Summary You share something with Dean that an ex used to say to you. Leave it to a Winchester to tickle the truth out of you. Kind of literally.
CWs Dean being his most charming self. Casual sex. Dumb exes. Squirting. Dean talkin' filth. Lots and lots of bodily fluids. POV: reader
18+. 1.6k words
AN Something short and sweet to start us off! Welcome, my darlings! ❤️
Smutober prompt Squirting
Smutober masterlist ⏐ Dean Winchester masterlist
“And that’s the thing,” witness number 5 says, not bothering to keep his gaze off your cleavage even for a second. “I like a chick who’s insatiable. Who wants to keep going even after we’ve gone over and over, you know?” He chuckles, looking into your eyes for the first time.
“Uh huh,” you say, wondering how the hell you got from talking about the last time anybody saw the victim alive to talking about this asshole’s preference in regards to chicks. Remember what Sam said, you tell yourself. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses–
“A wild cat, kinda,” he continues and you need to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes and relocating his nose a couple inches deeper into his head. “Just can’t get enough, the little –”
“And that’ll be all, Mr., uhm…” you say, looking down at your notes. “Ambrose. Thanks for the info.” You throw a look over his shoulder at Dean, but not quickly enough to miss the douchebag in front of you fucking winking.
Four hours later, and you’re throwing your head back to down another shot. The glass lands on the table with a loud thud, and you suppress a violent burp.
“Jesus Christ!” you groan over the loud music being played in the bar, bringing up your hand to brush it over your forehead. “What is wrong with these people?”
Dean pushes your new beer towards you and you reach for it, shaking your head.
“They get someone who listens to them and they think you’re their shrink,” Dean says, taking a sip from his own beer.
“But still, they just tell on themselves,” you say, the mask of disgust slowly turning into a grin. You lean forward, one arm going out to steady yourself a little. Maybe the last two shots were a bit of a mistake. “This one guy, the sleazy one? He told me…”
You laugh, feeling some heat rise to your cheeks, but this is Dean. If anyone’s gonna love this story, it’s him.
“He told me all the women he has sex with are insatiable,” you continue, dramatically emphasizing the last word. “No matter how many rounds they went. Or he went, I guess.”
Dean’s eyebrows go up and the corners of his mouth quirk up in one of those endlessly charming smiles he has.
“Is that right?” he says, his voice all scratchy and curious.
“Yeah,” you say, regaining some of your composure. “I have this feeling he was getting insatiable and unsatisfied mixed up.” Dean scoffs, then chuckles.
“Some people just love oversharing,” he says, lips pouty. “Or maybe that’s what he was into? Like those guys that like it when you laugh at their dicks?” Now it’s your turn to raise your eyebrows.
“Dean!” you say and he laughs, evidently loving that he was able to surprise you. You shake your head, pick at the label on your bottle. “Well, can’t ever do it right, that’s what I learned. As a woman, I mean. Either you’re not coming often enough, or you’re too fast or too slow or you’re too loud, too… enthusiastic.”
Dean’s just taking a sip of his beer and he puts the bottle down with a frown.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I don’t think there’s a man on this planet would complain about that last one.” You give an awkward chuckle, shift around on your stool.
“You’d be surprised,” you mutter, brushing some hair behind your ear, looking down at the table. You only look up when you notice Dean leaning back. He’s studying you, an unreadable expression on his face.
“You’re serious?” he says. “What kind of douchebag–”
“My ex,” you interrupt him. Maybe you really shouldn’t have had those two last shots, but damn, it feels good to talk to someone about it. “He found it off-putting, said I got too…”
You look into Dean’s eyes and he’s looking back and all of a sudden, it feels like there’s something in the air between you, something fiery and heated, like a gas leak someone held a match to, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Could be the shots. Could be, well, just Dean.
“Wet,” you finish what you were saying. Dean’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit, and then there’s that smile again.
“Not gonna lie,” he says, voice a little lower as he leans in again. “But I’m kinda itchin’ to see that for myself.”
Dean rolls the two of you so you’re on top of him and you push yourself up, hands on his chest, before you continue fucking yourself down on him at the same pace he just picked - which is fast and relentless. There’s loud, desperate sounds coming from your throat every time Dean’s cock hits that magical spot inside you, and for the first time in you can’t remember how long, you’re simply letting them out.
Dean’s not faring much better. He’s vocal, and you had no idea he would be, but it’s a damn nice surprise. One of his hands is on your hip, the other traveling up your side, squeezing the skin. He looks down at where he’s appearing and disappearing inside of you, his mouth dropping open.
“Jesus, fuck, darlin’,” he pants, then looks back up at your face. “You’re fuckin’ drenching me. Fuckin’ sexy.”
You moan loudly, your head dropping back again as another orgasm shakes your body, your toes curling, muscles trembling.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” you cry out as all of you convulses, Dean groaning loudly under you as you keep riding him to prolong your release.
“Sit up, sit up,” he says, just as you’re coming down and your brain barely has the capacity to understand him, and it definitely doesn’t have the capacity to question him, so you do. Dean’s cock slips out of you and just as you’re wondering what the hell he’d want to go and do that for, Dean’s hand moves and then two thick fingers are pressing into you.
You see the tension in his underarm, the tendons and muscles playing, the strength there, and then you don’t see anything because you need to lean your head back and close your eyes as Dean fingerfucks you hard and fast, basically assaulting your g-spot. You nearly scream when another orgasm rips through you, and this time you feel it under you, the wetness, the spread, the all of it, as your stomach clenches and a volley of broken whines leaves you while your brain goes postal. But rather than express the disgust you expect, Dean seems to love it.
“Oh shit,” he presses out as you drop your head forward, try to focus on him, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” Your brain is pretty much mush and you try to lower yourself again, but it’s impossible with how your legs have turned to jello. Dean sits up, quickly, toned muscles moving under sweaty skin, and wraps an arm around you, flips you around. Your back meets the mattress, your head hanging off the side and then Dean pushes into your sopping pussy again and goes to town.
Your fingers claw into the thickness of his arms while his other thickness pounds into you. You’re gasping and crying out, no longer chief to your physical reactions. Dean groans loudly over you, then grabs your hip, pushing himself up, switching to smooth, deep, rolled thrusts that make you whimper.
“Look at that,” he says, and blinking him into focus is about as hard as, well, as hard as Dean is. You follow his gaze, see it’s going between your legs. “That’s all you, sweetheart. All for me.”
Dean’s cock is glistening with your wetness when he pulls out, only his head remaining inside of you. There’s also, and your insecurity might return at that if Dean hadn’t fucked it right out of you, a white ring of your arousal at the base of his cock, wrapped around it like a crown, shoved there by his relentless fucking.
“Dean,” you whine, but he’s already positioning himself again. He looks down at you, pretty brow glistening, chest heaving.
“Let’s see how loud you can really be,” he says and rams himself into you so hard you see stars.
Ten minutes later, you’re still on your back, but Dean’s lying next to you. You can feel his spendings slowly dripping out of you, and you’re almost certain you’re gonna have to burn those sheets you’re lying on, though they might be too drenched to actually catch fire. Dean is catching his breath, completely out of it, while your heartbeat is still roaring loud in your ears.
He groans, turns his head towards you.
“I think I got third degree burns on my johnson,” he mumbles and you snort, then give a lazy laugh. He smiles at you, looking blissfully fucked-out.
“Tell me about it,” you reply. Dean pushes himself up with a groan, but it’s only to roll closer to you.
“So,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “still feeling insatiable? Or unsatisfied?” You raise your hand, run it over his shoulder and then his back, as far down to his absolutely delectable ass as you can without moving the rest of your buzzing body.
“I’m pretty sure,” you reply, “that was my orgasm contingent for the year.” Dean gives you a broad, proud smile, presses a kiss to your shoulder, which must taste salty.
“Anything else your asscrack of an ex complained about?” he asks and you purse your lips, pretend to think.
“There’s a few things I seem to recall,” you say, voice playful and Dean grins, taking your meaning.
“Alright,” he says, slinging his arm over you and pulling you in. “Rest up. Sounds like we got work to do.”
SUMMARY Soldier Boy and you are America's most famous couple - little does the public know that it's all an act. However, when your pretend lover embarrasses you on live TV, you make sure you make him pay... and get yours in the process.
CWs Smut. Hate sex (rough sex, a little bit of anal fingering, non-negotiated choking, electrostimulation). Super powered sex (super strength, electrokinsesis). Period/SB-typical homophobia & misogyny. Just all around not a healthy relatioship. 1960's (roughly). Lots of mentions of Rock Hudson (rip, king). Mixed POV.
5.8k words
AN Title is from the Mountain Goats' "No children".
The Boys masterlist
“And it was so good to see you step in during those riots last week,” the interviewer says, hair immacutely parted, nodding along as the studio crowd claps approvingly. Soldier Boy raises his hand, so humble.
“Mikey, I’ve said it before,” he says, “protecting the American public isn’t just my job, it’s… it’s what I live for.” More applause. “Against domestic threats and more… foreign ones.” More applause, a whistle. Yeah!, someone calls.
“And we are all so grateful,” the interviewer says, looks at his note cards, not because he needs to but because this is how he moves on to the next topic. When he raises his head again, there’s a coquette little smile on his lips.
“Speaking of domestic,” he continues, throwing a look at the camera that tells the audience they’re in for a fun time. “How are things at home?” Murmuring from the crowd - they’re held on the precipice, eating it up. Yes, this they want to know. Yes, this they want to see.
Soldier Boy chuckles, perfectly charming. Turns his body a little more toward the camera. Broad shoulders. Thick hair, but not too thick. Handsome face. Probably a big dick.
“Oh, whatever could you be talking about?” he asks with a little wag of his chin, and that gives the audience leave, they chuckle, slap their knees, oh, get a load of this guy!, lapping it up, their tongues hanging out their mouths.
“Why, America’s sweetheart, of course,” the interviewer answers, shoots a look at the audience, right? That’s what we want to know!, and they nod, slap their knees some more. “The Vixen.”
Oh’s and Ah’s from them now. Yes, the Vixen. They’re all imagining her. Women want to be her, men want to fuck her. Marilyn Who? one headline read. Blasphemous, but they’re licking their fingers.
“Oh, my girl?” Soldier Boy asks, but he’s joking along with the audience, teasing them, stringing them along. Has them curling their toes like they’re getting it real good. “Oh, my girl’s doing just fine.” The interviewer laughs.
“Gave you a patriotic welcome home, did she?” he asks, and the crowd loses it, yes, yes, did she? Did she!?
And Soldier Boy leans back, relaxed, grinning. They can practically see her there, kneeling between his legs. Good, patriotic gal. A real keeper.
“Pal,” he says, “I had her singing the national anthem.”
Laughter from the crowd.
“You goddamn motherfucker!”
The glass explodes where it hits the wall just left of and above Ben’s head. He barely reacts, feels some of the shards rain down on his shoulder, but then just raises his own glass, scotch, takes a sip. Sucks on his teeth when he lowers it again.
“You done?” he asks, watching you pace up and down on the other side of the room. You’re clearly not, and he knows that - in fact, you’re only just revving up. He looks at your legs, visible, not visible, visible, under the long silk robe you’re wearing, the fabric fluttering with every step, and if you weren’t being such a humongous bitch right now he’d sure find some appreciation for them.
Actually, scratch that. They’re nice sticks. Even with the bitchiness.
“One thing I fucking asked for,” you say, and he grimaces at the shrillness of your voice. He rolls his shoulders, takes another sip. “One thing, and that was to make me not look like a fucking sex object in front of those people.”
You turn for another round, naked toes sinking into the orange rug that you personally selected for the apartment. Ben hates it. In fact, he says he hates all the colors of your apartment. Hates the music you listen to, because this guy is still caught in the fucking 30’s, hasn’t realized that a few decades have passed. Old dirty man with an old dirty mind.
“And you do this, this… bullshit!” you yell, now reaching for the newspaper lying on the low glass table, the one that puts your embarrassment on paper. The one that shows a grinning Soldier Boy, and the least subtle article on two super heroes fucking that you have ever had the displeasure of reading.
You drop it again, reach for the pack of cigarettes lying next to the ashtray. It’s filled to the brim, because you’ve been goddamn chain smoking since last night, when the interview aired. Sat here, Martini in your hand, joint rolled and ready, watching your super star boyfriend give his first interview since the two of you have made your relationship public. Some fucking relationship it is.
You sat there, legs crossed, buzzing and excited, horned the fuck up because America’s biggest talk show was going to cover you - your existence, your life. And what the fuck came out of it? Another couple million men thinking about you only in the context of shoving their dick inside one of your holes.
You wish you had another glass to throw.
Ben isn’t as worried. He doesn’t like repeating himself, but he does it for your sake, because maybe you can learn a lesson from him.
“They all wanna fuck you anyway,” he says, voice booming but not threatening, because he’s not quite there yet. “That’s how they remember you. But now, you’re on the front page, and yesterday you weren’t. So rein it the fuck in.”
You drop your lighter on the table with a loud clatter, take a sharp drag, blow out the smoke. Point the cigarette at him, perfectly manicured fingers shaking.
“Is that why you’re so famous?” you say, your voice trembling with barely controlled rage. “Cause they all wanna stick it in your ass?”
And this is the first time he bothers to make a point today. Lowers his chin. Glares at you.
“Careful,” he says.
It’s a tone that usually gets a room of influential men to shut the fuck up and do whatever he wants. The thought that he could take their heads and make them pop like a melon dropped from a second floor window has something to do with that. But he likes to think it’s because they respect him too. If any of them want to fuck him, that’s none of his business, and they better not fucking let him know cause it won’t be melons being dropped from the second floor then.
He leans forward with a sigh appropriate for someone his age. Puts the glass down, reaches for the joint you never touched, cause you needed something stronger to calm you down yesterday evening. Kept calling his agent, called Vought, called them all, over and over, screamed at assistants to fucking get this limp dick motherfucker on the phone! He lights the joint, flame close to his face for a moment. He could probably use you to light it - you’re steaming enough.
“I don’t know why the fuck you keep insisting on embarassing me,” you hiss, take another drag, some of the ash of the cigarette dropping down on the carpet below. You don’t even look at it. Six months ago you were giving handjobs to help with the rent and sharing a one bedroom apartment with three other girls. Now, you’re the second most famous supe in the country. Sure got to your head quickly, Ben thinks. He tosses the lighter back onto the table. Clattering, again.
“You’re doing a fine job at that yourself,” he replies, leans back, gets comfortable, sinks deeper into the cushions, legs spread, smoke curling out of his nostrils. “Everyone wanted to meet you at the afterparty. Hudson asked about you. Had to tell him you were at home with the monthlies.” He takes another drag, looks up at you through the smoke.
You’ve stopped moving and shouting, so there’s that. But something about the way you’re standing, cigarette burning down between your fingers, face slack, the only movement the rising and falling of your chest - well, something about it is like the calm before the storm.
“You told Rock fucking Hudson,” you say, voice eerily calm, “that I was on the fucking rag?”
You lean forward, and, naively, Ben thinks for a second it’s to put out the cigarette. What happens instead is that you grab the ashtray and fling it at him too.
You miss, and that’s probably a good thing, because if you didn’t, he might have ripped your head off. As it stands, it scatters to the ground, ash going everywhere, staining the carpet even more, just another bill to send to Vought to pay for you.
It’s enough to catapult Ben off the sofa though. He drags the joint from between his lips.
“Calm the fuck down!” he bellows but you just throw up your hands, turn, walk a few steps from him, then put your head in one hand, groan.
“What am I doing?” you mutter to yourself. “What the fuck am I doing? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Soldier Boy drops his head back, sighs. He rounds the table, walks over to you.
“Come on,” he says, joint between his fingers. “Take a hit, calm down.” Your shoulders are rising and falling, and he sure as shit hopes you’re not crying. He doesn’t do well with crying women. Pisses him off. He stops just behind you.
“Hey!” he says, cause you better fucking look at him when he’s talking to you. He’s got about two minutes of patience left in him. He only came over here cause the Legend told him he better get his ass in gear, set this right. He had a sweet little piece of ass lined up too, and now here he is, with you in fucking hysterics. He was hoping to at least get a blowjob out of this - if you ask him, you should be nothing but grateful. Sure, his rating has skyrocketed even more since the two of you have gone public - something about a single man at his age makes people uncomfortable. But still. You shouldn’t forget who you owe this new lifestyle to.
You turn around, arms crossed in front of your chest, the robe moved to the side a little, revealing the top of your breasts. Ben rests his eyes there before dragging them away, up to your face. Streaks of mascara on your cheeks from your tears. He’s not fooled though. He knows enough about this business not to trust them. He holds the joint out to you, like a goddamn peace pipe. Maybe he can still turn this around. It would make the Legend and the Vought board happy, plus, who knows - maybe he can still get it wet after all. He wouldn’t mind.
“You’re making this into a bigger thing than it is,” he says, lowering his head a little in a way that usually gets everyone to forgive him. That or the threat of violence. Both work. “You think you can be America’s sweetheart and not have everyone wanna bend you over? Not how it works, doll. Take the win. Don’t get tied up in your big feelings about it.”
And he thinks he sees it, reasonability on your face, and could it be? Could he have actually managed to calm you down? He extends the joint again to seal the deal.
The slap isn’t painful, but it is surprising. It hurts your hand more than it does his cheek, probably, and who knows, maybe your hand will actually fall off because you just struck God.
His head doesn’t snap to the side, but he does blink, a surprised expression on his face, sending a nasty, electric thrill through you. He’s looking past you, then his eyes wander to your face. You raise your chin, lips trembling, but he doesn’t miss the little twitch at the corners of your mouth.
“Fuck you,” you say, but you’re not doing a good job now at seeming actually pissed. You know it, know the way you’re clenching your cunt isn’t from anger. Or not just from anger.
“You’re into this,” Soldier Boy says, eyes narrowing. “You like being pissed off. Gets you all drippy, doesn’t it?” Your chest rises and falls and when his gaze drops there, he can see your hardened nipples through the silk fabric of your robe.
“Fuck you,” you repeat through clenched teeth, not giving him an inch, but that’s alright.
He’s about to give you ten.
He reaches his free hand out, but you slap it away. Not that you actually could, but he lets you. He puts the joint between his lips, reaches out with that hand instead and you slap it away too, take a step back. You look up at him through your lashes, something animalistic yet calculated in your gaze. You take another step back, and this time he follows, feels himself growing hard in the tight confines of his suit. He’s wearing it cause you’ve complimented him on it, said you liked the way he looks in it. Well, you’re gonna get it now. He’ll fuck you in that suit, and you will enjoy it.
He sees you’re going to bolt a second before you do, and while his every honed instinct tells him to reach out, grab you, make sure you can’t move away from him, he suppresses it. Because he knows exactly what you need.
You start running, naked feet on carpet, robe flying, and he gives you a headstart the length of the blink of an eye. Then he’s after you.
The joint drops onto the carpet where he stood just a second ago. It singes the orange, then burns out.
You make it to the other side of the living room, close to the open kitchen you never use - said cooking is for housewives and poor people, and you’re neither now. You’re rounding the couch - some designer thing you yapped on about, while he barely listened - that faces the fireplace when he reaches you, shoves you so you need to get your hands out, catch yourself on the back of it. He’s crowding against you a second later.
His hands shoot to his waist, one press of his fingers and his belt drops to the floor, unzips his pants in record time. Practice, and you’re just pushing yourself up to stand, so the moment he’s done he pushes you down again with his left hand, fingers splayed, his other hand grabbing his dick and stroking it.
“I know what you need, sweetheart,” he grunts as he feels you struggle against his hold, whole body tensing. “You need some dick for that frustration, don’t you? All pent up, huh?”
He pivots his hips forward, fucks into his fist. Times each word with a thrust.
“Just a – nice – thorough – dicki—”
“Jesus!” you interrupt him, turn your head. He can only see the side of your face, but your lids are low, lips parted. “Stop talking and put it in already.”
Ben snarls, moves his hand to drag away the thin robe. It reveals your peach of an ass, no underwear so he knows this is what you were secretly hoping for all along, and he grabs your hip, pulls you back. Presses the head of his dick against your pussy hole - which is warm and needy, pulsing wet. Doesn’t push in, just rubs along you. He can feel you twitch.
“I decide when you get fucked,” he says, breath coming faster, and he sees you close your eyes, eyebrows pulling together. You push your ass back, trying to find him, his head grazing your entrance and slipping in about half an inch before he pulls back and you whine. “Shh, shh. You need it bad, don’t you?”
He hasn’t gotten you to say it yet. Hasn’t gotten you to say you want him, or need him. He likes hearing it, and he’s hoping he’ll crack you yet - your stubbornness has got him wondering why he ever agreed to this goddamn charade. He knows there’s something here that works. He just can’t figure out what.
He drives the thought away by sliding his dick into you. Slow, torturously slow, but he sees your hand fist the fabric of the couch where you’re holding on to it, sees the arch of your back. Vought’s to thank for that, the thick meat that can keep going and going, though he’d never admit it. He feels the tight, wanting squeeze of you, and suddenly he doesn’t give a shit.
You make a cracked little sound and before he’s fully seated in you, he rams that last inch home. You moan and he grabs the robe, collects the fabric in his fist, pulling tight, keeping you in place. Then he pulls back before thrusting back into you.
“This got you all wound up?” he asks, pulling out and setting a deep, punchy rhythm. It makes you drop your head forward, arch your back further so the impact sends little ripples of flesh through the meat of your ass cheeks. He grins at that. “Did you sit here yesterday, hoping to get yourself off to watching me on TV? Didn’t do the trick, did it?”
You make a general pleasurable sound, but don’t answer him, and that is threatening to really get a rise out of him. He knows you’re liking this, knows you enjoy it, but he can’t quite get the upper hand. Or hasn’t yet.
The reason is he talks too much. He could fuck like a god if he bothered to, but nothing pulls you back from the edge of a mind-breaking orgasm like that self-important drivel. Chasing you for those few steps got your heart pumping, not because of the distance but because you know he could rip you apart if he wanted, and Vought would pay for the dry cleaning with a smile and a thank you. But you’ve yet to actually see any of that danger he likes to pretend he carries.
Maybe today you’ll finally tickle it out of him.
Because he’s right. You did sit in front of that TV yesterday, pleasantly buzzed, ready to rub yourself raw. Ended up only screaming yourself raw, and not for any of the good reasons. Now he’s here, and you have made one decision: if you’re gonna play America’s number one sex kitten, then you’re at least gonna get something out of it. And if money, fame and a good dicking down is what that something is, you’re okay with that.
He keeps thrusting into you, but there’s little poetry to it. That’s okay though. You have a few tricks up your own sleeve.
One of your hands wander off the back of the couch to between your legs. Gently runs over your front and stomach, fingertips teasing yourself, and when you get to your pussy, you give your clit a little zap.
“Woah!” he says, another half thrust before he stills.
“Don’t fucking stop now, you imbecile,” you pant. “Keep going!”
He doesn’t for a second. He knows your powers - conducting electricity, as well as creating it to a certain voltage. Not a glamorous power by any means, and it’s become secondary to your celebrity persona. The Vixen - even Soldier Boy can’t resist-or her! was all that gave any hint as to your powers for your first photoshoot with your new lover. Him smirking down at you while you looked at the camera, arm wrapped around his, one eyebrow raised, a knowing grin and a short skirt. No one ever asked about it. That’s okay. It’ll have its moment to shine today.
Soldier Boy moves, just a little, careful, and it would be laughable if it wasn’t so annoying. You push back against him, making him sink deeper into you again, and then he finally grabs your hips, starts fucking you again, gingerly, until–
“Do it again,” he grunts. “That tickled my balls.”
Even though your back is turned to him, you bite down on your lower lip to hide your grin. Twinkle your fingers an inch or so over your clit, and just as you feel him confidently pick up his pace again, you zap yourself - and him - again in the process.
One of his hands shoots to your shoulder immediately, fingers pressing into your skin.
“Oh, fuck!” he grunts, pushes you hard against him with an obscene slap and the moan that escapes you is genuine and real. “Fucking hell, where’ve you been hiding this?”
Instead of answering, you do it again. A high moan cracks from your throat - the way it travels through your nerves all over your body, into the meat of your thighs, up to your ass, the slight fizzle of it that dances around your nipples. Soldier Boy panting behind you. But it’s you that’s surprised when one of his hands comes down on your ass with a slap.
“Fucker,” you press out, and he squeezes the cheek in response. You feel his hand inching inside. Another zap, and he grunts loudly, that nice deep voice that you loved listening to on the radio. You know what he sees, know what he’s thinking, and not just from his thumb suddenly pressing against the tight muscle of your asshole.
You have. That one time you were really short on rent, and your landlord offered you a deal. You thought of Rock Hudson the entire time.
Funny how life sometimes comes full circle.
You look over your shoulder, barely able to look Soldier Boy in the eyes. Bite your lip again and let it slip out between your teeth slowly.
“No,” you breathe, in that voice you use for whenever you talk to an interviewer or want to get out of a speeding ticket. “Don’t put it in there, please, it’s too big.”
And it’s so fucking over the top, and it’s so fake, and he could fall for it, just like all the others have. Instead he grins, snorts, then slaps your ass again, before pressing his thumb against you harder. You moan loudly as he sinks in, your ass cheek now fully within his grasp.
“You’re funny,” he says. “Never fucked someone who’s funny.”
And fuck you he does.
He goes harder now, but it’s not just that. It’s like he means it. You’re not connecting as people or falling in love or any of that bullshit, but it feels a little bit more like you’re on the same team.
You zap him again, your fingers now actually touching your clit, rubbing it quickly, and maybe it’s his finger serving as an earthwire, but he groans loudly, movement stuttering for a moment. Another zap, and it pushes you over the edge.
You come, entire body tensed, teeth pressed together. Not caring about pretty or sweet or feminine for once, but just about the fireworks going off behind your eyelids and between your legs. You know it sets off a low sizzle all over your body, and Soldier Boy must feel it, because he keeps fucking you, faster, ass cheek squeezed to the point of pain, and then suddenly he gets loud, really loud, as his thrusts become shallow.
“Fucking little–” he starts, but doesn’t finish what he’s saying - too busy pulling out, stroking himself as he sucks in air through his teeth and finishes on your ass. You’d laugh at that if weren’t shivering at it.
He pulls his finger from you, using the hand to steady himself on your hip instead. Pants, probably fucking basking over you, his dick resting heavy between your ass cheeks.
“You better not have come on my fucking robe,” you mutter. He groans.
“Shut your goddamn mouth,” he presses out, and there it is. That flame you thought he’d maybe fuck out of you. But it’s rekindling in your stomach.
You reach your hand back, since you can’t turn with him still over you. Press your palm flat against his stomach and then you gather everything you can come up with for one single surge and send it into him.
He does something like a yelp, twitches back. It creates enough room for you to turn around, face him. You can feel a devilish grin spread on your face as his come drips down your ass and onto the carpet.
“Done already, soldier?” you ask, voice . He’s already bobbing into hardness again and you can’t help but lick your lips at that.
“Doll,” he says, raising his chin. “Somebody oughta fuck that sass out of you.” You bare your teeth.
“Try me, motherfucker,” you snarl.
He grabs for you, or you grab for him - you’re not totally sure.
All you know is that he drags you down, and you go tumbling with him. You manage to roll on top of him, and he doesn’t seem to mind. He could probably drag you under him and fuck you dead without even breaking a sweat, but he lets you sit there on top of him. You press your hands against his chestplate, your robe having fallen open, his eyes on your tits.
You push up on your knees, reach between you two. Ben watches you, a hunger in his chest he usually knows to be satisfied by enough drink or pussy or a really bloody fight. But right then, right now, he’s starving. Insatiable. He’s not the type for introspection, and he sure as shit isn’t about to start when he watches himself disappear inside you again.
“Did Rock Hudson really ask about me?” you say, looking down at him. Soldier Boy grabs for your ass, presses you down against him, pussy swallowing up the rest of his pulsing dick and you hiss while grinding down at the same time.
“He did,” he replies, unable to hide the grin on his face. “Pretty sure he got a stiffy at the thought of me coming back here and dipping my dick in that red.”
You drop your head back, moan, and then finally begin rolling your hips, riding him. He’s fully hard again, balls plump and full and he breathes through his nose at the scorching heat between your legs, the incomparable vibrations of the electricity running through your skin that he can feel all the way into his skull, like biting down on a broken tooth, but the tooth is in his dick, and there’s something pleasurable about it.
You ride him fast and hard, like he’s a price race horse. He reaches his hands up, finds your tits, squeezes, fondles in a way that does nothing for you but everything for him. You grind on him in a way that has him stuttering a curse. He must be hitting you at the right angle, because he can see your eyelids flutter, unfettered noises leaving you.
“Yeah,” he pants, “fucking come on it.”
When you do, you arch your back again, sounds filling out the room, face a mask of pleasure and pain, but it’s the way your clenching on his dick is paired with the tremors of electric shocks you send out of you and into him that are what get him squeezing your tits harder, huffing like a drowning man through gritted teeth. He’s never felt anything like it.
“Keep going,” he presses out. “Keep fucking going with that little cu–”
Your hand finds his face, fingers briefly disoriented and searching until they press down on his mouth.
“Shut up,” you half moan, half chant. “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Fucking bitch, Soldier Boy thinks. Fucking ungrateful little bitch.
His hands go up without him even meaning to, find your throat. One hand snakes over the back, one over the front and then he’s squeezing. He knows how to apply pressure, how to kill someone and how to make someone just think they’re being killed. But he’s never been a man for finesse. He’s always been a wrecking ball.
You feel the pressure, and you know this could go horribly wrong. Know that the strongest man on earth is pressing down on your windpipe. You’ve wondered before if he has to actively stop himself from constantly breaking things, destroying everything and everyone.
With the way your brain is quickly fogging up at the lack of oxygen, you don’t care though. Neither does Ben. Killing you wouldn’t be great publicity, but Vought would find a way to sweep it under the rug. Not that he wants that. Not that the way you’re squeezing around his dick, heavy waves of electricity tickling him everywhere isn’t the best fucking time he’s had in a long while. He thrusts up, hard, and he feels you twitch.
He keeps thrusting, his own teeth gritted. He knows he has to be careful or he’ll be fucking a corpse in a second, but he’s about to nut again and he knows this is gonna be a big one, so he’s not gonna stop now.
Your body convulses. Death throes, they call it. He squeezes harder, and now you’re twitching and he keeps fucking up into your sopping wet cunt. If he wasn’t going cross-eyed in that very second, he’d see a vein pulsing on your forehead. He’d hear you wheeze. He’d see your eyes roll up til there’s only white. When he feels his balls pull up where he’s squeezed into you, he lets go of your throat.
You can’t cry out, but you make some indescribable sound as you come too, and it’s the ceiling lamp that explodes first. It goes low, then bright, then bursts, just as Soldier Boy blows inside of you, and there’s a floor lamp nearby that follows immediately after. The TV at the other end of the room turns on, and so does the radio, both screeching like they’re coming too.
And Soldier Boy can feel it. Shit, he feels like he can see it. The electricity rolls out of you, into him. He doesn’t hurt a lot, barely ever. Can’t remember the last time, but the way you shoot into his every cell has him busting so hard he can feel his ears pop. It keeps going, his hips still pumping, spurting, and he nearly screams.
He’s never felt like this, and he’s just about done it all.
It seems to last forever, and yet it’s over within seconds. You’re still rolling your hips, milk him for everything he’s got but then you collapse forward, against his chest. You don’t need to be held or some shit like that, but, Christ on a cracker, if you aren’t happy he’s there will all that brawn to make it feel like the fall back to earth isn’t quite as far.
The room is quiet, now, only filled with the panting of both of you. You don’t know it yet, but there is an outline now beneath you of your two bodies where you singed the carpet. It’s fine. Vought will pay for it.
You finally press yourself up, more drop than climb off him, legs shaky. You let Soldier Boy drop out of you, and a lot of him comes with it, runs down your thighs and down into the carpet too. Your ass meets the ground and you reach your hand out, low table nearby, pack of Luckys there and a fat, golden lighter. You take one out of the pack, eyes still mostly closed, hands shaking, and stick it between your lips. You roll your head before lighting it.
“Now that,” you say, voice rough and cracked, and the makeup department will have to work overtime to cover the bruises that will soon bloom on your throat, you just know it, will be dabbing at it with concealer and concerned eyes, but no one will say shit. Meanwhile Soldier Boy can’t help but feel a little proud at that, that he’s fucked that sassy, nagging voice right out of you. “That’s how I would fuck Rock Hudons if I ever got the chance.”
Soldier Boy scoffs, then holds his hand out for the cigarette. You pass it to him and he sits up, scoots back against the couch. Takes a long drag.
Both of you are quiet. He passes the cigarette back to you, and you move how you’re sitting, wince at your sore cunt.
“For what it’s worth,” Soldier Boy finally says, and you look at him with dead eyes. “Pretty sure Rock Hudson is a fucking fairy. So you’re not exactly missing out.” He takes the cigarette back, wishes it was something stronger. When he notices you’re looking at him, he turns his head.
You’re frowning. He opens his mouth, is going to tell you that he’s pretty sure the guy tried to come on to him, suck his dick or something, but then he sees the tears glistening in your eyes. He sighs. He really thought he’d fucked them out of you.
“You really hate me, don’t you?” you ask, sniffle. He holds his breath for a second, then shakes his head.
“I don’t,” he says. “I just kinda don’t give a shit about you.” You turn your head away, nod slowly.
“Okay,” you say.
It’s not how you imagined it. You thought on the other end of it would be happiness, love. You thought that dumb, deep feeling inside of you would go away if only everyone just loved you.
“Then why do you treat me like that?” you ask, but the fight has left your voice. Ben sniffs. He oughta slap you green and blue for how you keep talking back at him, but he just sighs. Flicks some ash onto the carpet.
“None of us get what we deserve,” he says.
Aaw, goes the audience. We really thought they’d make it. We thought love was on the other end of this.
You look at the camera, shake your head.
“Not love,” you say, and then a cheeky little smile forms on your lips. “But something way, way better.”
He takes your hand as the two of you step onto the red carpet. The bulbs blind you, and you throw yourself against his chest, smile brightly, throw one arm up, so excited to be here. He wraps his arm around you, smiles, isn’t she such a catch?
You’re wearing a silver dress, the decollete shaped in the form of a lightning bolt. No one will get why, or ask what it means. Instead they’ll ask you what Soldier Boy is like in private. They’ll ask you what drink you serve him when he gets home. They’ll ask him if he’s planning on popping the question. They’ll ask you if you’ve thought of baby names already. They ask things, and ask, and ask, and you answer and wink and smile and giggle, and he answers and chuckles and winks and pats your side like you’re both in on the joke.
Among the photographers and interviewers there’s fans, actual fans. One girl faints when she sees him. Another girl jumps up and down when she sees you, tears streaming down her face. She goes home to a basement apartment and a violent husband. But she thinks maybe one day she can be like you.
He takes your hand. They cheer, they clap, they scream. They love you.
Isn’t that all you ever wanted?
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Summary Dean gets thrown back into the day things between you and him fell apart. There’s something he’s supposed to learn, he thinks, something he’s supposed to solve. It’s tough, though, since he’s incorporeal, and there’s also no way in hell you’d ever forgive him. Or is there?
CWs Time loops. Dean being an idiot. Some sexual content (oral, penetrative). Magical shenanigans. Arguments. Forgiveness & second chances.
9.1k words
AN This is another old one from over on AO3 that I honestly kinda forgot existed. 😄 But I liked re-reading it, so it's allowed to live over here. 😁 Hope you enjoy!
Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
You wake up, stretching like a cat. You make a little sound when you roll your shoulder, forever sore after that time you got stabbed in it. You sit up, swing your legs over the side of the bed and get up, almost staggering out of the bedroom, legs still stiff from sleep. You’re rubbing your eye as you walk into the kitchen, yawning as you spoon coffee grounds into the filter. Water’s next. Your hand goes under your t-shirt, rubs at your shoulder again as you set the coffee percolator on the stove and turn it on.
Dean sees all of this. He’s standing so close to you that if this was real, if he was really there, you could feel his breath on your face. But you can’t, because he’s not. Because somehow, he can see everything you do in this moment, but he can’t touch you. Can’t get your attention. No matter how much he screams and waves at you. He already tested that on the previous tries, without success. So now, he just watches.
You walk out of the kitchen, to the bathroom. Dean stays behind, feeling like he should give you some privacy, although he would love nothing more than to see you tug down your shorts, get a look at what’s underneath. He’s not that big of a pervert. At least that’s what he tells himself.
You come back, and when you walk past Dean so closely that you’re almost walking through him, he can smell the freshness of toothpaste on you, because for some reason he is granted that olfactory function. This is further confirmed by the smell of coffee that is filling the small kitchen. It tickles his nose, if such a thing is possible when you, technically, don’t have a nose. The coffee you use just has that distinct smell. One he’ll never forget.
You fill two cups and walk back into the bedroom. You set them on your night table and then crawl back into bed. Crawling being the key word here, because you stay on all fours, giving Dean, who’s followed you to the bedroom, a perfect view of your perfect ass. He shakes his head at that. It’s a good thing there seem to be no boners in ghost world.
You lean over, and your lips land on his naked back, gently kissing him. The Dean in the bed with you stirs, groans a little, because he hates being woken up. Well, that’s until he realizes who he’s being woken by. He’ll be fine in a second.
It's a damn strange experience, watching himself slowly wake. It was also a strange experience when he spent the morning, before you woke up, confused, distracted, trying to make himself known, trying to find the magic door that would allow him to leave. Not being able to use his body is its own punishment for the man who likes to shoot, smash and punch first, and ask questions much, much later. Dean has no idea what his own physicality means to him until it’s taken away. How not fulfilling his own tactile needs, even though there technically are no tactile needs, is making him itch. It’s like a smoker who stops, all the poison already out of his body, but the brain still makes him crave that one after dinner or after sex so much that he’s almost salivating. That’s Dean, alright.
The Dean in the bed is slowly stirring, back moving. Your hair falls off your shoulder, the ends of it tickling his back and ghost-Dean almost groans at what he knows that feels like. A spiritual boner, that’s what he’s getting. A mind boner. How’s he gonna deal with that?
He watches himself roll over and he sees the moment he registers it’s you. He knows the way you’re smiling at him. The things it makes him feel. He could walk around the bed, see for himself, but he knows. You look like you’re happy he’s alive, happy he exists. Dean’s not sure how many people have ever made him feel like they’re happy he exists, rather than taking it for granted that he does.
“Got you coffee,” you say in a quiet voice, but he’s already pushing himself up on his elbow, hand going into the hair at the back of your neck. He knows that hair’s gonna be a little knotted from how you toss and turn at night. He knows it carries the distant smell of your shampoo, but more than that, after a night of sleep in this humid weather, it’s going to smell nice and earthy and like you. He knows the feeling of pressing his fingertips into your scalp and neck, knows the low scratching sounds it makes, how it makes you relax your jaw immediately.
“Come here,” Dean says.
When he pulls you in to kiss you he knows what that feels like too. The softness of your lips, the warm wetness of your mouth. He’d like to bury himself in that, move in, set up shop. He was never sure how to say that without sounding like a weirdo, so he never did. He regrets that now.
But then you pull back, make a sound. “Morning breath, baby,” you say and Dean hears himself breathe out through his nose. He pecks another kiss on you, then he’s getting up, striding to the bathroom. What a horndog, Dean thinks of himself, watching his double rush to brush his teeth, gurgle some mouth water, piss while he’s in there. All hurried, all needy. He wants to scoff at himself, but the truth is he would do the exact same thing now.
He's back in the bedroom in no time. Dean, the ghosty Dean, has been watching you, since he doesn’t need to watch himself empty his bladder. You’re leaned against the headboard, sipping your coffee. Bare legs stretched out in front of you and Dean would love to kiss your toes. He tries to remember if he ever did that. If not, he should have. They’re lovely. His double walks up to your side of the bed, sits, takes your coffee cup out of your hands and sets it on the night table. It’s a dick move, Dean thinks, but the truth is, he’s just jealous. Because he knows what’s next.
He kisses you and Dean can’t deny that getting to see your face this way, see you react to how he’s kissing you is a treat. Your eyes fall closed and you look like you’re eating something delicious. It flusters him a little, makes him blush like a young maid. That you like him that much. Soon bodied-Dean, eager guy that he is, is running his hands down your sides. He used to be an exclusive tits-ass-pussy guy, but with you he’s found the pleasure in all the other parts of your body. Legs, hips, thighs, obviously, but the softness of your stomach. The back of your knees. Your wrists. Dean Winchester never thought he’d get so turned on by wrists.
He wrestles your shorts off you, and ghost-Dean nearly groans when he sees you. The bunched skin where your leg and crotch meet makes him sure he can destroy the metaphysical rules of whatever this world is and pop a tent. The Dean on the bed gets to kiss you again, then moves down to kiss your stomach, shirt pushed up, gets to run his tongue over your skin there at which you suck in your lower lip, which is absolutely criminal, that’s how good it looks. He moves lower, and your hips are already gyrating in anticipation of his touch. Because that’s how much you want him.
His mouth finds its way and so do his fingers, and then Dean watches himself, watches the back of his head move, the muscles in his arms tense as he pushes two digits into you. One of your hands goes to the top of the headboard and the other to the top of his head, fingers running into the hair there. Ghostly Dean almost feels the wonderful tension in his own scalp when you tug at it.
He gets you to the edge, to the point where you’re pressing yourself against his face, breaths and sounds becoming choppy, and then he slows down. You don’t complain, instead lean your head back and close your eyes. Dean does it again, carries you up the mountain but stops before you reach the peak. The sound you make is so perfect that in retrospect he cannot believe he’s the one who drew it from you. Desperate, needy, wanting. He’s the one who holds it just out of your reach, but you’re not mad at him. You know it’s worth the wait.
On the third time he draws you close, Dean’s had enough of teasing you, not least of all because his own situation is becoming very difficult to ignore. Dean’s always been a fan of giving the women he was with a good time, but he’s never gotten so achingly hard just from this. Once, earlier in your relationship, when he first started doing this to you, drawing it out, your sounds and movement surprised him so that he absentmindedly started humping the mattress, nearly came like that. He’s a little bit embarrassed now, thinking back on that, but you loved it, thought it was hot.
When you finally fall over that edge, your hand reaches for something to hold on, desperately fumbling against the wooden headboard, and ghost-Dean actually cringes by how hard your hand hits the wood, wonders if you’re hurt but it seems you couldn’t give less of a shit. Your back arches and you whine and shake and it’s all so damn perfect. How you don’t hold back, don’t worry about your sounds and your face and just feel. It drives Dean crazy. It drives him absolutely crazy.
Now he gets to watch how you sit up, pull him towards you by his shoulders. Kiss his wet mouth while trying to get his boxer shorts off. Dean, while he still has any wherewithal, sits himself against the headboard and then you’re climbing on top of him, kiss him again. He holds your face in both of his hands, makes you look into his eyes while you sink down on him. What a fucking sap.
You ride him slowly and sensually. The Dean he was before was a fuck-fast-and-get-it-done guy, the end always the goal. Now, he gets almost sad when it’s over. Well, he comes, so he’s not that sad, but still. He wishes this part could last forever.
Your hips are circling, and your arms are around his shoulders, as Dean’s hands run up your torso, run under your shirt that in the heat of the moment you’re too busy to discard, touch all that soft, warm skin on you. His hands go to your front, find your nipples, perfect little nubs, that he gently twists and in response you ride him a little faster. You lean down to kiss him and he grins against your mouth, grins at your responsiveness, at how much it makes him feel like a man that he can make you feel this way. You must be able to feel his smile against your lips, because Dean knows that you’re making that face, the one where you’re trying to suppress your own smile when he’s making you laugh, but you don’t want to admit it. He wants to lick and kiss and nip at your face then.
“Shut up,” you say, even though he hasn’t said anything. Dean’s still grinning, and then he watches himself twist your nipples again and your head falls back. It’s too much. It’s too good and it’s too painful to watch. He steps out into the hallway, runs his hand over his face, because for some weird fucking reason that he can do. He can’t close the door behind him, though, so he still hears you, hears himself, and even as he moves a few feet down the hallway he definitely hears the moment the Dean in the other room wraps his arms around your back, pushes himself forward and lands you on your back, to which you reply with a high moan. It’s not fair, and whatever cosmic entity has cooked this up could have thought of something a little less on the nose. Because Dean knows what happens next. Dean knows.
The reason he knows is because he’s lived this day before. This isn’t some alternative reality or a djinn creating his perfect day – although so far, it’s pretty close to what he’d imagine his perfect day to be. Coffee in bed and morning sex, although if this was a perfect dream or something, the coffee would remain hot, not go cold the way it is right now. Dean will take a sip when the two of you are done, and make a face. He knows this because this is a memory. It’s the memory of the day things ended between you and him.
He moves to the living room. He sits on the couch, and he actually manages, doesn’t fall through to the floor. The rules of this reality are all over the place and he doesn’t totally understand them, which pisses him off. He sits there, elbows on his thighs, and thinks. He was in the bunker, before he came here, or rather, was transported here. He and Sam and Cas were going through some old artefacts, Sam reminding him every five minutes that he should be careful, pointing out that they didn’t have any protection and before Dean could even say condom, he touched something and then he was here.
So now he’s wondering what here is, and why he’s here. He clearly can’t change anything, can’t do anything, so it doesn’t seem to be time travel. All he can do is watch, which is what brought him to his current conclusion: there’s something he’s supposed to learn, to understand. That’s his best guess. A Groundhog Day situation. Because this is the fifth time Dean is experiencing this day. Well, sixth if you count the original, real one. He keeps getting thrown back and he has no idea why.
The loop starts a few minutes before you wake up, and it ends when he walks out of your apartment. The door falls shut, and he’s back in bed, or not him, his corporeal version. Damn, this is confusing.
So whatever he’s supposed to learn, supposed to understand, it’s not coming to him. The only thing he’s getting is this perfect morning and then your stupid argument afterwards. Dean sighs. What is the lesson here?
He zones out on that thought for a good long while, because he doesn’t even notice you and him have entered the living room until you’re almost right in front of him. He wonders if he’s slipping. He wonders if he’ll go crazy after enough repetition, after he’s seen this a thousand, two thousand times. Probably.
“I just don’t understand why you think it’s such a wild thing for me to say,” you say as you’re picking up some discarded clothes off the back of one of the chairs that stand around the small dining table. You are dressed, and so is Dean, and Dean, the one sitting on the couch, knows that this argument started while you were still lying in bed together, the post-sex bliss making room for the conflict you’ve carried your entire relationship, if that is even what you can call it. You’re both damaged, volatile and as pigheaded as any two people can be. Yes, you’re head over heels for each other, have the best sex Dean has ever had, make each other laugh until you’re crying and Dean’s pretty sure he’s in love with you, but that doesn’t seem to be enough.
“Can we just not talk about this? Again?” past-Dean says, running a hand over his face in what could be a perfect parody of what ghost-Dean (future-Dean? he thinks. Sounds like a bad super hero) did earlier. He doesn’t like his own tone, doesn’t like how it sounds like you’re being the unreasonable one when he knows he’s being a huge idiot himself.
Your expression shows you’re annoyed, because this is what Dean always does – or did – which is to want to push the topic, leave it for some other time.
“Well,” you say, as you’re haphazardly folding one of the shirts you picked up. “We never get anywhere when we talk about this, so, yeah, we have to talk about it again, because we haven’t come to a solution.”
Dean, corporeal Dean, sighs, leans with his arm against the wall. Looks irritable. You damn idiot, the Dean on the couch thinks. You have no idea how lucky you are you get to argue with her. You see it in him, how his entire posture is telling you how frustrating it is for him to talk about this, and what he thinks comes off as charming and Don Juan-y is actually coming off as arrogant and hurtful. If Dean could restore his physicality in this realm for one second, he’d use that second to punch himself in the face.
You look down, and it breaks his heart. What you want from him, and what Dean is refusing to give you, is some goddamn commitment. Which he’s already giving you – he’s not sleeping around, he’s not dating anyone else, he’s only with you because you’re the only person he wants to be with – but you just want him to say it. And because Dean is terrified that he cannot stick to his own promises, that he will fail the moment he commits, he’s not giving you the one thing you’ve ever asked him for.
Your thumb is rubbing along the fabric of the shirt you’re holding. Dean knows what’s coming. He wants to walk out, get away, but if this really is some sick way for him to learn his lesson then he knows that the pivotal moment comes now.
“I don’t know if this is working, Dean,” you say, and your voice is so damn sad. He sees it on his own face, the shock, the surprise, because of course he’s big enough of an idiot to take you for granted. Of course he thinks there will never be any actual consequences to all his stupid choices. He’s righteous enough to go through life thinking that way.
“Hey,” he says, and Dean the Friendly Ghost hears the change in his tone, hears the sneaking suspicion that maybe you’re being serious, and that he will actually lose you. Oops, he thinks, internal voice dripping with sarcasm.
“Maybe we just want different things,” you continue as if you didn’t hear him. You’re not looking up, still staring at the shirt in your hands. Dean gets off the couch, then. He walks to roughly where his other version is standing, but closer to you. Always closer to you. Maybe this is the key, the thing he’s been looking for. Maybe if he hits his mark, stands on the right spot on the stage and says the right lines, he can get out of here or, even better, change what actually happened that day. And then he’ll go back to the real world, and the universe will have adjusted accordingly. You’ll be there in the bunker, share his room. Your stuff will be everywhere and he’ll complain but he’ll be the happiest man in the world. And he’d be so grateful, every day. He promises that now.
“I love you,” he says into the continuing silence of the room, willing you to look up. “I’m an idiot and I only want to be with you.” He waits a second, breath baited.
“If that’s what you think,” he hears his other version say behind him, and Dean closes his eyes. At the stupidity and also because nothing’s changed. This is still the original version. What the hell is he supposed to do?
He opens his eyes again, and you’re finally looking up. You clearly want Dean to say he’s sorry, were maybe trying to get him to freak out and tell you that he wants you, needs you. But he’s doubling down on the bluff, and you can’t back down now. You’re too proud, and honestly, Dean thinks, good for you.
“Then I think you should leave,” you say, voice angry but controlled. Dean knows that his other version behind him is opening his mouth, gearing up to say something, but then doesn’t. Instead he pushes himself off the wall, and walks into the bedroom where his bag and the rest of his things are.
Dean stays with you in the living room, once again surprised by how quickly things escalated. He knows what the other guy is doing – throwing all his things in his duffel, forgetting half of it. Also making a little bit of extra noise because he’s not above being a petulant little asshole. But Dean stays with you. Watches you. Watches tears build in your eyes as you take a deep breath to still your emotions. Watches you chew the inside of your cheek. He wonders if you’re thinking about going after him or if at this point you’re just glad to see him gone.
It's stupid. It’s so stupid. You have all the ingredients for something good here. All the parts you need to build a whole. And yet you, or he, or both of you, have managed to make such a mess out of it.
Dean listens to himself walk back into the hallway. He hears himself stop, stand in front of the door that leads out to the apartment. Rather than just talk to you he stands there for a moment, just out of sight of you in the living room. Hoping you’ll stop him. No such luck.
Finally he opens the door. Dean watches you look down again, stare at the floor. Then the sound of feet, the door closing, and everything goes dark.
You stare down at yourself, waking up, cross your arms over your chest and groan. You are so damn tired of this. So tired. You don’t want to keep going through this. You watch yourself stretch, and then your eyes go back to Dean next to you in the bed. He makes a pretty picture and as fun as it is to watch you and him fuck over and over (although you could do without the dramatic second act), the only thing this weird experience has really led to is that you want nothing more than to take the place your double is now abandoning, slip between the sheets and sling your arms around Dean, pull him close and never let go.
Because you’ve been in this godforsaken hellscape for what feels like ages now, and if you don’t touch something soon, feel something, experience any kind of change, you’re going to self-destruct. Which, hey, at least that would be something new. You’d take someone pulling out your teeth and fingernails one by one at this point.
You were on a case, minding your own business, not doing much of anything when all of a sudden, you found yourself here. You genuinely wondered for a few minutes if you’d simply driven home, in the way you sometimes drive a route you know well without realizing you’re doing it. But there was no route you knew well, because you were two states over from where you lived, and also, also, there was a copy of you and Dean Winchester in the next room. No, not just a copy, a memory, an echo. You remember this day, but you’d be happier if you didn’t.
Even though you know it won’t have any effect, you scream at your memory-clone for a few minutes, follow her from the kitchen to the bathroom. She doesn’t react. She sits on the toilet while she pees, staring into the middle distance, and has a stupid goofy grin on her face. She has no idea what’s coming to her and it makes you want to scoff, slap the smile right off her visage.
It’s easier, like this, to be angry and bitter at her, because then you don’t have to admit the other thing – that you’re jealous. That she gets to climb back into bed with Dean, gets to touch him, feel him. That she gets to live, at least for a little while longer, with the belief that you two will manage to make things work. That you won’t be your own worst enemies and fuck everything up.
Then comes the coffee and then the kissing and then Dean touching you and you leave as you see your face start to contort in pleasure. Go to the living room and look out the window.
You don’t know what to do. You don’t know what to do. You’ve seen this dozens of times now. You’ve tried everything you can think of. Tried to slip in at the right moment. Whispered to yourself. Nothing works. You don’t know what to do. There’s no physical needs or physical… anything in this reality, but you feel the ghost-memory-prison equivalent of a panic attack rise in your chest. You’d try to slow your breathing, except that you’re not, well, breathing. So you can’t actually panic, but you also can’t not panic. Is this the moment? Is this the moment you go crazy?
Just stand and wait. Maybe you need to simply ignore everything that’s going on. Maybe that’s the solution. You have no idea what the fuck that would be good for, but you’d stand on your head if it meant changing anything. Actually, now that you think about it, you haven’t tried that yet.
There’s a sudden vibration in the air behind you and you spin around. Something is different. Something just happened that hasn’t happened before. You can’t see it now, but you definitely felt something. You stand there, as still as you can, praying to whoever’s listening that it happens again.
It does, just when you don’t expect it to anymore. A ripple in the air. Like there’s a wall of saran wrap in front of you that’s suddenly bunching up before straightening out again. You squint at it, trying to understand what it is you’re seeing. Carefully you raise your hand to it, try to touch the air where something is happening. It feels like the air is thicker there, there’s some resistance, like you’re moving your hand through water instead of air, so you do it again, and then again.
“Please stop doing that,” you hear a familiar voice and jump back. “It is very difficult to pierce the walls of the metaphysical realm while also having my face stroked.”
“Castiel?” you ask with a frown, sure you would recognize the deadpan growl of the angel anywhere. “Is that you?” Your eyes are going over the disturbance, and you’re pretty sure that’s where the voice came from.
“It’s me,” he says, and the ripple almost looks like a soundwave, like Castiel speaking is making it appear. “Are you alright?” You want to say no, because that’s the truth, but that seems beside the point now.
“I’m fine,” you say instead. “Is there… do you know if there’s a way to get me out of here?”
“It depends,” Castiel the Air Ripple of the Lord responds. “Where is here?”
“My apartment,” you reply. “Except it’s not my apartment. I mean it is, but it’s my apartment in the past.” You give a humorless chuckle. “I don’t know if that makes any sense.”
“It doesn’t,” Castiel responds, as usual not invested in sparing anyone’s feelings. “Is Dean there?”
The question gives you pause.
“Uhm, yeah,” you reply.
“What is he doing?” Castiel’s disembodied voice asks.
Screwing my brains out in the next room.
“Sleeping,” you say, hoping that if you can’t see Castiel it means that he can’t see you, because if he did, and there is a way for you to blush in this dimension, you would definitely be doing that.
“Sleeping?” Castiel asks to confirm. “No, that’s highly unlikely. When you are astral projecting there are no physical needs, so Dean wouldn’t need to sleep.”
“Astral projecting?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. “I thought that was a religious practice. Go to the astral plane, life before and after death, talk to the angels and all that. Oh.” You interrupt yourself. “I guess I am doing that last part.”
“That is part of it,” Castiel explains, not acknowledging at your joke at all. “The practice left the spiritual realm at some point and was used to allow a copy of the body to exist detached from time and space. Dean accidentally activated something here in the bunker that created the detachment.”
You lean your head back, push your fists into your sides. Of course Dean did that. But then you frown. “Okay,” you say, “but what does that have to do with me? Why am I here?”
“We’re trying to figure that out,” Castiel answers, but he sounds a little distracted.
“Listen closely,” he continues, and you already are. “You need to tell me where you are. Where your body is currently. Sam will go and get it and we will bring you back to the bunker. Meanwhile I will work on a way to bring you back to your body.”
Sudden worry blooms in you. Your physical body is out there somewhere. You worry at what this could mean.
“Cas,” you say, “I’ve been here for days and days. I don’t even know if my body is alive anymore.”
“It might feel like you’ve been there for days,” Castiel answers, “but it’s only been a couple of hours. You’ll be fine. Sam will come and get you.”
You sigh, relieved, and then give Castiel the address and room number of the motel you were staying at. He repeats it, probably to Sam.
“I should continue looking for a way to bring you back into your body,” Castiel says, now addressing you, and the thought of him leaving, the thought of him simply going away again and you going back to the tedium of repetition is almost too much to accept.
“No, Cas, please,” you say, a desperate tone that you don’t like at all in your voice. “Please don’t leave me alone here.”
Cas is quiet for a moment, and you wonder if he’s contemplating staying with you.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he genuinely is, and your hopes shatter into a million pieces. “Try to find Dean. I think it would be helpful for you two to connect. It might make the extraction easier.”
“I told you,” you say. “Dean is in the next room. Sleeping.”
“The astral version of Dean,” Castiel explains. You want to make a joke about astral body, but you hold back, because Cas continues. “He’s there as well, but somehow you need to find a way to connect, to communicate.”
“And how do I do that?” you ask.
“I don’t know,” Castiel responds. Great.
There’s silence for a second and then the air wiggles again. “You can do this,” Castiel says, doing his best to sound encouraging. He doesn’t quite hit the right tone, but you appreciate the effort. It’s quiet then.
“Castiel?” you say into the room. No answer. He’s gone. And you’re alone again.
Dean, you think then. He’s here somewhere. You need to find him.
Dean has been doing everything he can for the last few loops. He’s banging on the walls. He’s yelling, trying to find something, something, that will allow him to find you. He hasn’t heard back from Cas, and the worry that causes sits in the back of his head with a heavy, uncomfortable finality.
Currently he’s running his hands over the wall in the bedroom, while you and him are lying entangled behind him. He knows you’re running your fingertips over the inside of his arm and staring off into the distance, because at this point he has seen this scene so many times he knows it by heart, every single word, every single look.
“I don’t want you to worry about that,” the Dean on the bed says as the Dean near the wall runs his hand over the wallpaper, in the hopes that they will catch on something.
“But I do,” you say.
“Just… don’t, okay?” Dean says and the other Dean feels his lips move. He freezes. Why did he do that? Why did he mouth the words he said so long ago? He turns around, looks at the two of you. You’re quiet now, but Dean knows what happened. He’s sure he moved his lips to those words and he didn’t do that on purpose. He doesn’t think that’s a good sign. He closes his eyes. He needs to get out of here.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” you say, but it sounds closer than it’s supposed to. Dean’s eyes fly open and he looks around. It felt like you were standing right next to him when you said it. He watches you get up, his hand reaching after you but then dropping on the mattress, as you walk to your dresser, pull out underwear, start putting it on. Dean just lies in the bed, stares at the ceiling. The other Dean opens his mouth.
“Can we not make a big deal out of it?” he says at the same time as his counterpart on the bed does and then suddenly, there you are.
You’re looking down at the bed, standing next to your double, who’s now pulling a shirt and pants out of the dresser, but you’re looking down at Dean, look at him lying there. Dean, ghost Dean, takes a step forward and for a second, he’s terrified that he can only see you, and that you can’t see him, and that he has to spend the rest of eternity looking at two version of you. But then his movement draws your attention and you look up. Your eyes go wide. You can see him. Dean could cry from happiness. You can see him.
“How—” you start and Dean can only shake his head. His other self is getting up from the bed now too, is pulling on his clothes (Dean almost clears his non-existent throat at the fact that there’s a copy of him right next to the two of you with his junk out), but you don’t take your eyes off him.
The other two of you are moving slowly around you, you leaned against the dresser, quiet, Dean putting on his clothes and then sitting on the side of the bed. You, the ghostly you, hasn’t said anything else, you just keep staring at Dean, so he gives himself a push.
“Hi,” he says, and your eyebrows go up. “Fancy seeing you here.”
Your laugh is half of a choked breath. And then the next second, you frown.
“What did you do?” you ask. Dean’s taken aback.
“What do you mean, what did I do?” he asks, defensive.
“You did something,” you say, crossing your arms. “Cas said you played with some artefacts and that caused this.”
“First of all,” Dean says, one hand going up to indicate the number of his first correction. “I wasn’t playing with artefacts. I touched something and it whammied me… wherever the hell it is we are. Secondly—”
That’s the moment your doubles start arguing again. Dean closes his mouth, annoyed, and when he looks at you, you’re crossing your arms over your chest, looking at him challengingly. God, he loves that look on you, the one you get when you call him on his bullshit.
You’re quiet while your alternative versions bicker. Dean knows they’ll move to the kitchen in a second, and then later the living room. So he waits patiently, and so do you, he notices. He raises his chin.
As the two finally leave the room, he looks you up and down. “How long have you been stuck here?” he asks. You push out your jaw, probably weighing whether to sass him or just answer.
“A long time,” you answer finally, and Dean gets it. Gets that you have been here as long as he has. He lowers the hand he still had raised.
“I’m sorry,” he says, looking into your eyes. The hardness in your face wanes.
“I thought it wasn’t your fault,” you say, only a little bit of challenge in those words. Dean chuckles.
“I said I didn’t get us here on purpose,” he answers. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t my fault.”
He almost rolls his eyes at himself, because it’s just too much an explanation for all of this, but he doesn’t. Which is fine, because you do it for him.
“What?” he says. Your arms uncross and instead you raise them defensively.
“I didn’t say anything,” you respond.
“You rolled your eyes,” Dean replies.
“What are you,” you say, giving him an unbelieving look, “the eye rolling police?” Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks at the floor, and then up and he catches the sparkle in your eyes.
“God,” you say, “it feels so fucking good to be talking to someone.” Dean groans.
“I know,” he says. “Holy shit.” You both huff and then you’re quiet again.
“Do you think,” you say, voice carful, like you’re unsure about what you’re saying, “that there’s something we need to do? Like something we need to learn, or, I don’t know, accept?”
You probably don’t mean for the last word to carry the meaning it does, but your and Dean’s eyes meet and it’s clear what that entails. Is the reason you’re being shown this day over and over again so that you accept that things are over between you and move on?
“I don’t know,” Dean says, honestly. “Sam was caught in a time loop years ago, and that was all instrumented by someone who wanted him to learn something. So maybe?” He shrugs, just to underline how absolutely clueless he is. He watches you as you chew on your bottom lip, and it is so adorable that despite the anxiety and discomfort he has been feeling, his heart does a little extra ba-dum.
“If they wanted us to accept something,” he starts and he can’t fully look at you while he says it. “Like, that it’s the right thing for us to have broken up, they really should have left out that first part.” It takes you a second to understand what he means, and then you make that face. The one where you’re trying to hide your smile because you don’t want to admit that what Dean said is making you laugh. You lick your lip and try to control the corners of your mouth. Dean can’t help but grin.
No, he realizes, he could see this fight a million times more, and he’d never think it was right for you to break up. He’d always want you back, no matter how often he is forced to watch this.
You open your mouth to say something else, when there is suddenly a rumble, like a distant earthquake. You look to the side, then back at Dean, eyes going wide. It stops and then it starts again, louder, stronger.
“Dean?” you say, probably hoping he has some sort of explanation, but all it does it make him step closer to you and reach out.
Your hands touch before the two of you even know what you’re doing and when they do, it’s like a bolt of lightning goes through you. Dean looks down at where your hands are touching and then back at you, and the feeling, the feeling of touch, is overwhelming after such a long time without it. It’s stronger than anything he’s ever felt. But again, he’s wrong.
He felt this way the first time he touched you too. And every single time since. Like it was the first time he was touching someone in his entire life.
You look into his face and Dean’s not sure if you’re thinking the same thing but the roaring around you is getting louder and more intense, it’s shaking the ground and the walls and the ceiling and the two of you, it vibrates the air around you and in the next second, everything is gone.
Dean’s eyes open and his head shoots up and he sucks air into his lungs so hard that he coughs. You don’t fare much better as you lean over, hand splayed on your chest, shoulders up. Sam grabs Dean by the arms to steady him but Dean’s just confused by it for a second, flails his arms, until Sam has said his name a few times and he recognizes his little brother.
“You’re back, it’s okay,” Sam says, but Dean’s eyes shoot back to you, watches as Cas gently pats your shoulder.
“Are you okay?” Dean asks, his lungs feeling like they’re on fire, like he just ran a mile. It seems you’re not immediately aware that he’s talking to you, but then Dean says your name and you look at him.
It feels dramatic, the way your eyes meet, like you’re looking at each other across some great expanse of time and space. Dean must have heard that somewhere, because it sure as hell didn’t come from his brain. But it fits.
“I’m okay,” you say, voice low. Dean nods. Then he turns to Sam, who is looking between you two carefully.
“Now,” Dean says, “what the hell happened?”
The device, according to Cas and Sam, that Dean touched, served as a way for people on both sides of the veil, or those outside and inside of the astral plane, which is the same thing but a different vocabulary, to communicate with each other – a dead person talking to a living person. Dean frowns.
“But neither one of us is dead,” he observes. Castiel tilts his head.
“Yes,” he says, “but you have been dead often enough that the device might have gotten confused, paired you with a living person instead.” Dean nods, takes a sip from his drink. He has died a lot.
“That’s all fine and dandy,” you say from the other side of the table, “but then why did I get dragged in there as well?” Dean looks at you. It hasn’t been that long since he last saw you, in the real world that is, but he feels like he’s trying to make up for lost time without being a weirdo. He keeps stealing glances at you, and sometimes he catches you looking back, and he’s not sure if it’s because you noticed what he’s doing or because you’re looking at him too.
“The device brought people together that had unfinished business with each other,” Sam explains, and Dean looks at you again. You look at him at the same time and then you both look away quickly, like pre-schoolers, when you realize the implication of what Sam just said. Unfinished business. There it is, all spelled out. You clear your throat.
“And then you just relive whatever your unfinished business is,” you say, “until the end of days?”
“No,” Sam explains. “Usually a shaman would be present during the ritual to drag you back out, but, uh, we didn’t have a shaman. So Cas had to bend the rules a little.” All eyes go to Castiel.
“It wasn’t pleasant,” is all he says. Dean sniffs, then leans back, drink in hand.
“One thing I don’t understand,” he says. “Why does one of the people getting sucked in need to be dead? Why not give closure to two living people.” Castiel turns his steely blue eyes to Dean, not a hint of humor on his face.
“The dead deserve closure, too, Dean,” he says. Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. He leans forward, looking a little embarrassed.
“Alright, Patricia Arquette,” Dean mumbles into his glass.
“Okay,” you say, setting down your glass on the table, laying your hands on your thighs and looking around. “I think I should go.” You stand up and Dean feels himself freeze, feels himself try to come up with a reason you should stay. Sam gets up too.
“Uhm,” he says, throwing Dean a look. “You don’t have your car.” You’re standing, looking down at yourself, brushing something invisible off your leg when he says this and you look up.
“I broke into your motel room,” Sam explains, looking awkward. “And kind of, uhm, carried you out.” Dean has a sudden image in his head, of lanky Sam hoisting you over his shoulder and running through the motel parking lot with you, hoping no one sees him. Beautiful.
“Shit,” you say, raise your shoulders and sigh. “Uhm, I’ll figure something out.”
“Dean could drive you,” Sam says, looking at his brother, who has been quiet so far. Dean turns to Sam, sees the scheming look going over Sam’s face. Son of a bitch. He really is the smart one.
“Yeah, I can,” Dean says, getting up as well. He’s still holding the glass with the drink all of you, except Cas, needed when you were done being dragged out of astral hell, and he puts it down on the table to show he is a responsible driver.
You seem unsure for a second, look at Dean with doubt in your eyes.
“Sure,” you finally say. “That would be great.”
Sam sits down and in a move that is unusual for him, props up his legs up on the long wooden table.
“Do you think they believed the story?” Castiel asks, looking over at the hunter. Sam shrugs.
“Seemed like it,” he says. Castiel is quiet for a moment, then speaks up again.
“It doesn’t feel right… to lie to Dean,” he says, grimacing a little. Sam nods as he reaches for the glass he poured earlier. He deserves it, after today.
“I know,” he answers, raising the glass to his mouth. “But you saw him. He wasn’t doing well. Hasn’t been for weeks. And he was never going to get off his ass on his own. We just… pushed him in the right direction.”
“By sending him and the woman he loves into a micro universe,” Castiel clarifies, “that tortures everyone who ends up there with their biggest regret.”
“Not torture,” Sam points out, recalling the exact translation of the text he read. “Confronts. That’s different.”
“And then,” Castiel continues, ignoring what Sam said, “we left them in there for much longer than we originally planned.” Sam spreads out his arms.
“We didn’t know it would be that complicated to get them out,” he responds.
“We knew there were risks,” Castiel points out. Sam gets up with a groan. He walks to the little bar cart, pours a new glass and carries it over to Castiel. Then he sits down again.
“My brother has sacrificed himself again and again,” Sam says, his voice now serious. “He deserves something good. If this is how he gets it…” Sam looks down into the glass he has picked up again. “I just wanted them both to understand how ridiculous they’re being.” Castiel sighs while he studies the earnestness on Sam’s face. Then the angel raises his glass.
“Let’s hope they understand this time,” he says, a sweet and placating look on his face. Sam looks up, takes a moment, then raises his glass as well.
“I’ll drink to that,” he says, and then he does.
The beginning of the drive is incredibly awkward.
Dean and you are both sitting there in the car, staring straight ahead, not saying a word. It’s dark out, late, and now Dean thinks he should have simply offered for you to stay the night. But he completely blanked on that. Sam’s the one with the manners, so now here you are, driving down the dark country road.
“So,” he says after a few miles, “unfinished business.”
“Yeah, how about that?” you say. Dean smiles, the grip on the steering wheel relaxing a little.
“I still don’t totally get it,” you say, and Dean dares to quickly look over at you. There’s only a little bit of light to see you by, but he can see your features, the moonlight gleaming off your skin. “I mean it sounds really complicated. This whole astral projection thing.” Dean nods.
“Yeah, not sure I need to get it,” he says, fingers drumming on the wheel a little. “Just happy that we got out of there.”
“You know,” you say a second later, “while we were in there, I was sure there had to be some kind of… I don’t know. I was sure there was something I had to do? To get out, I mean. Like in Groundhog Day.” Dean nods and chuckles.
“Exactly like Groundhog Day,” he answers. “Like there was something I had to learn, to realize. Or that I had to date Andie MacDowell.” By the movement he tracks out of his periphery, Dean’s pretty sure you’ve turned to face him.
“Can’t knock Andie. So did you learn anything?” you ask, and Dean’s pretty sure he can hear an edge of humor in your voice.
“Uhm,” he says, pretending to think for a second. “That I’m a pretty big idiot.” It’s quiet after he says it, and Dean can’t stand it. “I know,” he adds finally, “you could have told me that yourself.”
“Hmm,” you say, “I think I was busy being a pretty big idiot myself.” Dean looks over at you, already shaking his head.
“No, you weren’t,” he responds, looks back at the street. “Not half as big as I was.” To his surprise, he hears you chuckle.
“Glad we established that,” you say. Dean nods. You’re quiet again.
“Thought about you the other day,” you say, and Dean raises his eyebrows, indicating for you to continue, like he hasn’t been thinking about you every single day since that day. “You left a bunch of your stuff, and I was… packing it up.”
Dean swallow. Not the association the was hoping for.
“Maybe you should pick them up,” you say, and Dean tries hard to control his face, but he’s not sure he succeeds. “In case, there’s stuff in there you need.” He only nods. Nothing else to add to that.
More silence, dark miles disappearing below the two of you. Then Dean speaks up again.
“I was repeating the words from the argument when you showed up,” he says, staring straight ahead even though he’s pretty sure you turn to him. “Just… said them, without planning to. And then there was that weird earthquake when we started talking to each other. Do you think—”
“I think that was just Cas pulling us out,” you interrupt him. Dean presses his lips together. Seems your defenses are fully up. “And as for the repeating, I think we were just starting to go crazy.”
Okay, Dean thinks. Okay. He understands. None of it meant anything.
It’s over.
He pulls into the parking lot of your motel a little later. He turns off the engine, then turns to you, expecting you to already be booking it out of the car, get away from him as quickly as possible.
To his surprise, you’re sitting there, still staring ahead, deep in thought.
“You want me to walk you to your room?” Dean asks, unhelpful as all hell, because he doesn’t want to walk you anywhere. He wants you to stay right there. Preferably for eternity.
(The irony of wishing for something to remain the way it is for eternity after what he just got out of isn’t lost on him.)
You turn to him, frowning.
“I can walk to my room,” you say and Dean sighs.
“I wasn’t saying you can’t walk to your room,” he replies. If this is the argument you really end things on, it’s even more stupid than the last one. But if it means you’ll stay for a few more minutes? Dean’s totally fine with it.
“You know that’s not how it works, right?” you ask, and Dean has no idea what you’re talking about.
“You know problems don’t just go away because you’re stuck in a room with someone,” you say, and Dean wonders if you maybe have lost it a little bit. “Or in a car.”
“What?” Dean asks.
“I mean,” you continue, voice heated, “nothing’s changed. None of our… our issues,” at this you do sarcastic quotation marks, as if you’re quoting from a self-help book. “None of them have disappeared. They’re all still there.” You lower your hands and look at him.
“I know,” he says, still not entirely sure where you’re going with this.
“So nothing’s changed,” you repeat.
“Well,” Dean says. No, technically not. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that this means something.
“What happened doesn’t mean anything,” you say in that moment, and it would be annoying if it wasn’t so damn perfect.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, looking sideways at you. “Maybe nothing’s changed.” You nod, maybe confused because he is agreeing with you, but you don’t say anything else.
“But I…” Dean starts, then stops, looks out the front window. How can he say that this feels like a sign for him to get his shit together without sounding like a maniac?
“You what?” you ask, and there’s still that finality, that hardness in your voice, but also something else. Something soft and wounded.
Dean wants to find the right words. He’s not always good with them. But he really wants to find the right ones.
“I don’t want this to be over,” he lands on, because it’s what he feels. He turns to you. “I don’t want us to be over.”
He expects you to shut him down, but you don’t. Instead you just look at him.
“I want a second chance,” Dean says, and while he’s pouring his heart out, he might as well do it all the way. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Again, there’s that look on your face. The one that tells him you can see right through him. That he can maybe fool himself at times, masterfully even. But he can’t fool you.
“Do you want to come inside?” you ask. Dean’s heart does a little jig.
“Y—yes,” he says.
“To talk,” you clarify, and Dean can’t keep the grin off his face.
“Sure, I love talking, it’s my favorite thing to do,” he says. You press your lips together. He’s made you laugh, but you don’t want to admit it.
“Let’s go,” you say but neither of you moves. You stay where you are. Not for eternity, but just for a little bit.
Thank you for reading! ♡
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I WISH I'D KNOWN YOU IN YOUR WILDER DAYS
CHAPTER 1: Between retirement and a hard place
CWs Post series. Canon-typical violence. Grumpy Dean.
6.6k words
AN I wanna give a big thank you to @kblognar who basically deserves co-writer credit for how much advice and help they gave on this. Thank you for being amazing, friend. ❤️
Fic masterlist | Dean masterlist | Next chapter
You’re halfway dead when Dean gets to you.
No, he needs to back up. Or this story doesn’t make sense. Back way, way up.
Of course, he’s not thinking that way when he gets to you. When he kneels, picks you up. Your blood immediately staining the canvas of his jacket. Dark green becoming even darker. Not when your head lolls back.
He carries you over to the Impala, manages to lay you in the back. Slashes all over your body - your arm, your jaw, your thighs, your stomach, and that’s the one that worries him most, cause your shirt is all red and wet around it.
Stupid kid, he thinks as he walks around the back of the car, gets the first aid kit out of the trunk, rushes back. Stupid, fucking kid. Getting yourself killed, and then getting yourself killed in his damn car. He’s done this job for long enough. He doesn’t need to see another dead young woman, feel the blood flow ebb, feel the breathing slow. He’s had enough of that.
Funny. One might think he’s gotten soft.
Don’t die, he thinks, as he rolls up your shirt, does his best to stop the bleeding there. Don’t die in my car. I’m retired.
You don’t die. And Dean?
Well. Maybe he has gone soft.
Sam sits him down in the bunker library, all big frowns and pinched lips. Dean leans back, takes a deep breath.
“I think it’s time,” Sam says. “I think… I think I’m done.”
Dean always knew this day was coming. From the day Sam told him he would go back to Stanford once they found their father, he knew, in a way, he couldn’t run from this. He’s vacillated between trying to push his little brother out of the life and guilt tripping him into staying in it. But this was always going to happen.
He nods through it. Utters understanding words even though it feels like someone is sawing off his head. He’s not sure he’s totally convincing. He’s never been good at keeping his disappointment and anger in, and Sam can read him like an open book, is so sensitive to it that it makes Dean feel disgusted with him sometimes. Guilty too, but then when doesn’t he feel that.
If Sam notices the involuntary reproach in Dean’s demeanor and words, he’s deciding to ignore it. He’s still endlessly apologetic, but he holds strong on changing his mind. Dean can’t help but respect that a little. Must be Eileen’s good influence. Now that one’s got a mind of her own. He likes that about her. Despite the fact that he hates anyone else having a say, he likes it.
And then Dean is faced with staying in the bunker by himself, or finding something else. He thinks about hanging it up too. Thinks about the women he could crawl back to. Lisa doesn’t remember him, Cassie was too long ago. Amara, well, gone, just like so many of them.
He’s driving, on a case he takes on on his own, when he sees the cabin. Kind of rustic, kind of fucked up. Big For Sale sign out front. A project, he thinks. That’s what he needs. He scoffs at himself the next second. He sounds old. Pushes the thought away. Goes to kill something.
But the thought of the cabin doesn’t leave him. He drives back. Breaks in, takes the place in. Wall of phones, fridge with beer, couch, TV. A bed upstairs. He scratches at his jaw. Place needs some TLC, but he’s always loved tinkering.
He talks to Sam about it over dinner when he and Eileen invite him over. Dean sips his beer.
“Aren’t you gonna lose your mind, all alone out there?” Sam asks, scoffing. Dean purses his lips, mulls the thought over. He’s got his car. There’s a small town nearby, but actually living there sounds much less attractive. He thinks of himself, sitting on that porch, nothing but the view, a cold one and absolute quiet. He likes it. He wants to like it.
He drops two big duffels on the dusty floor a month later. Looks around, nodding. He can always sell the place again, maybe even make some money out of it if he does some home improvement on it first.
It’s quiet. So quiet. He’s completely alone. He swallows, waits for the panic to hit, the fear, the terror.
It doesn’t. So he gets to work.
It’s nearly ten years later that he’s standing in the small kitche, pouring himself a fifth - sixth? He tends to lose count - cup of coffee, when one of his phones rings.
He turns as he takes a sip, then walks over. The age of phones hanging off the wall is over, but he has a station with a bunch of older cell phones attached to their charging cables. The one that rings is one off the far right. He picks it up, looks at the letters written on the tape on the back. Merle. He puts the cup down, answers.
“How’s that wildcat looking?” he jokes, and Merle returns a three-pack-a-day chuckle.
“I swear,” he says, and Dean can hear voices in the background, low music. Maybe the sounds of a bar. “This case is getting more and more queer by the second.” Dean sits down, the groan with which he does it something that suddenly showed up a few years ago.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that anymore,” he answers, and Merle scoffs.
“I’m thinkin’ werewolf-leopard-hybrid,” he says. Dean leans forward, thumb running along the rim of his cup.
“Merle,” he says, “you been drinkin’ again, brother?”
“Whatever,” Merle says, and Dean can basically see him wave him off. He’s got a good fifteen years on Dean, but the theories he comes up with are those of a little kid. Ghost of a Indian chief that merged with the spirit of a general of the British Army. Elvis, but the one the aliens cloned. Werewolf-leopard-hybrid. Dean’s yet to see any of them proven right.
“Need me to send anyone your way?” he asks, turning in the chair to look at the paper map he’s got pinned up on the wall, different colored tacks showing monster sightings, hunters and solved jobs. “I got Rhonda and Ronny down in Spearfish, but you know how long they take when they’re fighting, might fare better with your werewolf-hybrid, but–”
“Ah, you’re good, kid,” Merle answers. “Connected with this greenhorn been hanging around these parts. Sweet young thing.” Dean quiets, gaze dropping.
There’s two reasons for his reaction: the first is that he’s trying to figure out who the hell Merle is talking about. He knows every hunter in this state and most surrounding ones. Ain’t no one qualifies as a sweet or young, though some of them he could see earning the nickname of thing. Maybe Merle is being sarcastic. Maybe he’s talking about a ugly old thing.
The second reason is that despite living a near monk-like existence for the past years, Dean Winchester’s ears are always gonna twitch at the mention of a sweet young thing. He used to be much worse when he was younger. The only action he’s gotten in recent memory is that one hunter he helped out a while ago, the one who rode him in the back of his car, the one he heard had died a few months later, chomped on by a rugaru. Ate her own gun, and Dean felt a deep, sad ache at that. There’s Lola who tends bar in the dive down in the town, and on the rare occassions he wants company and drives down there, she’s sometimes blown him or let him fuck her in the backroom. She’s a bit older than Dean, something maternal about her. He doesn’t want to think about why that does it for him.
But no sweet young thing. Dean clears his throat, realizing he’s been quiet. He sniffs.
“You got a name?” he asks. Just being precautious. Just doing his job.
Merle says your name, and Dean locks it away. He’ll ask around.
“Alright,” he says, “well, let me know how it goes. And call me if you need anything, alright?”
“Will do,” Merle says. “Take care. And Winchester?”
“Mmh?” Dean says, taking another sip from his coffee.
“If it is a werewolf-leopard,” Merle says, glee in his voice, “you owe me a beer.”
Later that night, Dean’s on the couch, catching his four hours, when he’s woken by a phone ringing.
He sits up, swings his legs over the side. Groans at all the parts of him that hurt, kneads at his neck. Trods over to the table.
The small lamp he always leaves on gives the big room the downstairs consists of an eerie glow. He sees the phone that’s lighting up. Second one from the right.
He grabs it, raises it to his ear. About to give whoever is on the other end a piece of his mind.
“Dean!” he is immediately interrupted. “Jesus fucking Christ, kid, you there?”
It’s like someone snapping their finger and bringing Dean out of his trance. He’s wide awake immediately.
“Merle,” he says, “talk to me.”
The old man sounds out of breath. Panting, actually, panicked, and Dean’s never, ever heard him like this.
“It got the girl,” Merle says, and Dean narrows his eyes. “It got her, I just fucking barely made it out. We’re at the Denver steel mill, it’s fuckin’--fuck, that thing is fast, fuckin’-”
“Merle,” Dean interrupts him. “Concentrate. What is it?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” Merle replies, half shout, half whine. “I don’t know, I’ve never seen, I’ve never seen–”
That’s the last thing Dean hears, apart from a sudden screech that is so loud he needs to hold the phone away from his ear. Clattering, a scream. And then silence.
He sleeps in his jeans, so he doesn’t need to waste time putting them on, throws on his jacket, grabs the emergency pack of weapons and first aid material he keeps near the front door, and then he’s in the car.
He knows the steel mill. It’s an hour away, so if whatever got Merle is the kind that kills immediately, he’s a goner. However, there’s enough freaks that like keeping their prey alive. Like playing with it, marinating in it. Taking small bites and nibbles.
The lights of the Impala illuminate the road ahead. Dean chews on his tongue, laser-focused.
He makes it to the steel mill just as dawn breaks. The world slowly waking. He parks, arms himself to the teeth - silver bullets and knives, in case Merle is at least half right. A machete. A few other things, carefully selected to cover a wide array of possibilities.
The air is cold and burns his nostrils. He sneaks around the outside, listens, watches. No signs of anything, so he enters the main building, half collapsed.
He smells Merle a long way off, and distantly he thinks he shouldn’t quite stink this bad yet. Needs to crane his neck to look up, taking a step back so none of the blood dripping from the old hunter’s torn out guts drops on him.
“Goddamn it, Merle,” he mutters. Merle doesn’t reply. His eyes remain ripped open. He stays dead, except for slightly swaying where he hangs.
Dean’s gonna have to come back, figure out how the fuck to get him down from there, and give him a hunter’s funeral. But right now, there is a monster to find. Another body to locate.
He walks outside again after searching the part of the mill that’s still accessible. He really hopes whatever this thing is that it didn’t drag you to some deep, hidden part of it. Worse chances of getting a good angle, or the element of surprise. Harder to drag a body out of there.
He’s rounding a small outbuilding when he sees something in the grass. Draws his gun. He undoes the safety. Ready to put one right between the thing’s eyes.
He sees your shoes first, and lowers the gun, just a little. Sighs. Good that you’re out here, where he can get to you. Maybe he can build the pyre right there, drop Merle on it too once he’s killed the thing that killed you two. Plus who knows what information he can glean from the wounds on you, the way you died.
He also remembers the young part. Fuck. Another one gone.
He walks closer, gun still in his hand, mind still sharp to his surroundings. No birds singing, he notices, despite the early morning. Whatever is roaming this place must be bad.
He kneels down next to you, surveys your body. You’re young alright, and Dean understands where Merle got the sweet part from too. Pretty, even. Slashed all over, and chest not moving, Dean notices, when his eyes rest there. Shouldn’t think that way about dead bodies, but he considers it paying respect to you. If he died, again, he would want someone to think he was hot, too.
The sudden breath you take has even a seasoned hunter like Dean flinch, grab his gun a little tighter. Death rattle, maybe, except it’s way too much for that, there’s movement behind your eyelids, and a twitch in your right hand.
You’re alive. Barely.
Split-second decision. The monster can wait. If there’s a chance you can make it out of this, he needs to take it, despite how low he actually thinks that chance is, what with all those big gashes over you, the amount of blood coming out of you. He pushes his gun into the waistband of his jeans, gets his arms under your knees and shoulders. Lifts you, one boot on the ground, then the other. Carries you towards the car.
Don’t die, he thinks, as he drives the Impala back onto the road, the wound on your stomach haphazardly bandaged, trying to avoid the potholes so your innards don’t get jangled around too much.
Don’t die.
He carries you upstairs to the bedroom. He doesn’t use it, and he’d rather have you bleeding out there on the bed than on the couch downstairs.
The first thing he does is press one of the silver knives to your palm. No sizzling, no screaming. He lays it on the bedside table, surveys you. It’d be damn helpful if he knew to trust Merle’s assessment of whatever the two of you were hunting out there. He sighs, then gets the silver cuffs. One around your wrist, one around the bedframe. Just in case. Then he starts patching you up.
He cleans the wounds, assesses the damage. The one on your jaw is gonna leave a scar, despite how careful he is with it, and he hopes you’re not vain. He needs to cut open your jeans where they’re tight over your legs to get at another one. Exhales through his nose as he does.
The one on your stomach is mean. Could really use some angel mojo, but all the angels he knows are dead. Maybe stitches. He sighs again, stands to wash his hands in the bathroom opposite the bedroom. He’s had one knee on the bed, and the frame creaks under him.
Later, he realizes you must have been awake for a bit, waited for your moment. He’s not sure when exactly you woke up, and how you hid it from him, and that is a miracle unto itself. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe this is when you actually wake up, but your hand goes to the silver knife he put on the bedside table so quickly, so directly, with such surefire aim, that he can’t explain it any other way.
You shoot up, and immediately slash at him. Dean has no choice but to throw himself backwards. His hip meets the dresser, the mirror standing on top of it rattling in its frame, and he cusses at the pain. He blinks once, and then you’re on your knees, unable to get off the bed with your wrist still in the cuffs. You’re holding the knife out towards him, teeth bared.
“Who the fuck are you?” you nearly scream. “What the fuck are you doing to me!?” He sees you tug your wrist inward, but the metal holds. He raises his hands, showing he’s unarmed, although his gun is nearby and you’re basically dead on your feet. Not like it’d be much of a fight.
“Woah, calm down,” he says. Your hand with the knife is shaking, whether from fear or adrenaline or pain, Dean’s not sure. “I’m trying to stitch you up, okay?”
You keep staring at him, eyes wide. There’s sweat on your face, in your hair, on your chest, and you tug at the cuffs again. Dean indicates in that direction without lowering his hands.
“Something got you, okay?” he explains, voice low and clear. “Just a safety precaution while I figure out what it is and take care of your wounds.” And let you bleed all over my goddamn bedsheets, he thinks, but doesn’t say.
You sway, and Dean wonders for a moment if you’ll pass out. Lids going low, but you shake your head, bring yourself back. Tough, he’s got to give you that.
“What–” you say, your voice sounding weaker. Your hand with the knife in it briefly drops, before you raise it again. Dean sees you wince.
“My name is Dean Winchester,” he says, looking intently at you. Because yeah, distantly he understands the horror of waking up tied to some dude’s bed, covered in blood, in a place you’ve never been. He works his jaw. Maybe he could have done better there. “I’m a friend of Merle’s, maybe he mentioned me. I’m trying to help you, okay?”
He sees you swallow, the blood there that made your skin look wet and violent only a while ago now dried and flaking. He should have washed it off you, but it just wasn’t his top priority.
“Merle,” you say, slurring a little, “where is he?”
Dean makes a split-second decision. What will make you feel more safe? Knowing Merle got ganked, or… See, he knows he’s safe to be around, but you don’t. He raises his chin.
“He’s out there hunting that thing down,” he says, forcing an encouraging smile onto his face. “He’ll be back soon. But someone needed to take care of your wounds.”
You keep looking at him. Your eyes look wild and fierce in contrast with the blood. You’re still shaking, but it seems more controlled now.
“He says he wants that leopard-werewolf-hybrid’s head as a trophy,” Dean continues, now giving a one-sided grin. “I guess you know him well enough to understand why I didn’t try to stop him.”
And that seems to do the trick. You unclench your jaw, slacken your hold on the knife, but don’t drop it. Blink a few times. Dean indicates for you to stay calm with his hands, then reaches one towards the bedside table. You tense, but when you see he’s going for a small key, you calm down again. He takes it between his thumb and index finger, holding it out for you to see, then tosses it your way. It lands on the bedding, somewhere close to your knee.
You keep the knife trained on him a second longer, then drop it, reach for the key, quickly, uncoordinated. Dean exhales slowly, lowers his hands, has half a mind to disarm you anyway, just for the sheer fucking annoyance and stress. But he doesn’t. Your fingers fumble with the key and the cuffs, and you drop it once before managing to open them. You pick the knife up again immediately, but don’t threaten him again. Instead, you crawl back on the bed, off the other side.
You straighten, and then immediately fold in half.
The way you cry out rattles Dean, the suddenness and pure fucking pain of it, and then he’s rushing around the bed. He’s not quite enough of an idiot not to make sure to get his arm between the knife you’re still holding and any of his soft parts, but his hand goes to your shoulder, helping to hold you up.
Your eyes are squeezed shut and you’re breathing hard. He sees the way you’re holding your arm over the big gash on your stomach, not actually touching it, and that’s probably a good thing. You take two sharp breaths through your nose before you force your eyes open.
You turn your head and look up at him. Dean looks into your eyes, then gives a small nod. You nod back, so he brings his arm around your back and helps you turn around.
You sink down on the bed slowly, still sucking in air. Your ass meets the mattress and Dean keeps his hands up in case you topple before finally taking a step back. You’re grasping the edge of the mattress, skin taut over knuckles, knife still clasped. Dean drops his hand, fingertips brushing against something wet on his jeans. He looks down. Great, you bled on him some more. He sighs. Looks at you again, the way you’re staring down at the floor, still trying to control the pain.
“Listen,” he says after a second, and squats down so he can catch your gaze. You look at him, briefly, then look away again. “I know this is fucked. But I really am trying to help you.” He sees your jaw move.
“I’m fine,” you say, and Dean sighs again.
“You look like you did a stage show with the worst magician in the world,” he replies. When you look up and frown at him, he raises his eyebrows. “When they saw their assistant in half? Anyway–” He changes how he squats, taking some weight off his bad knee.
“You can keep the knife,” he says, and you turn your head, look at where you’re still holding it. “But I gotta patch up that wound on your stomach–”
“When’s Merle getting back?” you interrupt him. Dean swallows. Fuck, he thought he had more time to leave the lie. He sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. If you freak out now and run, your chances aren’t looking so great. If he can get the wound cleaned and stitched and then you run off, that might make the difference between life and death.
“I’m sure he’ll be a while,” he says, “still haven’t figured out what that thing is. You can call him once I’ve patched you up.” Your hands tense again, but you nod slowly.
“Okay,” you say, voice quiet. Both of you don’t speak for a moment. Your lids are low. Not a great sign.
“Alright,” he says, then nods at the bed. “Lemme see to that wound now.”
He’s sure you won’t let him, but then you move. Lean back, raise your legs, but drop them again with a whimper. Dean stands, takes a step closer, and you give him a defiant stare. He tilts his head to the side. Come on, he means for it to say. Stop with the tough guy act.
You groan, which could be a reply to the pain or to him, but allow Dean to help you lift your legs back onto the bed. Your boots are heavy, stained, and he’s gonna have to change the bedding at some point if you stick around.
Stick around. He doesn’t know where he got that from.
You lie back, head meeting the pillow, let out a breath when you can finally relax your muscles. Dean straightens, walks around the bed. Grabs the supplies he has, lays them on the bedside table on the other side. He looks down at you, hands on his hips.
“I’m gonna go wash my hands,” he says, eyebrows high, eyes narrowed. “Don’t fucking run, okay?” You look up at him, and rather than nod, you just look away. Dean sighs again. It’ll have to do.
He rolls up his sleeves as he walks towards the door. Leaves it open, crosses the tiny landing into the bathroom with the tub with the curtain in front of it that has seen better days. He pumps his hands full of soap, washes them, up to the wrists. The water is loud and sputters, but he keeps his ears open. Wonders if he’ll hear you clomping down the stairs, all to get away from him. But he doesn’t. Maybe you’re sneaking instead.
But no, you’re still there when he comes back. He’s almost surprised, but he doesn’t let that show. He sits down next to you on the bed, doesn’t miss how you try to scoot further away from him, but only flinch at the movement. Seems you’re finally understanding that you’re out of commission.
“Lift your shirt,” he says while he busies himself with threading the needle. When he looks at your face again, you’re looking at him like he’s insane. Dean rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
You pinch your lips together, and Dean wonders if you’ve actually managed to be offended at him asking you to lift your shirt and at the same time insulted at him not wanting to grope you, but then your hands go there, lift. Fingers brush over the shitty bandage he applied there earlier, when you were out, and he doesn’t miss your blinking, the way you swallow. More dried blood flaking off your neck. He really should get you something you can wash yourself with.
“This is gonna suck,” he says, reaching for the saline. Used to be he’d do this with whiskey, he and Sam holed up in some shitty motel room, but he’s well equipped here. Has to be. If the service goes out and he falls on his head, he can’t afford mistakes. Sammy’s not here to scoop him up and pour liquor down his throat. Still, he feels almost nostalgic for the sting of it. The new pain that lays over the initial one like a scratchy blanket.
“‘S fine,” you mutter, and your gaze moves to the ceiling, focused on it. Dean sees you ball your hands into fists. Maybe not your first rodeo.
He tries to be careful, but cleaning an open wound is not an enjoyable experience, and he has no illusions about making it one.
You manage to stay quiet for the most part, although he sees the way your eyelids flutter, blinking away tears. The tension in your body, the way you stop yourself from trying to get away from the pain. The chopped breathing. He would be cussing and cursing, but you seem intent on not even letting that effect show on you.
When he’s done with the cleaning, he picks up the needle. He finds he feels bad about the pain he’s about to inflict. He clears his throat, looks down at his hands. Then he raises them, the side of his palm skating the skin of your stomach.
“You been hunting for long?” he says, pierces your skin on long. You suck in a hard breath, and your eyes go glassy. Dean clenches his jaw. He knows he’s doing this to help you, but in a case like this the brain can’t differentiate between fixing and inflicting. And boy, does he know something about inflicting. Fuck, he used to be better at this. He really has gotten soft.
You don’t answer, so Dean pierces skin again. A soft whimper comes from you, and a tear runs out of your eye, down the side of your face. Dean notices his chest feeling tight.
“Don’t think I’ve heard your name around, and–”
“Dude,” you interrupt him, voice chopped but loud. “I don’t wanna talk right now, okay?”
Dean’s hands still as he looks at your face again. Kinda bitchy for someone whose guts he’s basically just been in. He smacks his lips, looks at the wound again, narrows his eyes to focus.
“Suit yourself,” he says, pierces skin once more. You tense again. He keeps going.
The day has the quality of late afternoon by the time he’s finished, but then that’s what winter feels like out here. He sighs, drops his hands. The stitches aren’t pretty, but then this line of work isn’t exactly a beauty contest. That’s what the bandages that go over it are for.
“I’ll get you something to clean up,” he says as he stands, looks at your face for the first time in a while. You seem far away, lips slightly parted, but you blink when he addresses you, dislodging another tear. You sniff, raise your arm, unclenching your fist for the first time to wipe at it.
“Yeah, thanks,” you say, voice cracking. Dean walks into the bathroom, washes his hands, happy to be out of that vulnerable moment. Give you a moment to collect yourself. He grabs some smaller towels, then puts a bigger one out in case you want to shower, even though he knows you probably won’t be in any condition to do that by yourself, and that’s a future problem he really doesn’t want to think about right now.
He walks downstairs, gets a bowl, fills it with warm water. Grabs a bottle of whiskey for good measure, then walks back upstairs, towels under his arm. He walks in, then remembers he maybe should have knocked, but it’s too late for that now.
You’ve managed to scoot up the bed, head resting a little higher, and there’s a sheen of sweat on your forehead from the effort of it. You could have waited for him, have him help you, but Dean’s starting to realize that’s not your style. He puts the stuff on the bedside table, then goes to the dresser.
“You got your stuff anywhere?” he asks, back to you. “Motel, or…”
“Sundown Motel, yeah,” you say, voice sounding clearer. Dean nods, drags out a shirt of his. You’ll be drowning in his clothes, but your things are ruined, ripped and bloodied, so it’s not like there’s another option.
“I can get them tomorrow,” he says, laying the shirt on top of the dresser. He turns, walks around the bed again. He wants to sit, but sitting on the bed feels like intruding on your space, so when he grabs the whiskey bottle and opens it, he does it standing.
“Is that to clean the wound?” you ask, nodding at the bottle. Dean chuckles, the sound surprising him, then shakes his head.
“No,” he says, “for internal application.” He takes a long swig, the burn feeling like it chases something from his brain. Then he holds the bottle out to you. You raise your eyebrows.
“Alcohol’s a blood thinner, you know?” you ask, and Dean has to work hard not to roll his eyes. He sways the bottle back and forth.
“You don’t want it?” he asks. You look at the bottle, then reach your arm out - carefully, so Dean leans forward, hands it to you. You raise it, take a swig too, making only a bit of a grimace when the liquor hits your tongue. You hold the bottle out to Dean again, and he takes it.
“So,” he says. “What was that thing you were hunting?”
Your face is still tensed from the drink, but it slackens at the question. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think you look afraid.
“I’m not sure,” you say, shifting a little. “It was… fast. I know that. Didn’t get a good look, even while it was slicing me up.” Dean frowns, steps from one foot to the other. As if you’re reading his mind, you nod at the foot of the bed. He nods back, then sits, as far away from you as he can before handing the bottle back to you.
“Silver didn’t work?” he asks. You scoff, shake your head.
“Didn’t get a chance to try,” you say. Dean nods, watches as you drink again.
“Did it try to bite you?” he asks. What he means is: did it bite you? He didn’t see any toothmarks, but then with how much blood there was on you, those are easy to miss. You shake your head, hand the bottle back to him.
“No,” you answer. “I don’t think it was out to feed. I think it was just trying to get rid of us. I think it…” You stop, look down at your bloodied jeans. Dean tilts his head to the side.
“It what?” he asks. He sees you chew at your lip, gaze pinned, like you’re replaying something in your head.
“It… played with us, I think,” you say.
Dean feels that familiar prickle at the back of his neck. The one that’s been put there by a lifetime of hunting the things that go bump in the night, and doesn’t seem to want to go anywhere even though he’s not out in the field anymore.
“Tell me,” he says. You look at him, and there’s fear on your face. It makes you look younger, or maybe just as young as you actually are, less bluster. You raise your shoulders, steel yourself.
“When we got to the steel mill,” you start, “there was this… stench. I mean, unlike anything I’ve ever smelled. Rot and decay. Something… dead, but like, times a million. And it…”
You swallow, so Dean hands the bottle back to you. You hold it by the neck, but don’t drink. Rest it on your leg.
“The stench would go away, and then come back, go away again,” you say. You press your lips together, then focus on Dean. “Like it was circling us. Toying with us.” Dean raises his chin, looks at the wall over your head. While you drink again, he thinks about what the hell this thing could be.
“No birds,” he mutters. Whatever was roaming that place was bad.
He expects you to ask him to elaborate, and when you don’t, he lowers his gaze again, looks at you. You look less terrified, more sad. He shifts, which seems to break you out of it. You blink, then put the bottle on the bedside table, but don’t look at him.
“Merle’s not coming back, is he?” you ask, voice low.
Dean’s entire body tenses. It’s the feeling of being caught in a lie, the embarrassment of it. The anger at himself. He doesn’t know enough about your and Merle’s relationship to know if there is something there that tipped you off, or if it was his lie. He needs to swallow before he can speak.
“No, he’s not,” he says. You nod slowly.
“Is he dead?” you ask. Dean grinds his teeth. Goddamn it.
“He is,” he answers. “At the mill. That thing got him.” Strung him up like a Christmas ornament, he wants to add, because part of him is looking for comfort in sharing the horror he witnessed. But he knows you don’t need that information.
He sees your face crumple, scrunch up, maybe to force back tears. You turn to the side, hands shaking in grief, or pain, at the movement, he’s not sure. All he knows is that you’re moving away from him, hiding your face against the pillow. Fuck. He messed this up royally.
For a few moments, he’s unsure about what to do. Should he comfort you? What the fuck is he gonna say? If you and Merle were close, which he didn’t assume, cause Merle made it sound like he just met you, but if you were, this was the worst possible way for you to get the news. He raises his hand, runs it over the lower part of his face. Looks around. Your shoulders aren’t shaking, but you’re not turning back to him. So he slowly stands.
“You should get some rest,” he says, trying to stop his voice from dropping into fake joviality to make up for the tension he’s feeling. He nods at the bedside table even though you can’t see it. “Get yourself cleaned up, and… and get some sleep.” He takes a step backwards, towards the door. Feels like he can’t leave it at that, pity or shame or a weird cocktail of the two warring in him.
“I’m gonna leave the knife,” he says. “And I’m… I’m gonna put my car keys on the small table near the front door. They’re for the blue truck, not the Chevy. If you want to leave.” He clenches his jaw again. You’d have to sneak past him on the couch downstairs, maybe terrified he’d wake and stop you.
“Just,” he says when he reaches the door, “just leave my car somewhere I can find it, okay? And don’t scratch it. I really mean it. Don't scratch it.”
You still don’t react. Dean lets his head drop forward, shakes it. Then he walks out.
He sighs as he walks down the stairs, needing to duck his head at the bottom so he doesn’t smash it against the part where the ceiling is too low - something that happened to him a lot when he first moved in all these years ago. When he reaches the bottom, he cusses under his breath. He left the whiskey upstairs.
He opens a second bottle - no skin off his back. Pours it into a glass, cause he thinks the line between drinking from the bottle and not drinking from the bottle, extenuating circumstances like he just had upstairs notwithstanding, is the line that lets him keep his sanity in this life. He wonders if you’re able to go to sleep, what with the trauma just inflicted on you and the wound. Should he have helped you wash? Get changed? Probably, but also, would that have freaked you out worse?
He realizes he’s standing in the middle of the room, rolling the glass in his hand. He sniffs, shakes his head. He needs to stop thinking. He downs the glass, then fills it again. Takes the truck keys from where they are on the table.
Dumb idea to offer the truck to you, though better than offering Baby. Maybe he should have offered to sleep in the car, so you could have the cabin to yourself? But there’s no way for you to get away from this place. He imagines it, you in your ripped clothes, bloodied, panting, running, or limping, more likely, out into the dark, away from him, right into the arms of God knows who.
He sniffs again, walks to the table next to the door and puts the keys down. No, it was the right thing to do. If you do come downstairs, he’ll wake from it anyway - small chance he’ll catch any sleep. He can offer to drive you somewhere.
Dean plops down on the couch, rolls his shoulders. There’s some of your blood on his clothes, and he should probably change, but all his clothes are upstairs in the dresser, and he’s not about to walk in there again. Fuck it. He’s slept in worse.
He drains the glass again, puts it on the floor before stretching out on the couch. Years of sleeping on it has given it a dip where his ass goes that he knows can’t be good for his back, but at the same time, it feels like he fits somewhere. More nostalgic than he likes to be, but it is what it is.
He closes his eyes. If you’re still there in the morning, he’ll drive you to your motel. You can make your way from there, if you’re up for it, and then he can go back to burn poor old Merle, and then life can go back to normal. Or as normal as it gets for him.
Sleep comes quickly, and that, in itself, is surprising.
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Summary When you go on a date with another guy, Sam finally gets up the courage to admit his feelings to you. Too bad the motel is too far away for the sudden heat rising between you two. Luckily, Sam borrowed his brother's car.
CWs Shy idiot Sam turns into confident & cocky Sam. Light sub/dom tones with a sprinkle of brattiness. Sex in the Impala. Big feelings and big orgasms.
18+. 10.1k kwords
AN This fic was in part inspired by this lovely ask!
Sam Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
Sam runs the pad of his middle finger over the “J” key on his laptop while he peers over the screen, watches as you’re going through your bag while chatting away to Dean, and his thoughts are wandering.
You’re laughing at something his brother just said, but Sam didn’t hear it. In fact, he hasn’t been following the conversation at all. There’s other things he’s paying attention to, though.
Like the curve of your breasts under your shirt. The way he would like to latch his lips onto the skin there, the one that’s probably soft as silk. How he would love to press his nose against it, how much you probably smell like you there.
Like the perk of your lips. How much he wants to run his thumb over your cupid’s bow, then down a little, maybe press the tip of it between your lips. Look into your eyes as you press your tongue against the digit.
Like your laugh, the one you’re laughing right now, how he would love to know if you would laugh like that after he made you come, hair tussled, chest still heaving. If you would roll over, sling your arms around him the moment he pulled out of you, search him out, keep him close, kiss him.
Sam clears his throat, looks down at the laptop screen, one hand going over the lower part of his face. All the things he wishes he could do, and has been wanting to do for ages. And now he’s never gonna get to do any of them.
Because you’re going on a goddamn date.
Sam finds comfort in reason, in logic. But they both seem to have fled the country since you announced your plans for the evening earlier - going out with the young deputy who helped the three of you on this case. He’s good looking and charming and waited until the case was over to ask you out, and he seems to be a good guy. So Sam can’t even object to this date as your friend, share his worries about the man with you. He has no one to blame but himself. Because Sam never made a move.
Dean’s been bugging him to for ages. Told him that exactly this would happen. But Sam insisted that you’re his best friend, not some conquest, that these two things are totally different, and Dean should mind his own business. Not everyone’s constantly out to get laid. Sam isn’t. He isn’t with you. What he wants isn’t about sex. Well, it is, but it’s not all about sex. What he wants to do with you is way more than that.
But even Dean’s given up, which is probably a bad sign. So Sam has no one to convince that this is all just a matter of friendship other than himself.
You don’t make it easy, either. You stay close to him, you’re affectionate and touchy. Normal friend things, Sam assumes, but he’s not sure, because he never had many friends growing up, and certainly none that deal out love and affection as easily as you do.
Just then, you suddenly move, walk around the table and up behind him. Lean down and sling your arms around his shoulders.
“Sammy,” you say, voice serious, “the case is done. Can you take a break for like, two minutes?” You’re referring to the fact Sam’s already scrolling through newspaper articles, despite the fact that you burned some bones just last night. He huffs, shifts, inadvertently pressing closer to you.
“No rest for the wicked, right?” he tries to joke, but it falls pretty flat. You lean to the side, look at him with raised eyebrows.
“Can the wicked take a lunch break?” you ask and it makes Sam chuckle, despite the way the closeness to you is making him feel like he should be watching the way he sits.
“Alright,” he says, closing the laptop. You squeeze him a little, parts of you bumping into parts of him and Sam presses his lips together.
This happens all the time. Sam sighs under his breath, dipping another fry into ketchup, then dropping it on the plate. Dean’s chatting up the waitress over at the counter, and you’ve gone to the restroom, leaving Sam to sink into his thoughts.
He should just get up. He can almost see himself do it. Walk over to where the restrooms are. Push open the door. There’s a magical Do not enter, cleaning, wet floor or whatever sign that he could put in front of the door.
You’re just coming out of the stall, looking up with a surprised expression and the next second, Sam’s crowding you, making you back up again. He grabs your face, holds it on both sides and then finally kisses you.
You immediately moan into his mouth, of course, because you’ve been wanting this just as badly as he has. You wrap your arms around him, pull him close and when his hands find your breasts, no, your ass, you gasp his name.
He’d pick you up, hands under your suddenly naked thighs, both of you, just naked, with no explanation, and you’d have your arms around his shoulders. You’d kiss him again before he lowers your body. Right onto his cock, waiting there for you.
He can only imagine how soft you’d be, and open and warm. He’d move you up and down, and you’d use your leverage from having your legs wrapped around him, the soles of your feet boring into the meat of his ass, and you’d moan, say his name, and oh my God oh my God, yes, fuck, Sam, yes, and–
You drop into the bench opposite him and Sam flinches, straightens, then leans forward quickly. You’re still looking around, but then your eyes land on him, and he knows he must go beet-red from the tip of his nose to his ears. You raise your eyebrows.
“Everything okay?” you ask and Sam quickly nods.
“All good,” he replies, way too quickly, praying to anyone who will listen that his semi will go down before the three of you leave.
When you’re back, you excuse yourself to your room, while Dean sits in front of the TV, shoes on the small table. Sam looks around awkwardly, thinks about what he should say, but then he doesn’t say anything. Just walks into the bathroom. Let Dean think he’s taking a dump.
He undoes his belt. The erection is mostly gone but whatever he feels for you is still burning hot inside his stomach. You’re going on a date. Goddamn it. He hates everything about this.
It’s not right, he thinks, as he spits into his hand, begins stroking himself, the frown on his face deepening. He’s just some random– actually, none of you know anything about him. He could be dangerous, a monster trying to lure you away. Except of course you tested him with holy water and silver. Except of course the truth is that Sam’s just jealous.
He closes his eyes, tries to think of you. Imagines you sitting on the counter next to the sink, one leg raised, one index finger beckoning him closer, all exposed to him. His cock gives a violent twitch, but nothing more. He imagines stepping closer to you, kissing you first. How your lips would feel smiling against him, your hands running up his arms slowly.
But then he looks up, in his imagination that is, and it’s not him kissing you, it’s that asshole deputy, and you’re moaning into his mouth, grabbing his hand to press into the waistband of your underwear, and fuck–
“Fuck!” Sam presses out, drops his hand. Being able to rub one out to the thought of you used to at least help him focus his mind, get back to reality when you’ve touched him a little too much, or that one time you sat on his lap at the bar, joking that he was the only clean surface in the whole place. Now he can’t even do that?
He tugs himself away, thoroughly unsatisfied in every way. Turns to wash his hands in the sink, giving himself a mean frown in the mirror.
“Get your shit together,” he mumbles, his reflection refusing to clarify exactly what he means by that.
Evening approaches, and Dean is still in front of the TV, now with a beer in his hand, occasionally letting out an impressive burp, while Sam’s back at the table, scrolling through news, although he can’t find a case to save his life. He’s down to disappearances of pets. Not very promising.
There’s a knock at the door, and then your voice calling out. You twist the doorknob and step inside.
If Sam had any issue getting it up to the thought of you earlier, he sure doesn’t to the sight of you now. He feels his stomach drop and his balls pull in at the same time as his eyes roam, no, stutter over you.
There’s your legs, and he’s seen your legs before, or parts of them, but he never realized there was so much… leg. All the way up to just under your ass, and the reason he can see all of that, all that skin, is because you are wearing a ridiculously short skirt. His eyes travel up, and he swallows. The top accompanying the skirt is showing less skin, but it’s tight in all the right places. Your hair is off your neck and there’s some glitter on your eyelids and color to your lips, and that has to be the goddamn icing on the cake, because Sam doesn’t know you to dress up. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen you do it.
It makes him wild and sad in equal measure. That it’s for someone else, not for him, that you’re doing it at all, and what the hell is this guy making you think, that you need to change or do something differently? Is he blind? Dumb? Evil?
You bring your hands in front of your body just as Dean gives a low whistle, stands from the couch.
“You clean up nice,” he says and you give him a friendly smile.
“Turns out there’s a girl under all the blood and guts,” you joke and Sam wants nothing more than to tell you that he knows, that he’s seen, because you’re his girl, his, and he’s always seen you.
“I’ll say,” Dean says, then takes a sip of his beer, pushes his free hand into his jeans pocket. “Deputy picking you up?” You nod.
“Yeah, he just texted, he’ll be here in a minute,” you say and Dean nods, and then, maybe cause there’s nothing more to say, or maybe cause you and his brother have secretly agreed to make Sam’s life hell, both of you turn to him, looking at him expectantly.
Sam needs to clear his throat before he talks.
“You look really nice,” he says, his voice still sounding scratchy despite his efforts. You nod slowly.
“Thanks,” you say, your face unreadable, your tone neutral. There’s silence, perfect silence for a moment, so much silence that Sam can hear the water rushing through the pipes in the next room.
“Well,” you finally say, “I should get going. Unless there’s some reason I shouldn’t?”
And is Sam going crazy or are you looking at him expectantly, like you’re waiting for him to say something? He throws a panicked look at Dean who’s still watching him, but that’s not helpful so he turns back to you.
“Have fun?” he says, half suggestion, half question, all internal screaming. You press your lips together.
“Thanks,” you reply, your voice flat, and then, after thinking for a second, you add: “Don’t wait up.”
With that final blow delivered, you turn on the spot and leave the room. The door falls shut behind you. Sam can feel his brother’s eyes on him, but he just slowly lets his gaze wander lower until it’s on his laptop screen again.
After a minute, he hears Dean move, plop onto the sofa again. Sam just keeps staring at the missing poster of a Russian Blue named Fidor, whose owners miss him dearly.
It’s about an hour until Dean has had enough. Sam’s puppy dog face and dropped shoulders are bad enough, but he also keeps sighing theatrically every couple of minutes, and the whole thing is just too damn depressing.
Sam keeps stealing glances at his watch, both the one on his wrist and the one on the wall, like he’s somehow hoping to catch one of them misbehaving. Then back to his laptop, jaw clenched.
Dean gets up, walks over to the mini fridge, grabs two new beers. Walks over to Sam and watches his little brother study the screen with a deep frown.
“You want a beer?” Dean asks and Sam just makes an unintelligible grunting noise. Dean narrows his eyes, keeps approaching, then sets the beers down on the table before he grabs his brother’s laptop, turns it around.
“Dean!” Sam protests loudly, hands going out to grab for his possession, and Dean’s expecting something depraved, but then he looks. He raises his eyebrows at Sam.
“The deputy’s Facebook profile?” he says, shaking his head. “Really, Sammy? Can’t you just be normal and look at porn?”
Sam’s all pout and shifty eyes.
“I was just making sure he’s not some monster or something,” he mumbles and Dean clicks his tongue, shakes his head again and puts the laptop down.
“He’s clean,” he says, reaching for one of the beers. “We checked him in, like, every possible way.” Sam doesn’t move for a moment, then his hand goes out, closes the laptop.
“Yeah,” he mumbles. Dean watches his brother for another second, then sighs, sits down opposite him.
“Look,” he says, voice less combative as he leans forward. “She’s probably having a really good time right now. So either go out, do some of that yourself, or finally have the balls to ask her out.” Sam’s head shoots up.
“What?” he says, a completely unconvincing mask of confusion coming onto his face. “That’s not– We’re just friends.” Dean groans.
“You have been into that girl from the moment you met her,” Dean says and Sam scoffs.
“No, I–” he says, but Dean won’t let him talk.
“And she has been flirting with you for almost as long,” he continues, “and you somehow still managed to think she’s just being friendly.” Sam opens and shuts his mouth, no sound coming out.
“That’s not–” he finally says, but Dean is goddamn sick of it.
“Do whatever you want, Sam,” he says, then stands. “But you’re being a fucking idiot. She’s just going for the next best thing cause you can’t be bothered to show her you care.”
With that, Dean turns, walks back to the couch, and plops back down on it. Feet go back on the small table and his eyes turn back to the TV.
Which is why he doesn’t see the expression on Sam’s face change. It goes from panicked to something else, something determined. Something brave. If this was a movie, there would be some heroic music, but there’s not. Instead, Sam stands, quickly, self-assured. Dean looks his way, immediately noticing the change in his brother’s demeanor.
“Can I borrow the car?” Sam says, voice tensed and a slow, proud grin spreads on Dean’s face. He reaches into his pocket, drags out the key, and throws it towards Sam in a high arch. Sam looks down at it when he catches it, then back up at his brother.
“Go get her, tiger,” Dean says, and it’s the final push Sam needs.
He moves towards the door, quick and determined, drags it open and stalks outside, settled with a goal now.
It’s only a second later that the smile vanishes somewhat off Dean’s face. The door is already falling shut behind Sam, but still Dean raises his chin.
“Hey, don’t do anything in the car, you hear?” he calls out, but there’s no one left to listen to him.
Sam’s intent on not breaking any speed limits, seeing as this is a small town, seeing as it’s not like he’s overreacting or anything. But then he wonders if he’s already too late, if he waited too long. It’s only been an hour, but who knows? Maybe you’re already paying, maybe you’re already driving over to his place, maybe you’re already in his bed, any thought you could have had about Sam in the process of being fucked out of you.
His foot turns into lead at the thought.
You told the brothers the name of the bar you were going to, but as Sam pulls up, he realizes it’s more of a restaurant. A fancy restaurant. He distinctly remembers you saying that any place that charged more than ten dollars for a burger and fries deserves to be burned to the ground. You must hate this place.
There's valet service by the entrance, so Sam parks all the way at the back of the lot. He sticks out like a sore thumb when he walks inside, all flannel and jeans. Jesus, maybe you do like this? Did he get this completely wrong?
There’s soft piano music inside, and Sam looks around, just as a man in a dark red vest approaches him with the kind of smile reserved for cockroaches and gum stuck to shoes.
“Good evening, sir,” he says, and he couldn’t sound more disdainful if he tried, “may I help you?” Sam keeps looking around, over the guy’s head. You’re not there. He can’t see you and you’re not there, and that means you already left, left with the deputy before the main course was served because that’s how eager you were to get him alone. Sam feels panic thrumming away at his heart like a small, angry bird.
“Sir?” the guy says again and Sam finally looks at him.
“‘M looking for someone,” he says, useless information, but he hopes it buys him another couple seconds, so he looks up again and then he sees you.
It’s like time standing still. You’re sitting, turned in his direction. He can see the back of the deputy’s clean haircut, the one that he probably got at the local barber shop. That guy’s never had the pleasure of having you cut his hair, towel over his shoulders, the calming sound of scissors cutting away. Sam doesn’t let anyone touch his hair, only you. You cut it the way he likes. Don’t make fun of it for being longer. You do this thing at the end where you run your fingers through it once, nails scratching against his scalp and he looks up at you and he thinks he would like this to be the only thing he does for the rest of his life.
You’re so beautiful then. Just as beautiful as you are now. Sitting there, head slightly tilted. Or as beautiful as you are in the morning, pillow crease on your cheek still when the three of you get an early start or don’t have money for two rooms. Eyes still half shut and a little disoriented. Or when you and Sam sit outside under the stars, share a beer, talk for hours about everything you want from life and then go quiet for just as long, still communicating, just differently.
It’s like something warm and solid spreading in his chest. He’s in love with you. How could he ever try to deny it? It’s the most simple thing in the world.
“Excuse me,” he says, not taking his eyes off you, and then he walks past the guy in the vest. He says something, but Sam’s not hearing him.
You spot him when he’s about fifteen feet from you. Turn your head, still smiling, maybe just having registered that someone is approaching, but when you see it’s Sam, your expression changes. Something curious, maybe slightly amused. He sees you take a deep breath.
“Hey,” he says, his eyes unable to leave you. “Sorry to just show up like this.”
You’re still looking at him, and it feels like you’re the only two people in the room. Everything else is far away. Serenity, plain and pure.
“That’s okay,” you say, voice soft. “Something wrong?”
“Y–yes,” Sam presses out, because you’ve just given him the perfect in. “There’s an emergency and we need your help, actually.”
Sam finally manages to tear himself away from you, looks at the deputy, who is throwing confused looks between you and him.
“Sorry about that,” Sam quickly adds, then turns again when he sees you stand up out of the corner of his eyes.
“Well, if there’s an emergency,” you say, letting the sentence hang there, and Sam can’t believe you are that eager to believe him, to come with him, because usually, you like to let him know that you know when he’s fibbing. But now, you’re grabbing your light jacket and your handbag. The deputy, however, stands too.
“Can I help?” he asks, throwing you a desperate look and it makes a brief flash of guilt shoot through Sam. He swallows. “Anything I can do?”
“No,” Sam says, way too quickly, because getting you out of here only to have that guy hang around again, giving him a chance to be even more heroic and charming, isn’t part of the plan Sam has. Or doesn’t have, technically.
“I’m so sorry about this, rain check?” you’re already saying, though, and then you take a step away from the table, throwing an expectant look at Sam. “Well?”
On the way outside, the guy in the vest throws Sam another look. He’s hurrying, he realizes, then slows down when he notices you’re slower than him on your heels. Neither of you says anything while walking to the car, which Sam knows must mean you know something’s up. If you believed there was actually an emergency, you’d be pelting him with questions.
The two of you make it to the Impala, and Sam begins unlocking the door, when he realizes you’re not next to him. He pulls out the key, and turns. You’re standing just a few feet away from him, arms wrapped around yourself, looking more beautiful than a sunset. It makes Sam’s heart beat faster.
“Sam,” you say, voice serious, “what’s really going on?”
And how can Sam explain it? Explain what he just did, the most bullheaded, selfish thing in the world. He didn’t really think beyond getting you away from the date, beyond just wanting you away from Deputy Charming. It’s selfish and stupid and it makes his throat feel tight.
What words can he say to make you understand? Maybe there aren’t any.
Looking back, Sam’s not sure where he takes the courage from. Where he finds it in himself to look at you for another second, expression curious and then to cross the distance to you in two long, quick steps. What possesses him to raise his hands, take your face in them and kiss you.
He has to lean down but he’s already standing so close and doesn’t want more distance, so there’s an intense stretch in the muscles at the back of his neck, the top of his shoulders. It means he has to tilt your face up, and for a second he panics you don’t want this, won’t want this, will push him off, and he’s so much bigger than you, so naturally it’ll be a struggle. That’s what makes him pull back, in the end. The realization that he has no idea if you want what he wants.
He barely remembers the kiss, which might mean it wasn’t good. He pressed his lips against yours and that’s all he’s really aware of. He drops his hands, takes a step back, breathing hard. You’re looking up at him with an expression he can’t read. It’s not until you move that he knows your intentions.
Your front crashes against him with how quickly you move. Your hands go to the sides of his face, this time, and Sam’s not fast enough to react, too stunned, so your lips briefly graze his chin before he manages to get his mouth where he wants it. His own hands fly to your sides, holding you somewhere around your ribs but not moving, too stunned to be doing anything, too overwhelmed by the fact that you are kissing him back.
Your lips are soft and perfect, he realizes that part, and it makes it feel like someone gives him a striking punch into the stomach, not entirely unpleasant. Those are your lips. And you smell so good. He wants to concentrate on the smell but it’s hard, because he also wants to move his hands, feel more of you, as well as listen to what sounds you’re making, just a small huff, but maybe there’s more, and there’s altogether too much of everything, and his brain just keep flitting around, trying to focus on anything.
After a minute, you stop. Drop down and only then Sam realizes you were standing on the tips of your toes, heels already making you taller but not tall enough. Your hands go from his face to his shoulders and stay there as you look up at him. Sam catches his breath, looking down into your eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice raspy. You shake your head a little.
“Only be sorry if you don’t finish what you just started,” you reply.
For a moment, Sam can’t believe it, is sure that this is a dream or some kind of illusion. He can’t possibly get that lucky. It can’t be. But he looks into your eyes and he sees a spark in them he’s never seen before.
His arm goes around you and then he’s turning the two of you around, without really knowing what he’s gonna do before he does it. Your back meets the side of the Impala, hard enough to make you gasp and Sam would worry about it being too hard but you’re pulling him down to kiss you again. His lips crash into yours and he’s in heaven.
It’s searing. It’s hot and it’s spine tingling and Sam gets one hand to the side of your face, thumb running hard over the skin of your jaw, fingers tangling in the hair behind your ear. You’re grabbing at his sides, pulling him against you and Sam indulges himself, presses against you, pinning you between his body and the car and then you moan into his mouth.
Sam nearly sees stars at that. He pulls his head back to look at you, but you go after him with your lips and they run over his. His eyes fall shut at that, and whatever he was going to do or say disappears into thin air as he kisses you again, hard, needy. Now that he’s had a taste he can’t get enough.
He feels his eyebrows go up when he feels something wet against his lips. He parts them and the next second your tongue is pressing against his. He pushes back, then runs his over yours and he thinks he’s about to go deaf, blind and dumb when you press yourself against him, move your leg so that one of his is between yours and then push down.
This time when Sam separates from you he has to catch his breath. He blinks his eyes open, looks down at you and when he sees you slowly open yours as well, he needs to swallow. Your pupils are blown wide and you’re breathing hard through parted lips.
“Do you–” he says, feeling his cock twitch violently at the sight of you, “do you want to go back to the motel?”
It’s daring, that’s for sure, but your response to him has been so clear that it makes Sam feel brave. You bite down on your bottom lip, which makes Sam press his leg a little higher, leading to your eyelids fluttering and a soft smile spreading on your lips.
“Too far,” you say, opening your eyes again. “I’ve been wanting this for a long time, Sam. I’m done waiting.”
Sam’s head spins. You’ve wanted this and he was just sitting by, twiddling his thumbs, and his dick, if he’s being honest. And now you’re here and you don’t even want to wait the fifteen minutes it takes to drive back to where there is a nice bed, a locked door. Or maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly the reason you don’t want to go back.
Sam looks past you, into the dark interior of the Impala. Dean has clear rules. But his brother’s not here, with the woman of his dreams is grinding against his thigh, telling him she wants him. Surely if anyone understands the significance of that, it’s Dean. So Sam reaches past you, opens the door to the backseat. You turn your head to see what he’s doing, then look back at him, grinning wide.
You push yourself up, press another kiss to his lips. Softer this time, but no less teasing.
“You should get inside,” Sam hears some cocky part of him say against your lips, “unless you want me to bend you over the hood.”
He feels shock at his own words just begin growing in the pit of his stomach, but then he sees the catch of your breath, the slight widening of your eyes. Okay. Okay.
He takes a step back, very reluctantly, to make room for you. You slip past him without dropping your gaze, but you don’t miss the opportunity to rub along him in a very suggestive manner. Sam almost pulls you back, but then doesn’t.
You scoot down the backseat, tossing your bag onto the frontbench. Sam needs to nearly fold himself in half to climb in too, and you giggle just as you wiggle out of your jacket, throw it on the frontbench too.
Sam’s spent many a night sleeping in the Impala. Curled up on the backseat as a kid and then teen, and even as an adult. But he’s never fucked in it. He’s too big for it and he knows it’s gonna be a logistical challenge, nothing like a nice, broad bed. His feet might hang off of that, but he’ll still get to spread out.
But then he looks at you, beckoning him closer with a finger, just like in his imagination, and he decides he’ll break every bone in his body if that’s what it takes. He sits, then reaches his arm out and pulls the door closed behind him, making the dome light turn off. When he turns back around to you, you’re already moving.
One of your knees is on the seat and you press yourself towards him. Sam opens his arms just in time to not have them caught between your bodies. His hand runs up your side, up your front, one finger grazing your breast and then back up to your face.
You pull back from him a little, the streetlight from outside leaving half your face in shadow. You look at him, seem to think for a second.
“If you think this is too fast–” you say and Sam quickly shakes his head. If he was still thinking with his head, he might think that. But he’s seen what happens when he decides to move slow and maybe it’s time he does it differently. After all, his body is screaming for it.
“I just,” he says, needs to swallow, shifts around a bit. “I just don’t want this to be a hook up. I mean… that’s not what this is for me.”
You look into his eyes, then nod slowly. Your hand goes to his chest, resting there.
“That’s not what it is for me either,” you say and Sam slowly inhales because he’s sure your words are gonna make him dizzy. “But I really want you, Sam.”
He kisses you again before you can say another word. Deeply, intimately. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it. You kiss him back and then Sam doesn’t think anything anymore. Not until he hears the clink of his belt.
He looks down, his mouth dropping open and breath catching at the sight of your hands slowly undoing the buckle. He looks back at your face and you’re watching his expression, looking entranced, hungry. Sam swallows, then lays his hands over yours. You give him a questioning look.
“Wanna get you ready first,” he says, lowering his chin to hide behind his hair when he feels a blush spread over his face. You press yourself closer against him.
“Oh yeah?” you say, a sinful smile twitching on your lips. Sam nods.
“Yeah,” Sam replies, bringing his face closer to yours, your sweet breath fanning over his face.
“And how are you gonna do that?” you ask, challenge in your voice. “We’re a little short on space, in case you hasn’t noticed.” You indicate the car around you.
Sam purses his lips. Logistical challenge, just like he anticipated. If he had room, he could lay you down on your back, get between your legs. God, how he would love that. But he’s gonna make do.
“You know,” he says, shifting around a little, one of his thumb caressing the soft skin on the back of your hand where he’s still holding your hands, even though you’ve given up the battle for his belt. “You know how you sometimes sit on my lap?”
You raise your eyebrows, give a small nod, but say nothing. Let Sam continue. He licks his lips.
“I know you think that’s not a big deal, maybe, or just something friends do, but it, uh… well. It always drives me wild.” You grin.
“To be fair,” you cut in, “that’s kinda what I was hoping for.” Sam can’t help himself but grin too, moves his face closer to yours, ghosting his lips over your cheek without making contact.
“Is that right?” he says in a low voice and notices, with utmost pleasure, that you’re shifting around too. “Well, it worked. Made me damn near come in my pants a couple of times.” You moan again, and it goes to Sam’s head like a large sip of whiskey. You want him. You want him. And it turns you on to hear that he wants you too.
“And what I would imagine,” he continues, voice even lower, feeling brazen, “is that I would grab you, kiss you. Push my hand between your legs.”
“Sam,” you moan, pressing yourself closer, the swell of your tits pushing against him, making him feel high.
“And that you’d just keep wiggling like that until we both came,” he continues and then you grab his face, kiss him again, your breathing going hard and Sam knows he’s completely lost to you.
His hands blindly fumble, going to your naked thighs, but luckily you have the same idea as you press yourself higher. Sam’s sitting on the bench, facing the front but you turn yourself, lips barely detaching from him, struggling for a moment in the confines of the car, then turn so that you’re sitting on his lap, legs off to the side, on the bench, your back pressed against the glass of the window. You’ve sat there before, so Sam knows the weight of you, the shape of your ass pressing against him, but now that he can enjoy it and doesn’t have to act all cool, it feels more amazing than ever before.
You sling your arms around him, kiss him again. Press against him, your right ass cheek against his crotch and Sam thinks he could die happy like this. You press harder and a small moan escapes him, making you giggle.
“Too much to handle?” you ask and Sam wants nothing more than to fuck that sass right out of you. He will. All in good time.
Instead of answering, his fingers start dancing up the inside of your leg. He hits a spot that tickles and you giggle, press your tongue between your teeth, which Sam can only just barely see with how close you are. You press your forehead against his when he reaches the inside of your thigh, a sound he’s almost tempted to call a whimper leaving you. He stays there, drawing lazy circles on the skin until you get restless.
“This what I left drinks for?” you ask. It sets soaring heat free in Sam’s stomach. Jesus, he had no idea you’d be so cheeky, so demanding, so, so… bratty. His stomach twists at the word. It feels perfect.
“Fucking brat,” he mumbles against you, and this time he’s sure it’s a whimper that leaves you.
He pushes his fingers higher and you open your legs wider, let him in.
You’re warm, that’s the first thing Sam notices. Warm, heated. For him. For his touching, his closeness. He pushes his hand further, now hidden by the fabric of your skirt and then his fingertips connect with the fabric of your underwear.
Sam notices two things: they’re cotton, and they’re drenched. He presses his forehead harder against yours, almost bruising. His other arm tightens around you, palm going over the side of your ass to pull you closer.
“You’re so wet,” he mumbles, a fact obvious to both of you but his brain still feels the need to utter it. You nod against him.
“All for you,” you whisper to him. “All for you, Sam. Just thinking about you. Cruel to leave me waiting like this.” Sam pulls his head back a little, looks into your eyes.
“Let me make it up to you,” he says, again not sure where the cockiness is coming from, but then he pushes his hand further.
This way, he gets to watch your face when he touches your pussy for the first time. There’s still your underwear in the way, but he sees your eyebrows going up, your lips part. Hears the double sucking in of breath. He runs his fingers over the front of you and you twitch. He’s about to lose his mind and barely anything’s happened.
He continues his slow caress, continues watching you. You’re responsive, he notices that. Tensing and pushing against his hand, pushing down, anything to look for more friction, more pressure, more pleasure. It’s hypnotic. Absolutely hypnotic.
“Lift up,” he says, and you blink your eyes open, look at him. He can tell you’re out of it, lids low, expression a little clueless and his heart and cock sing at that. Could it be that you want him as bad as he wants you? Could it really be?
When his words finally register with you, you follow them, lift your ass up. Your arms are still around his neck and you need the purchase to move this way, so Sam grabs the fabric of your panties, two fingers slipping into the waistband and pulls them down your legs. You need to shuffle a little, but finally they’re somewhere below your knees.
“Open up,” he says and you look at him, eyes wide, wanting, but you do it, drop your legs open and Sam brings his hand back to where it was.
It’s skin on skin now and he groans at the feeling of your pussy against his fingers. Soft and perfect and warm, and then he feels wetness, feels it transfer to his fingers. He collects some, pulls his hand back and brings it up to his face. Your eyes widen again as you watch him smell it, then push the finger into his mouth.
“Oh God, Sam,” you say, ducking your head, and all of a sudden you’re not teasing, not giving him any lip and he has to grin at that.
“Wanted to know that for so long,” he says, tilting his chin up, almost daring you. You lean in, eyes still open, let your lips connect with his. Kiss him softly, gently, probing. Sam knows you must taste yourself on him and it drives him nearly mad.
“Delicious,” he says against you, making you squirm.
“Please,” you say, and it’s all the encouragement he needs.
His hand travels back between your legs and this time he presses harder, steadier, his shapes more determined. Your head drops back against the window with a thud, your mouth dropping open.
“That’s so good,” you moan so Sam keeps going, keeps doing what he’s doing, slow and steady, slow and steady, watching your face all the while, watching for what parts feel good, and which ones feel really good.
Your legs drop open wider, and Sam takes that as his cue. Pulls his hand back, tugs in his pinkie, ring and index finger. Brings his middle one to your entrance. When you don’t pull back, he pushes in.
He feels you clench down on him and sees your toes curling in your heels at the same time. He grins to himself, still watching you intently, the way your eyes squeeze shut like you’re concentrating.
“More, more, Sam,” you mutter and Sam needs to blink. When he doesn’t follow your request immediately, you flutter your eyelids open, look at him. A small grin spreads on your puffy, perfect lips.
“What, you think I can’t take more than one?” you say, all snark again. Sam raises his chin in challenge, pulls back. Ring finger goes out and then he pushes into you.
The sound that leaves you is something otherworldly, too perfect to be from this planet. It’s whimpering-moaning-crying out, eyebrows drawn so close together they nearly kiss. Paired with the feeling of having two fingers buried knuckle deep in your cunt and Sam needs to drop his head forward, lean it against your shoulder.
“Yes, Sam,” you moan, voice cracking, “yes, like that, filling her up so good.”
And at that, Sam’s eyes nearly roll to the back of his head. Her.
“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” he mutters, still pressed against you as he begins sawing his fingers in and out of you, making sure to drag the pads over the front of your hot, wet tightness. “So fucking perfect, I can’t believe this is finally happening.”
You wrap your arms tighter around him and it would be almost a sweet moment if it wasn’t for the rigorous finger-fucking. Maybe it’s still sweet, Sam thinks. And maybe he shouldn’t waste time on thinking right now.
He keeps the movement up, rubbing a deep part of you. You keep humming against him, gasping, whispering sweet things - how good he’s making you feel, how much you’ve wanted this, and then, suddenly, and Sam’s brain fries all over at that: “I want you inside me.”
His eyes have fallen shut at some point and he opens them, looks at you. His face feels hot and he’s been concentrating on his movement. But you’re looking at him, barely able to keep your own eyes open. You’re tight and hot around his fingers, keep clenching.
“Yeah?” Sam says, realizing how breathless he is and you nod.
“Yes,” you reply. The two of you look at each other for a moment longer, and then you both move at the same time.
You push up and awkwardly climb off him, back to kneeling on the leather next to him. Sam’s hands shoot to his belt, struggling to open it as he watches you tug up your skirt so that it’s only around your hips, then your waist. He’s felt your pussy but he hasn’t seen it, so he stares shamelessly, until he hears you giggle.
“Staring’s rude, you know,” you say, and Sam doesn’t answer, just arches his back, grabs the waistline of his now opened jeans and boxers and shoves them all down past his knees in one go, before his naked ass lands on the seat again. The leather feels funny against his skin, and he’s once again reminded of Dean’s rules. He shoves the thought away as he leans towards you, wraps one arm around your waist and pulls you towards him.
Your hands go out, one against the window, surely creating a smudge that, again, Sam can’t really care about right now, one to his shoulder as you swing one leg over him. You look down your body and only when Sam follows your gaze does he realize you’re staring at his cock.
It’s mostly hard, resting against his stomach, over the fabric of his shirt. He looks up again, sees you biting your lip. He grins.
“I thought staring’s rude,” he says, and your gaze travels to his face. But you don’t laugh at his quip, look into his eyes, all serious suddenly.
“I can’t wait to have you inside me, Sam,” you say. “To feel you. I want to feel all of you.” Sam raises his hands, lays them on your hips.
“You mean…?” he starts and you nod. He’s gonna feel all of you, no barrier between you. But–
“You don’t have to worry,” you say, as if reading his thoughts. “I got an IUD and I’m clean. I just wanna feel you.” Sam leans forward, still looking up at you, his arms wandering around you.
“Feel all of me, huh?” he asks and you nod. “Feel my cock inside you?” You nod again, your breathing picking up. You push up on your knees and Sam loses his grip. His hand goes to his cock and he begins stroking himself, not taking his eyes off you. He’s about to be inside of you. He really is. He’s still not totally convinced this isn’t a dream. If it is, he hopes he never wakes from it.
He keeps one hand on your hip, helping guide you down. He holds his dick, hard and heavy in his hand, and then he needs to look away from your face to line himself up. His head bumps into you, running against your entrance for a second, and he groans, feels himself getting covered in you. You whine over him and then Sam moves his hand a little and his head begins slipping into you.
He quickly looks up again to see how you react. Your lip is caught between your teeth so hard he can see the blood leaving the skin around it, your eyebrows low. You rock your hips just a little, making him slip deeper and deeper. His head disappears inside you, the underside rubbing against your soft heat and then Sam drops his head back on the seat behind him as the rest of him sinks into you as you lower yourself all the way.
“Fuck,” he spits out and then you’re kissing him again, slightly grinding against him, which makes his head shoot up as he moans loudly. “Oh, shit, you gotta, goddamn, you gotta give me a second.”
You still, stuttering, and Sam sees double for a second before he calms somewhat. He’s never felt anything so tight, so soft, so perfect. Like you’re made for him. You kiss his jaw, his cheek, nip at his earlobe.
“Sam,” you say, and he wishes you would say his name a million times, it’s never sounded that good. “God, I wanna fuck you so bad.” You shift again, apparently unable to restrain yourself. Unable to control the grinding, the having him move in you. It makes Sam buckwild. At a particularly hard clench, his hands shoot to your ass, fingers boring into the flesh, keeping you in place - at least your external movement.
“Stop - shit - stop moving,” he pants. “Need to… fuck, you feel so good. Gimme a sec.” He looks at your face then, and he knows he fucked up.
The grin on you is downright evil. You like to tease, obviously, and seeing him like this must be the perfect ammo. You don’t move, his grip on your ass too hard, but you toss your head to the side, getting some hair out of your face, and he knows you’re about to make him lose his shit.
“You feel so big,” you say, voice breathy. “I’m so full. So full, Sam. But if you’re not gonna use that fucking cock, at least let me–” And that’s where you stop as Sam delivers a playful but hard slap to your ass cheek. You squeal, then giggle, clenching on him once more inside yourself.
“Lean back,” he says, his own voice breathless. You raise your eyebrows, but follow his command willingly and eagerly. Your elbows go on the back of the frontbench. Sam’s legs are long, hitting the back of the bench so you can do so comfortably.
It reveals your body to him. He looks down at where he’s inside you, the best damn thing he’s ever seen, that one pronounced vein on his cock disappearing into you like it’s a lifeline . Up your body, hips and waist and tits, so perfect, so much still left to explore under those clothes. Your throat, where you’re just swallowing. Your pretty face that he would love to see in such rapture as you lose all control. His hands slowly wander up the same way his eyes just traveled, taking your shirt with you, dragging it up as you extend your arms in the small space, wrestle it off you. A black bra that makes your tits pop and Sam needs to lean in, suck his lips against the skin of the left one. You giggle and then he moves back and then he looks up at you.
“Don’t move,” he says and you suck in a sharp breath. Then Sam begins.
Your new position gives him room and he rolls up his hips, slow, high until he feels the resistance of your body when he’s all the way inside, then drops down again before he does the same thing again. He disappears into you and getting to see that, getting to see himself come away glistening from you makes him feel like he’s floating. The drag of your pussy is the best thing he’s ever felt. You’re like velvet and silk and all good things in the world combined.
Your head drops back and your chest heaves, making Sam grin. He grabs on to your thighs, but keeps the rhythm. Up into you, down out of you, the need in him so strong, the pleasure so intense and buzzing he can feel it in the back of his knees.
“You feel so good,” he grunts, his voice feeling rough in his throat. “Just like that. Make you feel every inch.” You whine, your head lolling, and it actually looks like you’re in pain.
“More,” you breathe out. “Sam, please, need you, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” But Sam shakes his head, presses a kiss to your right breast this time before dropping back.
“No,” he says, “I wanna make love to you.” You whimper, a soft tremor going through you as you make a pained noise and Sam feels renewed wetness when he enters you next. You might be begging him to fuck you hard, but it looks like you like what he’s giving you instead. Maybe it’s the juxtaposition or the fact that he's calling the shots. It’s hard to think. Sam keeps going, keeps looking at your face, at that perfect pained look there.
“Want me to touch you?” he asks and you nod vigorously, quick, desperate. Sam raises a few of his fingers to his mouth, wets them, then brings them to your clit, so perfectly put on display in front of him. Runs his finger around the nub, draws circles. It’s taking most of his concentration, with how he’s still fucking up into you, but it’s worth it when you gasp and shudder.
“Yes, yes, yes, there,” you press out and then a quick chuckle leaves you. “You’re a fucking tease, Winchester, you’re lucky this feels so damn good.” Sam grins broadly, rubs a little faster, a little harder. It makes you stretch your body, clench your fists. “Sam–”
“Just let it happen,” he replies, looking down at where he’s touching you briefly - Jesus, you’re soaking him. Eyes back to your face. “Let me make you feel good.”
“Ssh,” Sam quiets you. “Slow. Slow and easy. Give me that.”
And it seems you finally get it under control. Seems you want him fast and hard, and you’ll get that, and the slow way he’s doing it must feel overwhelming, but Sam needs this, wants this more than anything, to watch you slowly come apart like this.
You roll your hips, just a bit, the movement stuttering, a twitch on the insides of your thighs, your knees pressing against his sides. He rubs you a little faster, still with that steady, slow drag through your pussy.
“Tell me what she feels,” he pants and he’s almost sure you can’t hear him or don’t know what he means, maybe it was just an off-hand comment for you, but then he sees you lick your lips.
“She feels–” you start, interrupt yourself with a twitch and a moan. “She feels so much. She feels the best she’s ever felt even though she wants nothing more, nothing more–”
“Than to get nice and pounded?” Sam finishes and you nod, so hard your head must nearly fall off. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”
And with that, Sam picks up the pace at which he’s fucking you. He can feel himself drag over your softest parts, faster now, his fingers still working to meet the feeling from the other side and then you gasp again, body tensing and stretching even more.
“Sam, ‘m gonna, oh fuck,” you pant and Sam keeps up the rhythm, can feel you almost squirming away as the feeling gets too intense but he wraps one arm around you, keeps you in place and you squeeze him so hard he thinks he’s about to pass out as your neck stretches, hips snapping so violently Sam can barely contain you and then he doesn’t, lets you ride him as you come hard, bucking, nearly screaming, squeezing him like crazy, and he’s about to pop like warm champage.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” you grunt in a tone Sam’s never heard from you, but is planning to make his best friend.
You flop forward, bury all of him inside of you again, your arms going around his shoulders like you’re holding on to dear life, hands balled into fists, high, high noises leaving you. You’re shaking hard so Sam wraps his arms around you again, presses his lips against some naked skin near your neck where he can reach. He runs his hands over your back as you slow down, calm.
He’s still hard inside you, pulsing, eager, full. He didn’t come, although he was damn close. But he knows to give you time to catch your breath. When you finally pull your head back, you look into his eyes.
“Sam,” you say his name again, needy and a little whiny, and then you kiss him, uncoordinated. “So good. That was so amazing. Holy shit.”
Sam kisses you back, breathing hard against you. Your hands are tussling his hair. Your entire body is hot, a slight sheen of sweat on your skin and it’s intoxicating. He licks at it, sucks at it, and a moment later he notices you start rolling your hips. He groans, the movement throwing him right back to the edge of release.
Now it’s him that drops his head back, looking up at you through half-closed lids and lashes. You keep looking into his eyes, lower your head, get his bottom lip between his teeth and then begin thrusting your hips, hard and fast. You bite down hard, your eyes rolling up as you moan into his mouth. It’s the sexiest thing Sam has ever experienced.
His hands go to just above your ass, gripping the flesh uncovered by your pushed up skirt, using the purchase to drive you down harder against him. You let go of his lip, straighten, arms going up to press against the ceiling of the car and then you’re basically bouncing on him, the stimulation so good and strong it’s like someone setting his spine on fire.
“Argh, fuck,” Sam presses out, his voice reverberating through the interior of the car, victim to the way you’re fucking him now. “I’m gonna come so hard.”
And then you do it again, eyes squeezing shut, teeth bared, and it’s all Sam needs to see, needs to know, that he’s making you come again, that plus the obscene squelch he can now hear between you every time he enters you when you press down on him again.
He's not sure if you can feel him swell inside of you, but you fuck him harder, his upward thrusts meeting your movement with a slap of skin every time, and he must be nearly bruising you with how hard you're going but still, you're pressing out yes yes yes and fuck me Sam fuck your cock is so good so big yes!
It begins and it’s so intense he thinks he goes blind for a second, and then his head hits the back of the bench, hard, painfully hard, as he thrusts up into you as much as he can, just wanting more, more, more, you. He feels his cock twitch like crazy, and then he’s emptying himself into you, spurt by spurt dragged from him by your tight embrace.
His stomach muscles cramp. A noise leaves him he’s never heard from himself before, and that makes two of you.
You slump forward and your head goes to his shoulder, while Sam’s arms go around you. Both of you lie there, breathing hard. Sam’s heartbeat is pounding in his ears, the rush of blood only slowly dying down. He feels wetness run down his cock where it’s outside of you, down his balls, probably dropping down from there. He couldn’t care less.
He stirs at some point, looks around, then down at what little he can see of your face. One hand goes up to the back of your head, gently running over it. You make a content sound and Sam nudges your forehead with his nose.
“Anyone alive in there?” he asks, his voice scratchy, and a tired chuckle reveals to him that you are. You pull up your shoulders and then finally raise your head.
He almost forgot. Almost forgot how beautiful you are. How much he’s in love with you. He looks at your face and it’s unbelievable, actually unbelievable, what just happened. He studies your features.
“What?” you say with a small chuckle. Sam gives you a lopsided grin, something warm building in his chest.
“Just gotta check you out shamelessly while I can,” he says and you purse your lips. You lean in, press a gentle kiss to his lips and when you move to pull back, his hand goes to the back of your head, pulling you back in. This second kiss is slow and unhurried. When you pull back again, you give him a serious look.
“Well, I hope you’re planning on doing lots of checking out,” you say, something light and hopeful but also worried in your voice. Sam can only grin.
“I will if you let me,” he says and you give the most adorable shrug.
“I might,” you say, “but only if we do this again.” Sam raises his chin, brings his mouth closer to you again.
“But next time I’m getting you in a bed,” he replies and you let your hands travel up his chest. “Somewhere I can really take my time with you.” You laugh.
“What, you don’t look forward to explaining to Dean why there’s come stains on his leather seats?” you ask and Sam groans, shakes his head.
“I’m still inside you,” he says, eyebrows raised. “Please don’t talk about my brother.”
“Speaking of,” you say and Sam frowns, so you quickly add: “You being inside me, not your brother. What do you say we clean up and you show me what it’s like to fall asleep next to you?”
Joy, unadulterated joy. It’s not something Sam gets a lot of, but as it turns out, there will be a lot more from now on. He raises his chin and you lean down to kiss him again. He twitches where he’s still inside of you. You raise your eyebrows at him, the corners of your mouth pulling up.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Sam says in a warning tone, but of course, he sees, as he looks at your perfect, perfect face, it’s way too late for that.
Summary It’s the night before Christmas, and you and Dean have Jody and Sam over at your new house. Once your guests are gone, you work on your own little holiday miracle.
CWs Post-series fix-it. Baby making. Past implied trauma. Dean in a breedin' mood. Happy end.
18+. 4.2k words
AN Am I pregant? Am I gregnant? Is there a possibly that I'm pegrant? Could I be pregonate? Am I pegnate?
SPN masterlist | A simple kind of man masterlist
“Oh. My. God,” Jody says, putting down her fork and leaning back in her chair, actually closing her eyes, and you quickly look at Dean, so you don’t miss how proud he looks.
Jody opens her eyes again, raises her hands, then drops them.
“Why the hell have I been doing the cooking all these years?” she says, then she points at you. “You didn’t tell me you were married to a friggin’ chef!” You grin, equally proud even though the only things on the table you’re responsible for are the mashed potatoes and the red wine. Still, you’re the chef’s wife, so you extend your hand, run it over Dean’s neck.
“My best kept secret,” you reply, smiling at your husband and he grins back. Sam does a brotherly scoff.
“And Dean’s so humble, so he’d never brag,” he says, taking a sip from his wine with a sheepish grin. Dean only inclines his head.
“Well, Sammy,” he says, scratching at the thick stubble on his chin, the one he says is to protect him from the South Dakota winter, but that you secretly hope sticks around come spring. “Those that can, cook. And those that can’t, study law.” Sam makes a face.
“That’s not how that saying goes,” he complains, just as Jody raises her hand.
“No arguing on Christmas,” she says. “I’ll have a house full of young adults tomorrow, I want some peace and quiet.” Sam and Dean go quiet, Jody’s mom-voice having the desired effect.
“Speaking of,” you say, putting your glass down after taking a sip, “when are the girls getting in?” Jody looks up, running through the list of her foster daughters in her head.
“Alex lands at eight,” she says, “and then Patience comes in at ten, but she’s gonna go to the airport right away and then come over.” You raise your eyebrows.
“To pick up James?” you ask, referring to Patience’s father. Jody nods and you smile.
“Good, she must be so happy he’s coming,” you reply, to which Jody scrunches up her nose in an adorable grin.
“She is,” she replies, and then keeps rambling off her list. “And Donna, Claire and Kaia will show up whenever.”
“When are you guys gonna get there?” Sam asks, looking at you and Dean. The two of you look at each other.
“We were thinking before noon,” you say, “help with the chaos.” Dean nods.
“Big crowd,” he notes.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Jody replies, and your heart warms.
You say goodbye to your guests and then go to the kitchen while Sam and Dean talk outside for a few more minutes. You watch the two through the kitchen window, the practiced familiarity, smiling to yourself. None of you might be in the life anymore, but it hasn’t changed how close you all are. You look down and start on the dishes.
Dean walks in a few minutes later, closing the front door and locking it before he joins you in the kitchen.
“I wish we had the guest room ready so they wouldn’t have to drive,” you say as Dean comes up behind you, wraps his arms around you.
“They’re each only thirty minutes away, they’ll be fine,” he says, pressing his nose against the back of your head.
“Still,” you say and feel Dean nod.
“Next year we should have them all over here,” he says, or mumbles, into your hair. “When the house is done, I mean. Huge Christmas party for everyone. Big ass turkey with stuffing and everything.” You grin at the thought. A house full of people, full of family. It sounds wonderful.
Dean brings you out of your thoughts when he presses his lips against your shoulder.
“Want me to help?” he asks, referring to the pans you’re soaking and scrubbing.
“Oh no,” you answer. “Cook doesn’t do the dishes.” He chuckles.
“Cook can’t wait til we get the dishwasher in,” he replies. You shake your head a little.
“Dean Winchester’s biggest worry being the dishwasher,” you tease, “what a world we live in.” Dean moves his lips to the shell of your ear, not kissing, just remaining there.
“Yeah,” he says, sounding distracted. You turn your head to look at him. He has a faraway look in his eyes, is gazing out the window into the dark.
“You okay, honey?” you say softly. Dean swallows, then turns back to you.
“Yeah,” he says, “just having one of those moments.”
Dean and you talk a lot about those moments. The ones where the fact that not only did you make it out of hunting, but you made it out without any major sacrifices in the end feels unreal. The ones where you need to breathe, for a moment, while some old survival instinct gives its final swan song, and you need to remind yourself that you are not in any danger. The ones where you get to worry about dishwashers and who’s getting in at what time and what you want to cook for Christmas next year, and realize what an absolutely perfect, overwhelming luxury that is.
You lean your forehead against Dean’s cheek, not to drag him out of the moment, but only to let him know you’re there with him. He takes a deep breath, moves his head and kisses your temple.
“Why don’t we leave that for tomorrow?” he says, nodding at the dishes. You make a face.
“They’re gonna be all crusty and gross,” you answer, even though you would love to leave them for tomorrow.
“Yeah, but aren’t you, you know?” Dean asks and you give him a questioning look. He clicks his tongue, wiggles his brows. “Prime real estate.”
You think for a second, and then you remember. You pull your hands from the soapy dish water, dry them on the towel laying on the counter, then reach behind you, Dean moving just the tiniest bit, into your back pocket and pull out your phone. Open the app and look at the day. There it is. You’re ovulating.
“Well,” you say, locking your screen and pushing the phone back into your pocket. “Look at you, Fertility Man.” Dean grins broadly and you chuckle. That damn grin. You’ve been seeing it a lot recently, but it never fails to warm your heart, as well as other parts of you. The house, this life, has changed something in Dean, loosened something about him. He’s not expecting everyone he meets to try and stab him in the face.
It hasn’t been long that you’ve been trying. Well, you’ve been practicing all along, but it wasn’t until a few months ago that, in the throes of passion, Dean kissed you deeply and then looked into your eyes. “Let’s make a baby,” he said.
You had a serious discussion, later, when Dean wasn’t inside of you. It wasn’t like you didn’t know that you both wanted this, at least in theory, but you've always been adamant about refusing to raise a child in the life you lived. Too much trauma, too much death, too many orphans.
But now, in the safety of this new life, the topic has come up again. You carried the question with you for a month, turning it over and over in your head. What if and how and but. The truth was, you had already made up your mind. You want to be a mother, and you want Dean to be the father of those children.
So you’re not rushing things, taking it slow, if it happens it happens, but Dean has turned into a damn conception and pregnancy maniac. You sure don’t mind. You get excited at the thought of maybe having a little one around soon. And you definitely enjoy the trying.
Dean’s already nuzzling your neck in that way he does, and you can’t help but grin. You turn your head to him, catch his lips and then the two of you are just kissing, lost in the love and closeness to each other.
“Let me slip into something more comfortable,” you reply and Dean grins against your lips. “Bedroom in 15.”
You’re massaging some lotion into your hands when you walk into the bedroom. It’s still missing a proper light fixture but the first thing you and Dean sprung for was a nice bed, a good mattress. Your poor backs deserve it after years and years on cheap motel mattresses.
Dean looks up when you come in, surveys you appreciatively in your bathrobe – you don’t see the point in putting on your PJs if he’s only gonna rip them off you. He’s looking at his phone, but then puts it down when you come closer, turns to the night table. He brought the red wine and two glasses, you see, and you step close to him, kiss his clothed shoulder while he pours the wine. Dean’s in a t-shirt and sweats, because he loves it when you rip off his clothes.
“For the lady,” he says when he passes you your glass and you take it while he picks his own up, holds it close to yours. Dean lays his arm around you.
“To making babies with my hot, gorgeous wife,” he says, clinking his glass against yours and you laugh.
“To the best life I could have ever imagined,” you reply and Dean gets a soft look on his face, leans in to kiss you again before he’s even taken a sip. When you separate, you both drink, and then Dean’s eyes light up.
“I think Sammy’s got a secret girlfriend,” he says and your mouth drops open and your eyes go wide.
“No way!” you gasp. “You think? Who?” Dean shrugs.
“No idea,” he answers while you take another sip, “but there’s something he’s not saying. Keeps grinning at his phone like an idiot, too.” You chuckle.
“Oh man, that’s nice,” you say.
“Long as it’s not some bright-eyed co-ed,” Dean says, and you poke him in the ribs with your free hand, making him flinch.
“You’re thinking of the wrong brother,” you say and Dean chuckles as he takes your glass from you, puts it on the night table along with his.
“Oh no,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. His eyes are slightly narrowed at you and his voice is dipping a little lower. “My partying days are long gone.” He runs his lips over your cheekbone, the touch barely there but tantalizing.
“I’m a kept man now,” he almost whispers, “fully and completely whipped.” You can’t suppress your giggle as you bring your hands up to hold his face.
“You poor thing,” you reply and he nods, then tilts his head so he can get at your neck.
“’S not so bad,” he says and then presses his perfect lips against the skin there, you sighing at the contact. “She takes good care of me.”
You run your hand to the back of Dean’s head, press him against you as he sucks against your skin, flicks his tongue over your pulse points while his hands roam your body, touch you in all the places you like, gently squeezing skin and flesh. It doesn’t take long until your bathrobe is on the ground and Dean’s clothes are quick to follow.
He’s got you on your front while he's lying down next to you, tonguing and kissing and sometimes nipping at the skin on your back, one arm shoved under your raised pelvis, practiced fingers quickly rubbing your clit, while with his other hand, arm going over your back and ass, he’s thrusting two fingers into you, massaging your g-spot. You’re rocking your lower body back and forth, fucking his hand, one hand twisting the covers.
“Oh God, baby, yes, yes, yes,” you moan and arch your back to better receive him, an intense climax building in you quickly.
“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” Dean pants, “gonna get you nice and ready for me.” You moan again, louder this time. “I’m gonna make you so full tonight.”
You need to press your forehead against the mattress to concentrate better on what your husband is igniting in you. Dean and you were both surprised at how much you were into this, the primality of fucking to conceive. At the same time, it feels like you’re more intimate with each other than ever before. You’re going to do this together.
“Dean, please,” you whine, “I want you.” Dean kisses your back again.
“Easy, darlin’,” he replies, “we’ll get there.” You feel it build in you, so intense you are warm and electric all over.
“Dean—“ you gasp now, wanting to beg for him again, but the words get stuck in your throat, tempered down by the intense arousal.
“Don’t worry,” he pants against you, “come for me and then I’ll breed you like you want me to.”
You come right then and there.
You land on your back, having turned around on shaking legs and Dean moves over you, kissing you deeply. You’re still breathing hard from your intense orgasm, but you need Dean, want him, maybe more than you ever have. It always feels that way.
“Want me to get on top?” you ask, running your hands over his back, his ass, the solid muscle in his shoulders. Dean kisses you again.
“Chances are better like this,” he says, cupping your face. “Gravity and deep penetration.” You pull your head back, look at him, an incredulous look on your face.
“What?” you ask, chuckling. Dean shrugs.
“That’s what it said online,” he answers. You pull his face in, kiss him again.
“I don’t think that’s how it works, baby,” you reply and then you run your nose over his. “But I’m not gonna say no to deep penetration.” A dangerous smile plays on Dean’s lips, and then he kisses you again, while at the same time bringing his hand under one of your thighs, pulling your leg up.
“You want me deep, is that it?” he asks, his lips barely moving and you shudder with arousal.
“Yes,” you breathe, “so deep. Put a baby in me, Dean.” Dean groans and then he looks down, lines himself up. You sling your leg over his side to steady yourself and then he’s pushing into you.
“Oh yes,” you moan, leaning your head back and Dean immediately presses his face against your neck, groans. After a moment of just feeling you, he pushes himself up on his arms and begins slowly thrusting in and out of you. You bring your other leg up. You blink your eyes open to see Dean studying you.
“You’re gonna look so beautiful pregnant,” he says and you hum at his words. “I’m gonna take such good care of you, spoil you rotten.” You run your hands over his arms, then hold his face.
“I know you will,” you reply, moving your body along with his thrusts. “You’re gonna be such a good Daddy.” Dean groans. He’s never liked you calling him that, always said it made him feel old, but in the context of being an actual daddy, you’ve both found some appreciation for it.
He leans back on his knees, grabs you around both ankles and presses your legs closer to your body. You moan at the slight, delicious burn of the position, but also at the fact that Dean picks up speed, drives into you faster. You’re so exposed to him, no way to hide anything, not that you’d want to, because Dean looks at you like he struck gold.
“That’s my girl,” he groans, “taking me so well.” Your mouth drops open at the pet name, at all the times you thought about Dean calling you that for the rest of your life, until you’re both old and grey and toothless.
You reach one hand down yourself, let your fingers rest right over your entrance so you can feel Dean driving into you against your fingertips as well. Dean watches you, lips parted and breathing hard.
“Oh fuck,” you moan, “you’re going so fucking deep. Don’t stop.” With that, you start petting your clit, fingers running warm circles over it.
“That’s right,” Dean say, his thumbs running along the skin on your calves where he’s still holding you. “Your pussy feels so good, I’m gonna fuck my come so deep inside you there’s no way you won’t get pregnant.” You moan again, toss your head to the side.
“Yes, baby, I need all of you,” you moan, and from how Dean is picking up his rhythm, going faster, you can tell he’s getting close. He reaches one hand down to knead your breast.
Dean pinches your nipple, then gently runs his thumb over it, while he keeps fucking you. His mouth is open and he’s breathing hard while he looks down at you, watches you react to his cock thrusting into you.
“Tell me you want it,” he pants and you look back up again, body shaken back and forth by his thrusts while the pleasure is so intense it makes you almost unwell.
“I want your come, Dean,” you pant, and then you bite your lip while you look at him. His eyes are misty with reverence and lust, and he’s so solid, so strong. This is the man who’s going to be raising your children with you. The man you love.
“Put a baby in me, please,” you whine and that takes Dean over the edge.
He falls forward, holding himself up on one arm, the other hand looking desperately for purchase anywhere on you, finally holding on to the flesh of your thigh, as he roughly fucks into you a few more times, groaning loudly as his orgasm approaches.
“Just—fuck—take it, baby,” he grunts and then he pushes deep into you, eyes squeezing shut and baring his teeth, and you feel the wonderful spread of warmth as Dean empties himself deep inside of you. You give him a few seconds, then begin petting your clit again.
Dean, face fucked-out, lids low, still breathing hard, looks down your body.
“You want me to—?” he starts but you shake your head, already chasing your own high.
“Don’t move,” you pant. “Gotta make sure your come stays deep inside me.” Dean moans, then dips his head lower to kiss you, all while you continue rubbing yourself. With Dean’s thickness to press down on it feels all the better. He’s still hard, and he starts kissing your neck, helping you get there.
After a minute, he raises his head, grimaces. He’s becoming sensitive, but your climax is close and you’re not willing to forgo feeling him inside of you, but luckily Dean doesn’t seem to mind.
You come, moaning high in your throat, clenching on Dean desperately but he lets you, groans as you squeeze him, seemingly not entirely unpleasant. Your body goes slack, tiredness and happiness running over you like a steam roller.
Unfortunately, Dean stirs, slowly pulls out of you and you make a general complaining noise. To your surprise, he reaches for a pillow.
“Now as much as I would love to watch that leak out of you, —lift up?” he says, matter-of-factly as he brings the pillow close, then squeezes the skin on your hip. You bring your legs down on the mattress, raise your ass and Dean gently shoves the pillow under you, elevating your lower body. You raise your eyebrows at him while he finishes: “That gonna help with conceiving.”
You could say a thousand things. What theories have been proven and which have been disproved and that people have gotten pregnant on much less that what he just gave you. But you don’t. You just look up at Dean, run your fingertips over the naked skin of his chest.
“I love you so damn much,” you say, your voice thick with tears. Dean inclines his head, moves to your side and presses himself close to you.
“I love you, too,” he answers, looking a little worried, as he runs a hand over your stomach, your breasts. “You okay?” You nod, because you are. They’re tears of happiness.
You’re gonna build a family with Dean. No, you already are a family. All the people you’ll see around that table tomorrow, they’re your family, and you’re gonna be adding to it. Whether it works on this try, or the next one or you have to wait longer, whether you birth this baby or it finds its way to you the way Claire, Alex and Patience found their way to Jody – you have a family.
With a sniff, you stroke Dean’s cheek and smile.
“Just having one of those moments,” you say and Dean smiles back. He leans in, kisses you gently, softly. Like you’re his universe and he’s yours.
“You wanna take a nap?” he asks, barely moving away from you. You frown.
“Nap?” you ask. “It’s ten in the evening. Who takes a nap at this time?” Dean shrugs.
“Just thought you might like a small break,” he explains, “before we go again.” You gasp and then laugh, and Dean grins his broadest grin.
It’s a mild day in early summer when you come home for your lunch break. It’s not something you usually do, but today you make an exception.
You drop your bag onto the kitchen counter, grab the little package you bought and rush to the bathroom. While you hold the small stick under you and pee, you try not to get your hopes up. It hasn’t worked so far and it’s fine if it doesn’t now. You’re not in a rush, you tell yourself, over and over.
The stick goes on the bathroom counter while you wash your hands, re-apply some deodorant, check your make-up in the mirror. The days have been getting warm and long, endless evenings with Dean and family and friends spent on the patio he finished just last month.
When the timer on your phone goes off, you look down and then your hand goes over your mouth.
Dean’s home late that evening. He’s been working hard at the shop, because recently you and him have started talking about him opening his own, at some point. He says he’s never worked for anyone and he isn’t exactly gonna get used to it now, even though Ronnie, the old car enthusiast who owns the place, is less of a boss and more of a kind, sweet fatherly type who would probably let the guys that work there sleep on the job if they said they were a little tired.
Dean walks into the house, calling your name. “I’m in here,” you call back from the dining room, picking up the box of matches to light the candles on the table. You hear Dean walk into the kitchen, open the fridge.
“You want a beer?” he calls and you grin to yourself.
“I’m good,” you call back. “Just get in here, dinner’s getting cold.”
You hear Dean walk in behind you, and you know he’s wrinkling his brow. You blow out the match, then turn around just as he walks up to you. He leans in to kiss you as you push up to meet him, then looks around again.
“Don’t worry,” you say, “it’s just a lasagna. I didn’t go too far out of my depth.”
“What do you mean?” Dean asks, doing his best to look disturbed at your words as he slings his free arm around you. “You’re a great cook.” You need to scoff at that as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.
“You’re a wonderful husband,” you say and he grins at the compliment, “but a horrible liar.” Dean smiles, kisses your nose, then frowns at the table. At the third place setting.
“Who’s coming over?” he asks and you press your lips together.
“Someone special,” you reply but that doesn’t seem to answer Dean’s question. “They’re gonna be a while, though.”
“Well, should we wait?” he asks, looking a little confused and you want to kiss him all over for it. “They stuck in traffic or something?” You giggle and while Dean smiles at your amusement, he really is absolutely clueless.
“Really bad traffic,” you say, nodding. “It’s gonna take them probably, oh, I don’t know, like, another nine months to get here.”
Dean keeps frowning and you see the moment he understands. He blinks, softly, and the corners of his mouth drop.
“What?” he says, his voice a little shaky and you’re nodding, and already you can feel the tears in your eyes.
“We’re gonna have a baby,” you say and Dean takes a shaky breath while the understanding washes over him. He looks down your body, as if he’s hoping to see something there, then back up at your face before he pulls you in, kisses you needily. He pulls back after a few seconds, still looking at you with an unbelieving look.
“A baby,” he says and you nod again. There’s tears in his eyes and he needs to swallow.
“A baby,” you say and the two of you stand there and look at each other, while you both imagine that mysterious child, the result of all your love.
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Summary You beat Sam at chess for the first time, and you are a very ungracious winner.
CWs Domestic bunker fluff. Sam being the sweetest boyfriend. I know jack about chess.
953 words
AN This is an old one I'm bringing over here from AO3. Enjoy!
SPN masterlist | Sam Winchester masterlist
You’re staring down at the board in front of you, thinking hard.
Sam taps his finger on the table twice and you shoot him a threatening look.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Don’t play dirty,” you respond, looking back at the board.
He chuckles a little. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
That’s when you see it.
You raise your hands, link your fingers in front of your mouth so Sam doesn’t see the grin you’re suppressing.
Dean always tells you you have a horrible poker face and unfortunately he’s not wrong. It’s a bad combination with how competitive you get.
You’ve only been playing chess for a few weeks, always thinking before that it would bore you. But then Sam found this beautiful chess board in the bunker, his eyes lighting up like it’s Christmas morning. You knew Dean wasn’t going to play with him so you saw it as your girlfriend-ly duty to step in.
You started playing, him explaining the rules to you, and before you knew it, you were enjoying it. So now you and Sam spend many of the long afternoons in the bunker hunched over the board, in deep concentration.
So much for the good news.
The bad news is that Sam has been winning. Every. Single. Game. Of course he’s good at it, he’s the smartest guy you know. And he doesn’t brag about it or rub it in your face. When he wins, he just kind of sits back, nods. Sometimes you think he actually feels bad.
Once you think you caught him trying to purposefully loose, and you nearly wreaked havoc on his ass. You’re competitive, not fragile. He didn’t try losing again after that.
And now here you are, and after weeks of practice, you think you just might have him.
You breath out slowly, trying to hide your excitement. Then you take one hand away from your face, make your move. You immediately bring it back where it was because Sam doesn't seem to notice, is thinking about his own move.
Now that it's his turn you use the chance to ogle him a little. You enjoy chess, but this part ain't so bad either.
He sits there, leaned forward over the table, arms crossed in front of him. His lips are pinched together in concentration, his brow a little furrowed. It's a damn good picture.
He must notice your gaze one him, because he looks up at you.
"Nothing," you say, before he can ask what's going on. "Just checking you out."
He grins a little, looks back at the board.
"Like what you see?" he asks, casually.
"Not too shabby," you reply. "Could be a little faster at chess, though."
He looks back up at you. "I thought no playing dirty?"
"Yeah, that goes for you," you say, like it's obvious. "I need every advantage I can get."
Sam smiles, clicks his tongue, looks back down. Then he raises his hand, makes his move.
This time you can't hide your grin. He walked right into your trap. You move your knight.
"Checkmate," you say.
Sam looks stunned. He stares at the board, his eyes going back and forth.
You throw your hands in the air and make a whooping sound, because being a gracious winner is for tall guys with beautiful hair, not for you.
Sam leans back and grins. He looks proud and impressed. It makes your heart melt a little, and you almost don't want to make the fact that you beat him your entire personality. Almost.
You put your fist in front of your face, holding an imaginary microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen, friends at home, we are here covering what might be the coolest, most savage chess win of all times."
Your sound more like a sports announcer than a news caster, but that's a detail you don't worry about.
"We are here today," you continue, "with Samuel Winchester, who will answer the question: what is it like to have a girlfriend who is not just beautiful, not just intelligent, but also a menace at chess? Samuel, what can you tell us about this experience?"
You scoot up, leaning over the table to hold the fake mic into Sam's face.
He sits up, leaning closer. "It's actually Sam," he says into your fist.
You make a buzzer noise, even though that makes the whole thing more of a talkshow host impression. Whatever. You beat Sam at chess. Accuracy is for losers.
"That is actually incorrect! The correct answer is that it's the best thing in the world, and that she will be getting foot rubs from you for eternity."
You hold the mic back to him, giving him a chance to defend himself, but instead he smiles.
"I was going to do that anyway," he says, and than he wraps his hand around your wrist and quickly bites your finger.
He lets go and you put on a stunned tone when you talk back into the mic again.
"Gentle viewers, it seems that he just bit the reporter."
Sam makes a face. "I bit the microphone. Wait, you're supposed to be a reporter? I thought you were a game show host."
You roll your eyes. "Details, Samuel, details." You swish your hand around in front of his face. "Don't have time for details when I'm winning."
He grabs your hand from where it's waving around and holds it up to his face. Just when you think - hope - he'll bite you again, he kisses the back of it.
"I don't need to win. I already got the main prize," he says.
So cheesy, you think. You grin at him and he smiles back and you won at chess and all is well.
Thank you for reading! ♡
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Summary After a boring evening, Dean only wants to concentrate on you.
CWs Dad & husband Dean. Masturbation & watching.
18+. 1.6k words
AN An old fic from a Kinktober that never made it over here. Technically part of A simple kind of man, but can be read on its own.
Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist
Dean and you walk into the kitchen giggling, both just a little tipsy. Claire looks up, raises her eyebrows at you.
“You two have fun?” she asks and you need to take a deep breath before you can answer.
“Yes, thank you, honey,” you answer while Dean stands next to you, his laughter making lines that make him look even more attractive appear around his eyes. “Everything okay with the kids?” Claire nods as she closes her textbook, drops it in her bag.
“All good,” Claire replies, gets off the stool and grabs the baby monitor, hands it to you. “Emma woke up once, but that’s it. I gotta head out, Kaia’s starting her new job tomorrow, and I want to take her out for breakfast first.” You smile at that.
“Sounds good, tell us how it went,” you say, and Dean adds a: “Bye, sweetheart,” and then Claire is out the door, both you and Dean nodding politely after her as if you didn’t just spend fifteen minutes making out in front of your own house like horny teenagers.
Dean turns to you as the front door falls closed and then he’s on you. He grabs your hand and pulls you in, kisses you deeply while one hand goes to your ass and squeezes it, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders.
“Fuck,” he says, running his nose over yours, “I’ve been thinking about you all evening.”
“Is that right?” you ask, gently biting his bottom lip which makes him grin. “And what exactly have you been thinking about?” Dean pulls you in a little, using the hand on your ass to press your crotch against his and it makes heat flood to your core.
“How about we go upstairs,” he says, using that sexy low voice of his. “And I show you?”
You don’t have to be told twice, so you grab the baby monitor in one hand, Dean’s hand in the other and you drag him upstairs to the bedroom. Usually you would check on the kids when you come home, but Claire says they went down okay and you really, really need Dean right now.
He closes the bedroom door behind him quietly and then pulls you back against him. You just have time to put the monitor on the bedside table and then his arms wrap around you, his lips going to your neck.
“Dean,” you sigh as both his hands cup your breasts, massage them.
“You look so fucking sexy,” Dean mumbles against your skin, the feeling of his warm breath making you push against him desperately. “I thought about just bending you over the dining table about a dozen times.” You grin as one of Dean’s hands wanders downward. His fingers make quick work with the button of your pants, and then he’s pushing his hand in, all nice and warm and Dean.
“I would have loved to see Tom’s face if you had,” you whisper with a grin, referring to your asshole neighbor at whose birthday party you were. “We might have ruined the cake.” Dean presses the pads of his fingers to your clit, the many years you’ve been together letting him know exactly where to put his focus. He can play your body like an instrument.
“I’m about to ruin you,” he whispers back and you can hear the grin in his voice, because it’s insanely cheesy but it’s also insanely hot. With Amazonian strength you push yourself away from Dean, turn around and start tugging at your pants. Dean takes the hint and starts pulling off his own clothes. You’re both quick and efficient, a busy life with two kids, jobs, and a mortgage having taught you what parts to take slow and which ones can be rushed.
You’re naked quicker than Dean and he slows down considerably in his own undressing because he’s busy watching you now, as you sit on the bed and scoot backwards to its head, spread your legs wide. Dean groans when he sees you and you grin.
“Come here,” you say, running your hands over your thighs, which is exactly when you hear JJ over the baby monitor. You immediately push yourself up, but Dean’s quicker.
“I got it,” he says, tugging up his briefs that were just low enough to reveal that sweet ass of his. He points at you as he walks towards the bedroom door. “Don’t go anywhere.”
You watch him leave, then lean back, scoot a little lower on the bed. JJ’s still crying on the monitor, the little blue lights dancing, but a second later you can hear Dean over it as well.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up?” you hear him say and can’t help but grin at the way Dean talks to him. “You havin’ a bad time?” Your face has a goofy smile on it while you listen, love coursing through your veins. You hear some rustling as Dean picks up JJ and your son immediately quiets.
“It’s okay,” Dean says, “it’s all good.” You bite your lip. Dean’s technically never lived anywhere long enough to really pick up a specific accent, but to calm his kids he sometimes drawls a little. They like it, and you sure do too.
Dean doesn’t say anything anymore, but he begins to hum, deep, full-bodied tones. You don’t even realize that your hand is running over your thigh, but when you do, you don’t stop yourself. Might as well get yourself ready for your husband.
Your hand wanders between your legs, and you start touching yourself, slowly. You’re already wet, but you enjoy the climb, so why rush? You close your eyes, imagine Dean there with you.
Imagine his roughened, strong hands parting your legs, his plush lips kissing the inside of your thighs, teasing you before he goes where you really want him. Dean’s the kinda guy that eats you out with his entire face, nose and chin and stubble rubbing against you, adding beautiful sensations, and sometimes he’ll moan at your taste. He’s the whole entire package.
Your other hand goes to your breast, gently twists your nipple while you imagine it’s Dean’s mouth. Imagine him looming over you, stroking himself while he watches you and then, when you spread your legs wider, he—
“I was gone for five minutes, you know?”
Your eyes fly open and focus on Dean, who’s standing at the foot of the bed. Damn those hunter skills, they never left him. He looks ravenous.
“Still too long,” you breathe, your voice a little broken. “Come here, baby, I want you.”
But Dean moves slowly, lands one knee on the bed and then leans over. He looks into your eyes.
“Keep going,” he says and the way he does along with the way he looks at you sends a shiver of arousal down your spine. Your hand only stilled, never left you so without breaking eye contact, you begin your touching again. As Dean moves a little closer, his gaze falls to your pussy, a smile tugging at his lips.
“What were you thinking about?” he asks, voice low, eyes still focused on what you’re doing.
“You,” you reply in a breathy voice, and Dean’s eyes wander up to your face.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, grinning a little. You nod. Dean’s hand lands on your bent knee and wanders down your leg, then up again, just stroking you. “And did that feel good?”
Goddamn that voice of his. Your breathing is already picking up. “Felt so good, baby,” you reply. Dean nods.
“Why don’t you play with your nipples a little?” he says then. “I know how you like that.” And you really do, so your hand goes back to your breast, tugging at the hardened nub.
“Dean,” you moan, as the pleasure starts building in you.
“No,” he says, his own breathing heavier, the bulge in his underwear becoming hard to ignore. “I want to watch you. So goddamn gorgeous.” His hands are both running over your legs now, closer to your core but not touching you there.
“Finger yourself for me?” Dean says then. You stop rubbing your clit and move your hand lower, press your middle and ring finger into yourself. You’re audibly wet and as you start pumping your fingers into you, Dean’s grip on your leg tightens. Your fingers quickly find that special spot inside of you, and with Dean looking down at you like he’s about to eat you alive you’re soon squirming, rolling your hips.
“Fuck,” Dean says while he watches you, kisses the top of your knee. “I can’t wait to be inside you.” A low whimper escapes you. Dean looks up at your face. “Come on, baby, make yourself come so I can finally fuck you.”
That’s about as much encouragement as you need as your back arches, your limbs tense and a high-pitched moan leaves you. Dean’s tight grip on you helps to ground you, but it takes a good little while until your twitching stops and your breathing levels out.
Your eyes are closed at the blissful exhaustion sweeping over you, and you don’t open them until you feel Dean lean over you, kiss your neck. You smile and hum, open your eyes and turn to him.
“That,” Dean says, as he pushes your legs open a little wider, moving between them, “was the hottest thing in the world.” You giggle as you look down, Dean’s underwear’s pushed down and he’s fisting his hard cock. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him.
“Now what was that you said about ruining me?” you say against him and Dean grins the widest grin in the world.
Thank you for reading! ♡
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