. You were soaking wet. The evidence was undeniable. He groaned at the feel of it, a rough, animal sound that vibrated through both of you.

"Fucking liar," he repeated, voice thick with lust and triumph. He dragged two fingers roughly through your slick folds, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that made stars burst behind your eyes despite your furious resistance.

You shoved at his shoulders again, purely instinctual now. "Dean... please..." But your voice was thick with desire you couldn't mask.

He pulled his fingers away, slick and glistening. You saw the raw hunger in his eyes as he brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean without breaking eye contact. The obscenity of it sent another jolt straight to your core.

"No," he stated flatly, holding your gaze with fierce intensity. With brutal efficiency, he shoved his own jeans and boxers down just far enough to free himself. His cock sprang out – thick, hard, flushed deep red and already weeping at the tip.

He didn't ask. He didn't prepare you further. Gripping his base in one hand and wrapping the other arm around your waist to haul you roughly against him, he drove himself into you with one powerful thrust.

You cried out – a sound ripped from your throat that was pure shock and raw sensation. He filled you completely, stretching you wide with his demanding girth. It burned briefly at the sudden intrusion before dissolving into an overwhelming wave of intense fullness and friction.

"Tight," he groaned into your neck, his breath ragged against the fresh hickey he was undoubtedly leaving there. He didn't move for a second, just held himself buried deep inside you as if anchoring himself.

"Get out..." you gasped, clawing at his back through his t-shirt, needing leverage but finding only hard muscle flexing beneath your nails.

He pulled back almost completely – the drag agonizingly intense – before slamming back in with punishing force. The impact drove another cry from your lips and pushed you harder against the cold concrete wall.

"Make me," he challenged darkly, setting a relentless rhythm that brooked no argument.

He fucked you hard and fast against the bunker wall, the slap of skin on skin echoing sharply in the garage alongside your harsh breathing and choked gasps. Each powerful thrust drove him deep, grinding against that spot inside you that made your vision blur. He held you pinned easily – one arm locked around your waist, keeping you impaled on his cock, the other hand fisted back in your hair, controlling the angle of your head as his mouth continued its brutal assault on your neck and shoulder.

You hated him. You hated the way his rough stubble scraped your skin raw. You hated the possessive grip bruising your hip and thigh where he held you open for his thrusts. You hated the deep ache spreading through your core that felt terrifyingly like building ecstasy.

"You think... some architect... can fuck you like this?" he grunted between thrusts that rocked your entire body against the unyielding wall. His voice was strained with effort and desire.

"Better... than... you..." you managed to gasp out before another deep plunge stole your breath. Your hands scrambled for purchase – one clawing at his shoulder blade through his shirt, the other pressed flat against the wall behind you.

He laughed harshly against your skin, biting down gently on the curve where neck met shoulder – not breaking skin but leaving another deep imprint of teeth that would linger for days. "Keep lying," he rasped. "Your body tells me different." He punctuated this by angling his hips just so on the next downstroke, grinding his pubic bone hard against your clit as he bottomed out inside you.

A sharp cry tore from you this time, involuntary and ragged. Your inner walls clenched down hard around his invading cock, betraying you utterly.

"Yeah," he breathed, sensing it, feeling it. He adjusted his rhythm slightly to hit that spot again and again with ruthless precision. "That's it... feel it... You're mine." The possessive declaration was raw and guttural.

The friction was unbearable. The conflicting storm of rage and desperate arousal roared inside you like a hurricane. You could feel the inexorable coil tightening deep within your belly despite yourself – a traitorous pressure building with every punishing thrust of his hips, every scrape of his teeth on skin already burning with sensitivity.

Your nails dug harder into his back as he fucked you with relentless force against the cold concrete wall of the garage.

The harsh slap of flesh against flesh echoed off the concrete walls, punctuated by Dean’s ragged breaths and your own choked gasps. He drove into you with relentless, punishing force, each deep thrust grinding against that spot inside you that made sparks explode behind your eyelids. The friction was exquisite torture, the fullness overwhelming.

"You hear me?" Dean growled against the sweat-damp skin of your neck, his teeth scraping another possessive mark just below your jaw. "Gonna fuck you till you forget that architect prick's name. Till you're begging me for more." His hand tightened on your hip, fingers digging deep into the flesh, sure to leave dark bruises shaped like his grip.

"Beg?" You forced the word out through gritted teeth, trying desperately to cling to the fraying edges of your anger, even as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.

"Never... gonna... beg... for you, Winchester..." Your voice hitched treacherously on his name as he angled his hips sharply, hitting that deep, perfect spot again.

A low moan escaped you then, raw and involuntary, vibrating against his shoulder where your face was pressed. You tried to bite it back, but it was too late.

He heard it. A predatory grin spread across his face, visible even in your peripheral vision. "That's what I thought," he rasped, triumph lacing his voice. Before you could retort, his hand slid from your hip down to the back of your thigh. With a powerful jerk, he hiked your leg higher up around his waist. Instinctively, your other leg wrapped around him too, locking your ankles behind his back.

The shift in angle was devastating.

He plunged deeper than before, impossibly deep, filling you completely, stretching you in ways you hadn't known were possible. The head of his cock kissed a place untouched, sending shockwaves of pure, electric pleasure radiating outwards. A strangled cry tore from your throat.

"Fuck... Dean..." The name slipped out, unbidden, breathless.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. "Yeah, that's right," he encouraged, his thrusts becoming more deliberate, more focused, hammering that newly discovered spot with ruthless precision. "Say my name. The only name you get to scream tonight." His eyes locked onto yours, green fire blazing with possession and raw satisfaction as he watched your control unravel. "Gonna fuck you till you can't say anything but Dean Winchester."

You tried. God, you tried to summon a snarky retort, something sharp to cut through the haze of pleasure he was drowning you in. But your legs trembled violently around his waist, your core clenching desperately around his invading thickness. The coil inside you snapped.

A sharp, keening wail ripped from your lungs as your orgasm crashed over you. Your back arched violently off the wall, held only by his iron grip and the anchor of his body. Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around him in frantic, rhythmic pulses, milking his cock as wave after wave of blinding ecstasy washed through you. "Dean! Oh god, Dean!" His name was a broken chant on your lips, a surrender you couldn't deny.

He groaned, low and guttural, his own rhythm faltering for a moment as he felt you convulse around him. "Fuck yes... just like that," he breathed, his own control visibly fraying. He didn't stop. He kept pounding into you, riding the waves of your climax, driving you relentlessly towards the edge again even as the aftershocks still trembled through you. His thrusts became sloppier, harder, driven by primal need.

You felt him twitching deep inside you, the telltale sign of his own impending peak. His hand slid up to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze back to his. His eyes were dark, dilated pools of hunger. "One more," he commanded, his voice thick and rough. "You're gonna come again. For me. Right now."

Breathless, overwhelmed, still shuddering from the last climax, you shook your head weakly against his grip. "N-no... Dean... can't..." The words were barely a whisper, your body feeling wrung out and impossibly sensitive.

He chuckled, a dark, confident sound.

"Yes, you can." And he proved it. He shifted his angle infinitesimally, grinding his pelvis hard against your clit while simultaneously driving deep, shallow thrusts that rubbed perfectly against that oversensitive spot inside.

The dual assault was merciless, overwhelming. Pleasure, sharp and almost painful in its intensity, detonated low in your belly.

A broken sob escaped you as your body betrayed you utterly. Another orgasm, sharper and more intense than the first, tore through you. Your walls clamped down on him with incredible force, fluttering and spasming in a desperate, rhythmic grip.

That was all it took. With a roar that echoed off the concrete, Dean buried himself to the hilt and came. You felt every powerful pulse, every hot jet of his release flooding deep inside you.

He held himself impossibly deep, grinding against you as he emptied himself, his body shuddering violently against yours. You felt every twitch, every throb of his cock as he spilled himself, the sensation intimate and possessive beyond words.

For long moments, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of two hearts. He didn't pull out. He stayed buried within you, his forehead dropping heavily against yours. Sweat mingled between your skin. His breath fanned hot against your lips.

A slow, utterly smug smirk curved his lips. "Architect, huh?" he rasped, the words thick with exhaustion and triumph. The snark was back, laced with undeniable satisfaction.

Finally, with a groan, he pulled out.

The sudden emptiness was shocking, followed by the unmistakable feeling of his release trickling down your inner thigh. He took a step back, hastily pulling his jeans back up, his gaze never leaving yours. It was fierce, possessive, utterly unapologetic.

He reached out, his thumb brushing roughly over one of the darkening hickeys on your collarbone. "Hate me all you want, sweetheart," he stated, his voice low and final. "But remember this feeling. Remember who owns it." He tapped the bruise lightly.

"Remember who owns you. 'Cause it sure as hell ain't some pencil-pusher. It's me. The only one who can fuck you like that." He turned, leaving you leaning against the cold wall, trembling, marked, and filled with the undeniable, infuriating truth of his words echoing in the sudden silence of the garage.

#rough dean

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