ೃ࿔Sweeter Than Frosting༄⋆⭒˚｡⋆
F!Reader x Dean winchester
You’re baking Dean’s favorite pie late at night in just his flannel. He comes up behind you, “helps” by touching and annoying you while you work, then sucks frosting off your finger and decides you taste better. He eats you out on the counter, challenges himself to make you come before the oven timer ticks, then bends you over and fucks you until you do.
WARNINGS: Smut! mdni, nsfw, fluff, friendly banter, oral f!receiving, p in v, kitchen counter sex, against the refrigerator, mention of “good girl”, begging, dirty talk, dom!dean, dean calling you baby, no mention of Y/N, reader insert
The clock on the microwave reads 2:17 a.m. in pale blue digits, the only real light in the kitchen besides the faint amber glow spilling from the oven window. Your bare feet are silent on the cold linoleum, toes curling against the chill every few steps. Dean’s flannel hangs past your thighs—soft, worn thin at the elbows, still carrying the faint ghost of gunpowder and his particular brand of drugstore shampoo. You’d stolen it from the back of the chair hours ago when you’d slipped out of his room.
The bunker holds its breath at this hour. Concrete walls and miles of earth above you swallow every sound, and that’s part of why you’re awake, probably. Too quiet. Too still. Your brain had been spinning with nothing and everything—a hunt two days from now, the way Dean’s arm had been a warm weight across your ribs, the persistent hum of insomnia that sometimes crept in when the world got too dark. So you’d untangled yourself carefully, millimeter by millimeter, pausing every time his breathing hitched.
He’d shifted. Mumbled something that might have been your name. His hand had groped blindly at the empty sheets before stilling, and then the soft snoring had resumed—that low, sawing rhythm you’d come to associate with safety.
And now you’re here. Rolling pie dough across the flour-dusted counter at an hour that doesn’t make sense, because Dean had mentioned three days ago that he missed his mom’s apple pie, and you’d filed that information away like you file everything about him.
The dough is cold under your palms. You’ve been working it for five minutes, folding and turning, trying to get the consistency right. A glass bowl of peeled and sliced apples sits to your left, cinnamon already dusted through them, the scent cutting through the usual bunker smells of old books and gun oil. The oven preheats behind you, ticking softly as the element warms.
You reach for the rolling pin.
Behind you, somewhere deep in the bunker’s corridors, a door opens.
Your hands pause. You listen.
Footsteps. Bare feet on concrete, moving fast. Not cautious—urgent.
Your chest does something complicated. Half guilt, half anticipation. You know that stride. You’ve memorized the particular cadence of it, the way it lands harder on the left foot from an old knee injury he doesn’t talk about.
“Hey.” His voice comes from the doorway, rough with sleep and something edgier underneath. “The hell are you doing?”
Dean Winchester is standing in the kitchen entrance, one hand braced against the doorframe like he’d been running. His hair is a disaster—flattened on one side, sticking up on the other. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs and a thin white undershirt that’s ridden up over his hip, and his chest is still rising and falling a little too fast.
The blue digits of the microwave clock reflect in his eyes.
“Baking,” you say, and the word comes out softer than you intended.
“Yeah, I can see that.” He pushes off the doorframe and crosses the kitchen in four strides. His hand finds your hip immediately, fingers curling into the worn flannel like he needs to confirm you’re solid. “Woke up and you weren’t there.”
The statement lands somewhere between accusation and relief.
“You were sleeping so well. I didn’t want to—”
“Didn’t want to what? Give me a heart attack?” His thumb rubs a small arc against your hipbone through the fabric. His voice is dropping now, the initial spike of adrenaline fading into something lower and rougher. “Middle of the night, you’re just gone—I thought maybe something had gotten in, maybe a djinn, maybe—”
“Dean.” You cover his hand with yours. “It’s just pie.”
He stares at you for a long moment. Then the corner of his mouth twitches.
“Just pie,” he repeats. “At two in the morning.”
“You said you missed your mom’s apple pie.”
The twitch freezes. Something flickers across his face—too fast to name, gone before you can catch it—and then he’s pulling you against his chest, both arms wrapping around you from behind. His chin hooks over your shoulder. His body is warm through the thin cotton of his shirt, solid against your back, and you feel the tension drain out of him in a long exhale that ghosts across your neck.
“You’re insane,” he murmurs into your hair.
His arms tighten. “Yeah,” he says, and there’s no joke in it now. “I really do.”
For a moment you just stand there, wrapped up in him, the oven humming and the flour dust still settling on the counter. His heartbeat thumps steady against your spine. His breath stirs the fine hairs at your temple.
Then his hands start to move.
It’s casual at first—almost absent. His palms slide from your waist to your stomach, fingers splaying wide across the flannel, and you feel him press a kiss to the curve of your shoulder through the fabric. Another kiss, higher, closer to your neck. His stubble scrapes lightly, and you shiver.
“What?” Innocent. Completely innocent. “I’m helping.”
“Am I?” His right hand drifts upward, palm gliding over your ribs, and you stop breathing when his fingers brush the underside of your breast. “Keep working, sweetheart. Don’t let me stop you.”
You stare at the pie dough on the counter. The rolling pin is still in your right hand. You can’t remember what you were doing with it.
“The filling needs to go in,” you manage.
His hand cups your breast fully now, thumb stroking across the nipple through the thin flannel. The sensation is muted by the fabric but not nearly enough—a warm, dragging pressure that sends a spark straight down your spine. Your grip on the rolling pin tightens.
“Hard to concentrate,” you say, and your voice comes out breathier than you’d like.
Dean hums against your neck. “That’s the idea.”
His other hand has found the hem of the flannel. His fingers slip underneath, tracing the curve of your hip, and you realize with a jolt that there’s nothing between his skin and yours except the shirt. No underwear. No shorts. Just you, bare under the flannel, and Dean’s hand moving slowly upward.
“You smell like cinnamon,” he says, low and rough against your ear. “And flour. And something else.” He inhales, nose pressed to your hairline. “Something that’s just you.”
His thumb finds your nipple again, and this time there’s no fabric in the way. The calloused pad circles slowly, once, twice, and your knees actually wobble.
His other hand joins the first, pushing the flannel up your stomach, bunching it around your ribs. Cool air hits your thighs and you realize how exposed you are—standing in the middle of the kitchen, Dean’s hands on your bare skin, the shirt rucked up to your chest. The oven light paints everything in amber and shadow.
“Look at you,” he breathes. His hands cup both breasts now, thumbs working slow circles around your nipples, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder. “Wearing my shirt. Making my pie. In my kitchen in the middle of the night.” He nips at your earlobe. “You trying to kill me?”
“So you decided to be adorable and domestic about it?”
“I decided to be productive.”
He laughs—a low, dark sound that vibrates against your back. “Productive. Right. Because that’s what I want at two a.m. Productivity.” His fingers pinch your nipples gently, then roll them, and a small sound escapes your throat before you can stop it. “There it is,” he murmurs. “That’s the sound I wanted.”
You’re gripping the edge of the counter now, the rolling pin abandoned somewhere to your left. The pie dough sits forgotten. The apples glisten in their bowl, untouched. Dean’s hands are relentless, squeezing and stroking, his mouth working a slow path down the side of your neck.
“You should see yourself right now,” he says against your skin. “Standing here in nothing but my shirt, nipples hard, hips doing that little thing they do when you’re trying not to squirm.”
“That thing. Right there.” His hand drops to your hip, holding it still. “Like you’re already thinking about what comes next.”
The oven ticks. The refrigerator hums. Somewhere in the walls, the bunker’s ancient ventilation system whispers through the ducts. But all you can hear is Dean’s breathing, heavy and deliberate, and the rush of your own pulse in your ears.
“The frosting,” you say suddenly. “I made frosting.”
Dean pauses. “You made frosting.”
“For the top. It’s vanilla. I was going to—” You gesture vaguely at the mixing bowl sitting near the stove. “It’s done. The frosting. If you want to try it.”
He’s quiet for a second. Then his hands withdraw from under the flannel, and the shirt falls back down around your thighs, and you feel strangely bereft until you realize he’s reaching past you for the bowl.
“No,” you say, catching his wrist. “Like this.”
You dip your index finger into the bowl of frosting, scooping up a generous swirl of creamy white. It’s still slightly warm from the melted butter, silky and sweet. You turn in his arms, facing him for the first time since he walked into the kitchen, and lift your finger toward his mouth.
Dean’s eyes lock on yours.
His lips part, and you watch him take your finger into his mouth. The wet heat of his tongue curls around the tip, then slides along the length of it, slow and deliberate. He sucks. His cheeks hollow. His eyes never leave yours, and there’s something in them now—something dark and hungry that has nothing to do with dessert.
The suction releases with a soft pop.
“Good?” you ask, and your voice is barely a whisper.
“Sweet,” he says. His voice has dropped an octave. “Real sweet.” His tongue sweeps across his lower lip, catching a smear of frosting you hadn’t noticed. “But I bet you taste better.”
“What? You offered me a taste.” His hands find your hips again, thumbs hooking into the hem of the flannel. “Now I’m curious. Scientific curiosity. Very important.”
“Rigorous methodology.” He’s lifting the shirt now, gathering it in his fists, and the cool air hits your thighs again. “Control groups. Hypothesis testing. The whole nine yards.”
“And your hypothesis is?”
His grin is a flash of white in the dim kitchen. “That you’re sweeter than frosting.” A tug, and the flannel is up around your waist. “Let’s find out if I’m right.”
It’s not graceful—there’s a scramble of limbs and a brief, undignified moment where your hip bangs against the counter’s edge—but then you’re seated on the cold Formica, legs dangling, and Dean is shouldering between your thighs like he belongs there.
The flannel rides up. You’re completely exposed now, bare and open to the kitchen air, and Dean takes a half-step back just to look at you.
His hands slide up your thighs. Slowly. Deliberately. His thumbs trace the crease where your legs meet your hips, close but not close enough, and you feel yourself getting wetter just from the anticipation.
“Please what?” He’s looking up at you now, and the cocky bastard knows exactly what. “Use your words, sweetheart.”
“I am touching you.” His thumbs stroke the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. “See? Touching.”
“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”
You make a sound that’s half frustration, half desperation. His grin widens.
“Okay, okay. Don’t get cranky.” He drops to his knees.
The sight of him there—on the cold kitchen floor, in nothing but his underwear and that thin white shirt, looking up at you with his hands spreading your thighs wider—is almost enough to make you come right then. Almost. Dean Winchester on his knees. Dean Winchester, who’s faced down demons and angels and the literal Devil, kneeling in front of you like you’re something holy.
“Pretty,” he says, and his voice has lost all trace of teasing. “So goddamn pretty. You have no idea, do you?”
His mouth finds the inside of your knee. A kiss, soft and dry. Then another, higher. Another, on the inside of your thigh, and this one lingers. His stubble scrapes. His breath is hot and damp.
“Been thinking about this all day,” he murmurs against your skin. “Woke up with you curled against me and all I could think about was getting my mouth on you.”
“All. Day.” His lips brush higher. “Every time you walked past me, every time you bent over to grab something…” A kiss to the junction of your thigh. “Had to sit down for ten minutes in the library just so Sam wouldn’t ask questions.”
The laugh that bubbles out of you is shaky and a little wild. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m dedicated.” His breath ghosts over your center, and your hips jerk involuntarily. “There’s a difference.”
Then his mouth is on you.
The first contact is a flat, broad stroke of his tongue up your entire slit, and the sound you make is nothing you’ve ever heard yourself make before. High and broken, echoing off the bunker’s concrete walls. Dean groans into you, the vibration traveling straight through your clit and up your spine, and your hands fly to his hair.
He’s thorough. Methodical. His tongue traces every fold, every inch of sensitive skin, mapping you like he’s memorizing terrain. When he reaches your clit he circles it slowly—once, twice, three times—and then sucks it gently between his lips.
Your hips buck. He holds you steady, one arm hooked over your thigh, pinning you to the counter.
“Shh,” he murmurs, pulling back just far enough to speak. “Got all night, sweetheart. No rush.”
“The pie can burn for all I care.”
His mouth returns to you, and this time there’s no teasing. His tongue works your clit in steady, relentless strokes, alternating between flat pressure and pointed flicks that make your vision blur. Two fingers slip inside you, curling upward, finding that spot that makes your whole body clench.
“I know, baby.” He doesn’t stop. His fingers pump faster, his tongue keeps its rhythm, and you’re climbing, climbing, the pressure building at the base of your spine. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave in the dark—blind and breathless, pulling you under. Your thighs clamp around his head and your fingers twist in his hair and the sound you make is something between a sob and a scream, raw and echoing. Dean works you through it, tongue gentling, fingers still moving inside you as you pulse around them.
When you finally go limp against the counter, he pulls back and looks up at you.
His lips are wet. His eyes are dark. His smile is the most self-satisfied thing you’ve ever seen.
“Hypothesis confirmed,” he says. “Way sweeter than frosting.”
You’re still catching your breath, chest heaving under the flannel, when the oven beeps.
Not the timer—the preheat indicator. A soft, electronic chirp that means the oven has reached temperature and you still haven’t assembled the pie.
Dean glances at it, then back at you.
“How long does that pie need to bake?”
You blink at him, still dazed. “Twenty-five minutes. Why?”
“Twenty-five minutes.” He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the gesture is so casually obscene that your stomach does a flip. “That’s plenty of time.”
He reaches past you and punches a series of buttons on the oven. The display blinks: 0:25. 0:25. 0:24.
Then he starts the timer.
“Challenge,” he says, and he’s pulling you off the counter, turning you around, bending you over the same surface where you’d been rolling dough ten minutes ago. The Formica is cold against your cheek. The flannel is bunched around your waist. You’re completely exposed to the kitchen air, and Dean is stepping up behind you, and you can feel him—hard and thick through his boxer briefs—pressing against your ass.
“What challenge?” Your voice comes out muffled against the counter.
He leans over you, mouth against your ear. “I’m gonna make you come twice before that timer goes off.”
Your laugh is strangled. “Twice.”
“Twice.” He’s pushing his underwear down now, and you hear the soft sound of fabric hitting the floor. “Once bent over this counter. Once however I decide.” His hand grips your hip, fingers digging in just enough to bruise. “And when that timer beeps, you’re gonna be so wrecked you won’t even remember your own name.”
The head of his cock presses against your entrance. He’s slick with your own wetness, and he slides through your folds once, twice, coating himself. The sensation drags a whimper out of you.
“Please what?” He’s still not pushing in. Still just teasing, rocking against you, the tip catching on your clit with every pass. “Words, sweetheart. I need words.”
The stretch steals your breath. He’s thick and hot and you’re still sensitive from the orgasm, every nerve ending firing at once. Dean groans as he sinks deeper, hands gripping your hips like anchors, and by the time he’s fully seated inside you, you’ve forgotten how to form sentences.
“Okay?” he asks. The teasing edge is gone from his voice now, replaced by something more careful. “You okay?”
The first thrust is a slow, grinding roll of his hips that pushes you harder against the counter. The second is faster. By the third, he’s found a rhythm—deep and hard, each stroke hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl against the cold linoleum.
“Feel that?” His voice is strained now, tight with restraint. “Feel how deep I am? You take me so goddamn well, baby. Made for me. You were made for me.”
You can’t answer. You can barely breathe. Every thrust pushes the air out of your lungs in short, sharp gasps, and the only sounds in the kitchen are the slap of skin on skin and the steady ticking of the oven timer.
“Look at you,” Dean growls. His hand slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the counter. “Bent over my kitchen counter in my shirt, taking my cock like you were built for it. You know what you look like right now?”
You shake your head. Words aren’t possible.
“You look like mine.” He punctuates the word with a particularly deep thrust. “Every inch of you. Mine.”
His hand tangles in your hair, pulling just enough to arch your neck. The counter is slick with flour under your palms. The flannel has ridden up to your shoulder blades. Your breasts are pressed against the cold Formica, nipples dragging with every movement, and the dual sensation—cold beneath you, hot and thick inside you—is driving you insane.
“Dean, I’m close, I’m so close—”
“Already?” The smugness is back. “That was fast.”
“You—you just got me off five minutes ago, I’m still—”
“Sensitive?” He slows down, drawing it out, and the change of pace makes you want to scream. “Yeah. I know. That’s the point.”
He pulls almost all the way out. Holds there. Waits.
The pace that follows is brutal. Relentless. He fucks into you with a single-minded intensity that leaves no room for thought, no room for anything except the feel of him stretching you and the counter digging into your hips and the timer still ticking somewhere near the stove.
Your second orgasm builds at the base of your spine, coiling tighter and tighter. Your thighs are trembling. Your hands have fisted uselessly against the counter. Dean’s grip on your hips is iron, holding you in place as he drives into you again and again.
“Come on,” he pants. “Come on, baby. Give me another one. I know you can.”
His hand snakes around your hip and finds your clit.
The touch is electric. Your whole body jerks. He rubs tight, fast circles against the sensitive nub, and the combination—his cock pounding into you, his fingers on your clit, the dirty sounds your bodies are making in the quiet kitchen—sends you over the edge.
You come with a scream that echoes off the concrete walls.
This one is sharper than the first, more intense, your inner walls clamping down around him so hard that Dean actually chokes on a groan. He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, and by the time the waves start to recede you’re limp against the counter, held up only by his grip on your hips.
“That’s one,” he says, and his voice is wrecked. “One down.”
“Dean, I can’t, I can’t take another—”
“Yeah, you can.” He pulls out, and the sudden emptiness makes you whimper. “You can and you will. Turn around.”
Your legs don’t want to cooperate. He helps you, lifting you off the counter, spinning you to face him. His cock is still hard, slick with your wetness, pressing against your stomach. His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the green of his irises. There’s a flush spreading down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his undershirt.
“Up,” he says, and lifts you again.
This time he carries you. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, your arms around his neck. He walks you backward until your shoulders hit the refrigerator—cold metal against the flannel, a shock that makes you gasp—and then he’s kissing you.
It’s the first real kiss of the night. Deep and messy, his tongue sliding against yours, and you can taste yourself on his lips. The salt and sweetness of it. He kisses like he fucks—confident, thorough, leaving nothing untouched.
“One more,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just one more, sweetheart. Think you can do that for me?”
“I—” Your voice breaks. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Sure you can.” He lines himself up again, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.”
This angle is different. Deeper, somehow. Your back is pressed flat against the refrigerator, and every thrust lifts you higher, your shoulder blades squeaking against the stainless steel. Dean’s face is buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.
“So tight,” he grunts. “So fucking tight and wet, Jesus, I’m not gonna last much longer.”
“Then come.” You’re past the point of coherence now, past the point of anything except the feel of him moving inside you. “Come inside me, Dean, please, I want it, I want to feel you—”
“You want me to fill you up?” His voice is barely a growl, his teeth grazing your collarbone. “Want me to put my come inside you and let you walk around with it dripping down your thighs for the rest of the night?”
His hand slides between your bodies, and his thumb finds your clit one more time.
The third orgasm doesn’t build—it explodes. There’s no warning, no slow climb. One second you’re on the edge, and the next you’re coming, screaming, your nails raking down Dean’s back through his shirt and your inner walls convulsing around his cock. The force of it whites out your vision.
Dean follows you over the edge.
He buries his face in your neck and groans—a low, broken sound that you’ve never heard him make before—and you feel him pulse inside you. Hot and thick, spilling deep. His hips jerk through the aftershocks, and he keeps thrusting, keeps moving, working every last drop into you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves.
Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. Dean’s forehead is pressed to your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh gasps. The refrigerator is cold against your back. The flannel is damp with sweat. You can feel him softening inside you, and the sensation is strange and intimate and perfect.
Dean lifts his head. He’s flushed, disheveled, his hair a disaster and his lips swollen from kissing. He looks like he just got thoroughly wrecked.
“Told you,” he says, still breathless. “Twenty-five minutes.”
You manage a weak laugh. “The pie.”
“The pie can wait another thirty seconds.”
He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just stays there, pressed against you, your legs still wrapped around his waist, his come starting to drip down your inner thighs. The timer keeps beeping—insistent, obnoxious—and neither of you makes any move to silence it.
Then he kisses you. Softer this time. Sweeter.
“Best midnight baking session ever,” he murmurs against your lips.
He finally pulls out, and the sensation makes you both wince. He sets you down carefully, keeping a hand on your hip until he’s sure your legs will hold. The flannel falls back around your thighs, and you feel the evidence of what just happened starting to trickle down your leg.
Dean notices. His eyes track the movement, and something dark and satisfied flickers across his face.
“Good,” he says, almost to himself. “Want you to feel that for a while.”
“What? I’m allowed to be happy.” He silences the timer with a casual slap of his hand, then gestures at the pile of pie components still scattered across the counter. “Now. Let’s get this thing in the oven. I was promised pie.”
“You were not promised pie. You came in here and ambushed me.”
He helps you assemble the pie, his movements gentler than you’d expect from someone who just bent you over a counter. He holds the bowl while you pour the apple filling into the crust. He drapes the top layer of dough with more care than strictly necessary. He even helps you crimp the edges, though his version of “helping” involves more hip-checking and muttered jokes about lattice work than actual assistance.
When the pie finally slides into the oven and the new timer starts counting down—forty-five minutes, he pulls out a kitchen chair and drops into it.
“C’mere,” he says, patting his lap.
You go willingly. Curl up sideways, your head against his chest, your legs draped over the arm of the chair. His arms wrap around you and one hand finds its way under the flannel again, not sexual this time, just resting against the curve of your hip.
The kitchen is warm now. The oven glows amber. The scent of apples and cinnamon is starting to fill the air, chasing away the sweat and sex smell that had been there minutes before. Outside the bunker, the world is dark and quiet. Inside, Dean’s heartbeat is steady under your ear.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Mmm.” You’re already getting sleepy, the adrenaline crash hitting hard. “I’m good. Great. Sore.”
“No,” he agrees. “I’m really not.”
His hand strokes idly along your spine. The flannel has slipped off one shoulder, and he presses a kiss to the bare skin there—just a brush of lips, gentle.
“Thank you,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it. “For the pie. For being here. For…” He trails off. Gestures vaguely. “All of it.”
You tilt your head up to look at him. The blue light from the microwave clock catches the lines around his eyes, the faint scar on his chin, the softness in his expression that he only ever lets you see.
The word lands. Something in his face shifts. His arms tighten around you, pulling you closer, and he doesn’t say anything else.
You fall asleep leaning against his chest, his come still warm inside you, the flannel riding up around your thighs, and Dean Winchester holds you in the quiet kitchen until the beeping starts again and—
The scent hits you full force: cinnamon and baked apples and buttery crust, rich enough to make your mouth water even through the haze of sleep. You stir against Dean’s chest, mumbling something incoherent about five more minutes.
“Nope,” he says, jostling you gently. “Pie’s done. Wake up.”
You blink your eyes open. He’s still got one arm around you, but the other is reaching for the oven mitts draped over the counter. The flannel has slipped off your shoulder entirely now, pooling around your elbow, and you’re sticky between your thighs and your hair is a mess and you can’t bring yourself to care.
Dean pulls the pie out. Sets it on the cooling rack. The crust is golden-brown, flecked with sugar, and a little bit of filling has bubbled up through the lattice. It’s not perfect—it’s slightly lopsided, and one edge is crimped weird where Dean had insisted on “helping”—but it smells incredible.
“Look at that,” he says, and there’s genuine wonder in his voice. “You made that. At two in the morning. For me.”
“I had help with the crust.”
“Minimal help. Negligible help.” He’s already grabbing a knife. “Gotta try it now. Can’t wait.”
“It needs to cool for like an hour.”
“That’s an hour I don’t have.”
He saws into the pie with more enthusiasm than technique, carving out a generous slice. Apple filling spills onto the plate, still bubbling. He doesn’t bother with a fork. Just picks up the plate, blows on it twice, and takes a bite.
“Oh,” he says, mouth full. “Oh, baby.”
He opens his eyes and looks at you—curled up in the kitchen chair, wearing his shirt, hair a disaster, his come on your thighs—and something in his expression goes soft and fierce all at once.
“Best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says. “And that includes you.”
“It’s definitely a lie,” he agrees, and takes another bite. “But it’s a close second.”
He eats the rest standing up, leaning against the counter, occasionally offering you bites off his fork that you’re too tired to refuse. The pie is good. Great, even. The apples are still slightly crisp, and the crust is flaky, and the frosting you’d made earlier—still sitting in its bowl, forgotten—would have been the perfect finishing touch.
You’ll put it on tomorrow.
For now, you let your head fall against the back of the chair, eyes half-closed, watching Dean devour the last bite of his slice with the kind of single-minded focus he usually reserves for hunts.
He catches you looking. Smiles around the fork.
“Nothing.” You’re sleepy, satisfied, stuffed full in more ways than one. “Just… glad you came looking for me.”
He sets the plate in the sink and comes back to the chair. Leans down. Presses a kiss to your forehead that lingers longer than it needs to.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
“You’re not gonna carry me?”
He lifts you—again, for the third time tonight—and you wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and let your head fall against his shoulder. The flannel is riding up again. You don’t fix it.
As he carries you out of the kitchen, past the microwave’s blue glow and the oven’s fading warmth and the half-eaten pie cooling on the counter, he pauses in the doorway.
“Next time you can’t sleep?” His arms tighten around you. “Wake me up.”
You smile against his neck.
“Next time,” you mumble, “I will.”
Behind you, all the lights in the bunker flicker once.
A/N: hi goyz! i’ll be replying to my inbox and anons when my other fic is out :) plz be patient and sorry if i havent replied yet sob
