oversize!men who could easily fuck you hard enough for your headboard to smash through your apartment walls, for your neighbours to complain about the pornographic racket echoing through your house, leaving you dragging your feet and struggling to walk straight for days after just one intense round.
oversize!men who instead choose to make love to you (at least on most days), treating sex between the two of you like the beautiful, treasured experience that it was instead of just a means to satiate his lust.
oversize!men who overpower you with ease; dwarfing you under his sheer size and the warmth of his weight caging you into the sheets while he gently reassures you with promises of " just relax, sweetheart. let me do all the work yeah ?" and "it's okay baby just let me take care of you."
oversize!men who always take ample time to prepare you before feeding you their biiiiig over-oversized cocks; his fingers scissoring you open with thick, knuckle-deep twists of his hands as you claw at his thick biceps and whine into his mouth engaging yours in wet, sluggish kisses that leave you gasping for breath.
oversize!men who thrust into you with slow, deep rolls of their hips; the pinky swollen- thick head of his cock nudging into your sweet spot with each reverent buck of his hips. each loving thrust dragging his heavy cock in and out of your pussy with a lewd schlick! sound, allowing you to feel — in extreme filthy detail— each and every bulging, now stretched tight vein adorning his shaft.
oversize!men who keep praising you and babbling about just how good you feel; his voice getting deeper and more pronounced than usual as he tells you "feelsogood baby. always such a good girl for me." and " always take my cock like a fuckin' champ, honey." — punctuating his words with sweet little kisses and bites against your neck.
oversize!men who always keep a large, heavy hand pressed softly against the bulge his cock creates in your belly; the sight of him reshaping your insides in that soft and pretty yet deeply intimate way makes arousal rush to his head like a freight train. his hand doesn't move even once, staying firmly planted on the soft bulge as he applies juuuust the right of pressure on it to heighten your pleasure.
oversize!men who only allow themselves to come after you do; fucking his cock into you with steady thrusts throughout your orgasm before he lets himself go with a deep groan of "i love you." before he's spilling into your already overstuffed pussy with stuttered little pumps of his hips.
taglist :@kelbrave, @icebearcucumber, @sketchbonked, @lizzebear123.
dm or comment here to be added to the taglist.
masterlist | my AO3 account | more of „supernatural“
Dbf!Dean who holds onto your thigh underneath the dinner table, letting his thumb brush over all your sensitive spots and moving his hand height and higher, all while your dad sits right across from you two.
Dbf!Dean who pushes himself up behind you while you do the dishes after dinner, your dad outside cleaning the grill. You can feel his growing hard on and his firm muscles thru his clothes, making the wetness just pool between your legs.
Dbf!Dean who presses down at the bulge that forms in your tummy whenever he pushes deep enough into you. He just loves seeing you whine about how big he is but how you can definitely handle every inch of him.
Dbf!Dean who likes fucking you while he’s got you in a headlock, making you unable to move from the overstimulation he’s putting you in. While you love being so close to him I to just getting way too much for you body to handle, but you wanted it didn’t you?
Dbf!Dean who tells you he’s so proud of you whenever you show him how good you did in on a test for college. And go of course rewards you with burying his head between your legs for hours on end.
Dbf!Dean who slaps or pinches your ass whenever you walk by him and no ones looking, at the family barbecue or when he and your dad watch football on weekends and you’re so nice to bring them another beer. Right here beside your dad but he’s focused on the game so he won’t notice.
Dbf!Dean who pushes his fingers into your mouth whenever you start whining about literally anything during sex, or not during sex.
Guys I swear I do NOT have any issues with my dad
taglist: @needjoekeery @jason-vs-crowbar r @iloveneilperry @eidbcgduiajxbsu @rubyrubydoo09 @romydolly
SUMMARY: Cursed objects are always pesky little things, unpredictable and dangerous. But coming across a very powerful aphrodisiacal piece of jewelry while you're actively struggling with your unrequired feelings for dean might just be the worst experience so far.
WARNINGS: okay here we go. porn with plot. pining. light angst. fluff. self-esteem issues. reader is in katniss everdeen's level on misunderstanding signals. shameless smut. sex pollen (kinda). multiple orgasms. masturbation. oral sex. fingerfucking. unprotected piv. creampie. shifting dynamics. blood kink (subtle and not so subtle). light choking. lots of spit. im sorry. love confessions. fluffy ending. that might be all.
𓏲ּ𝄢 PLAYLIST 𓏲ּ𝄢
“I swear I’m gonna throw up.”
“Come on, Dean. It’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it.
“I’m choking, sweetheart.” Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. “I can’t breathe. Oh no, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.”
“You literally have nothing to leave. You don’t even have a will! You’ve been legally dead like—five times.”
Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse.
Calling it a warehouse is a dishonor, though, considering all the walls are pure white marble and every corinthian column holding up the insanely tall ceiling is made of rose quartz. There’s no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like you’re walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this.
You’d gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as “a disturbance in the force” around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. You’d driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town.
You’d spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could be—another horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even God—just to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead.
Deciding that walking in without any idea of what you’d be facing was a terrible idea, you decided to do some research first.
But somehow, none of the locals are able to see the warehouse even though the thing looms over the town, glinting bright pink under the sun, blinding and imposing even from the town square.
You tried talking to some hipster girl outside an artsy cybercafé, the small hill where the shop was located giving you a perfect view of the building between all the valentine’s day decorations hanging from the light posts.
When she claimed to have never heard of such a place, you stood right next to her and pointed directly to the marble cathedral, forcing her gaze away from Dean and toward the horizon. Suddenly the owlish heart-eyes she was making disappeared, and fog settled over her irises. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her whole body tensing. Then she blinked, like she was just waking up from a heavy nap, and turned back to Dean as if nothing happened.
“Nah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.” All three of you gaped as she twirled a strand of carrot-dyed hair with her finger, not even acknowledging you or Sam or the fucking magical castle right in front of her eyes. “Maybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.”
You wanted to suffocate her with her woolen beanie, maybe scoop her eyes out with those stupid, huge non-prescription glasses. Instead, you gave her a polite goodbye and stomped your way down back to the town square, dodging inflatable cupids and heart balloons. Sam and Dean followed suit a few seconds after.
You continued asking around, but every time you directed someone’s gaze to the warehouse, they got the same hazy look in their eyes. Some of them continued to talk after like Hipster Girl, some of them scurried away as soon as they snapped out of whatever spell they were under, one poor high school boy ended up throwing up into the pink rose bushes of the local park.
“So, are we thinking witch?”
You were back in the Impala, officially declaring interviews useless around noon. Sam and Dean were in the front seat, munching on some hotdogs while you picked at your pink-dyed cheese fries in the backseat, chewing on heart-cut pieces of bacon as you thought back on Hipster Girl’s eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip.
Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Dean’s grin turned sharp at the sight of it—
You needed to focus.
“Probs. There’s definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I don’t know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.”
Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didn’t meet his eyes. “Deity, then?”
You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldn’t be too long until one of them—most likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talk—cornered you about what’s been going on.
The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.
Valentine’s day is tomorrow, and it’s been driving you insane.
All Dean seems to talk about is the festivity, and how eager he is to dive into the first bar he finds and “comfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokin’ girls.” You threatened him with your knife, “shut up or I’ll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.” He only got louder.
Evading the man you’re in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesn’t work very well. Every tune in the radio is a love song, every movie in the staticky motel TVs is a rom-com, every diner you enter has a new Valentine’s milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while you’re usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound.
Dean doesn’t love you, not like you love him.
It’s the end of the fucking world, you’re hunting down the Devil, and still Dean can’t find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who they’re now stuck with. The man who’d sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, can’t fathom to look at you twice.
Sam brought you back Valentine’s themed gummies when you stopped at a gas station this morning instead of your usual ones. You sneaked off to the restroom and flushed them down the toilet.
You’re being petty. It’s Armageddon time, you’re entitled to some pettiness.
You continued your research after lunch, but the whole town turned out to be incompetent. No records of the building or its construction, no local folklore or legends, no precedents of supernatural activity.
Feeling restless and ready to break some skulls, you proposed to just walk in and see it for yourselves. Dean was all for it, but Sam forced all of you to grab some witch-killing bullets and a few extra guns first. By mid-afternoon, you were walking through the rose-tinted glass door of the place.
You were expecting an evil lair, a palace of some kind, maybe an actual place of worship, but what you found instead was a storage room.
“What the—” Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes he’s still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground.
There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentine’s decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestals—an expensive-looking vase, many marble statues of little angel babies and naked torsos, a half-eaten apple for some reason. Ballet music was playing from somewhere, there were romantic and erotic paintings everywhere but none were actually mounted on the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rose petals and peaches.
Which brings you back to the present, with Dean pretending to die from sweet, stuffy air while you all sort through the mess in search for something that gives away your cupid’s identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap you’d accidentally stepped on, you’d just assumed it’s a cherub.
“Can’t wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.”
The little glass swan you’re holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks.
“Have we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?” You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic.
You move to the back right corner of the warehouse, where a bunch of books are arranged in a neat pyramid. Maybe this cupid keeps a diary, who knows?
“I don’t think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. I’m not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.”
You nod, glancing up at Sam as he finishes with the heart boxes and moves to look through a stack of what looks like discarded love letters, judging by the glittery ink and tearstains on the old paper.
Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, who’s searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. There’s a bunch of beauty products already laying carelessly on top, expensive blushes and mascaras and a million lipsticks. Dean keeps going through the cabinets, pulling out everything he finds. He picks up a perfume bottle and sniffles it, immediately grimacing. So much for feeling dizzy.
He glares down at the bottle like it personally offended him, looking goddamned adorable under the pinkish glow, the golden flecks of his eyes sparkling.
You focus back on the book pyramid and grab one at random, flipping it open with your chest heavy and your throat dry. Dean fits right in with the collection of beauty surrounding you, always the prettiest thing in the room. You, on the other hand, are more like a dark cloud in a perfect blue sky.
The stupid flutter of your heart is immediately halted as it stops completely.
You picked up a porn book. Not a magazine, it has a hardcover and there’s text all down the right page, but the left page is pure porn. Three pictures, like a collage, all featuring the same couple. A girl on her knees, sucking some guy’s dick. The same dick now between her tits, a hint of a smile on her lips. The guy now with his head buried under her skirt, her head thrown back in ecstasy.
Regrettably but almost unconsciously, you flip to the next page. A guy, bright eyes hooded and pretty mouth parted, desperately humping a pillow. The book slips from your hands, landing wide open on the ground. You scramble to pick it up and snap it closed.
Ignoring the brothers’ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one.
One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. There’s one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. There’s one with two girls making out in the mud. There’s one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one.
You’re not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, there’s this thing. It writhes and snarls and wants. It makes you feel sick, it makes you feel high, it makes you want to explode. Sometimes, you let it out—muzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away.
It feels too dangerous, perverse. It’s scary, just how feral it can be.
It cannot be healthy. You’ve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy.
You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words “sexy,” “steamy,” or “adult” gets thrown away right away. Any slightly suggestive title gets turned around so you can inspect the information in the back cover. The books that look innocent enough get inspected further. Some of them are in other languages—some Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you can’t read gets discarded.
Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little “hidden” books, some simply take whatever innocuous topic they name on the front page and turn it unnecessarily sexual. You read through half a cooking book before finding a recipe for cum cupcake frosting (ew), you find a porn version of The Wizard of Oz that makes you giggle, you find a mechanic’s guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.
You’ve started to open the books halfway through, just to skip any buildup bullshit, and quickly regret it. Because there, spread across both pages, is a black Chevy Impala. Not a ‘67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. He’s completely naked, lean muscles glinting in the sun of whatever arid place they shot this in, fucking up into a girl whose face has been cut out of frame.
The guy has dirty blond hair, a little too dark. His eyes are a shade closer to lime than forest, and his skin is paler than the gold that haunts your dreams. Still, there are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and shoulders. His nose is straight, his lips are full, and his jaw is sharp. It’s too fucking close.
His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girl’s thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girl’s pussy. His chest is lined with scratches—deep, angry red that he sure seems to enjoy. It might be just you, but his lips seem to be holding the shape of a plea, his eyes teary and his whole body taut.
His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. There’s bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny.
He looks like Dean.
The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every time—how hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels.
Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.
“Hey,” Dean says your name, way too close. “Look!”
You shut the book closed so hard that the smack echoes through the warehouse, the blow making your bones shake. You turn around to face Dean like he caught you with your hands inside a corpse’s innards. You almost wish he had, you’d feel less dirty.
“Hi.” Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns.
“You okay?” You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Dean’s eyes shift down to it, forest green that’d look beautiful all teary. You squirm. “You sure? What’s that thing?”
“Just a true crime book about ‘crimes of passion.’ It’s a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. I’m fine now.” You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. “You wanted to show me something?”
“Right.” Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. “I found this, and I thought you’d like it.”
He extends his hand toward you, holding up some kind of bronze arm cuff. Three thin copper wires swirl in pretty spirals, braided carefully and embedded with pearls and crystal charms. Two flowers rest at the ends, rose quartz petals and iridescent centers. The whole thing sparkles like it’s covered in fairy dust.
“It’s gorgeous, Dean.” You delicately pick it up from Dean’s hand, thumbing at the smooth pearls and cold metal. There's something engraved behind each petal, you can vaguely make out a few Greek letters. “Where did this angel get all this stuff?”
“Dunno, but I guess they won’t miss one thing.”
You blink up at Dean. He’s glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. “You want me to keep it?”
Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Sam’s attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess.
“We don’t come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.” The words seem sour in his own mouth, like they’re spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.
No, I don’t. Not really.
You’re glad when Sam chimes in.
“I don’t think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. We’re still not sure it’s a cherub, and we don’t wanna upset anything.”
Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You don’t get many beautiful things. You don’t get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. That’s just your life.
“There’s nothing in these books,” you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. “We should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what we’re actually dealing with.”
With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. You’ve only taken three steps when Dean stops you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist firmly.
When you face him, his eyes are downturned and a little pleading. Too close, too fucking close.
“At least try it on.” It takes you a second to figure out what he’s talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.
“De—”
“Come on.” You don’t understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “When will I—any of us get enough money to buy something like that?”
You hold your breath, Dean’s fingertips, so callused from his pistol, gently tracing circles over your pulse. You deserve beautiful.
You nod, barely-there jerk of your head. Just this once. “Fine. But I’m taking it off before we leave.”
Dean seems satisfied enough, letting go of your arm before shoving his hands on his pockets, feigning nonchalance. You can see the mask slipping on, the armor he’s built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You don’t understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, it’s so obvious now.
Dean pretends to be cool, you pretend to be sane. Neither of you call the other out.
Slowly, you slide your right hand inside the cuff, being mindful not to break it or damage it somehow. It feels like something you’d break, too lovely for your reverse Midas touch. The bronze is cold against your skin, and the wires feel too loose all the way until they reach your mid arm. Like magic, the bracelet seems to resize itself, wrapping around you just tight enough not to fall, but not digging into your skin. Your whole body tingles.
“What do you think?” You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam.
He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place.
You end up facing a giant mirror, gentle swoops and little doves engraved in the golden frame. Your eyes latch onto the jewelry on your arm, and it looks indeed beautiful. The flowers are delicate against your flesh, soft and too pretty to be yours. The sentiment appears to have extended to the rest of you.
Because when you find your own face in the reflection, you look… cute. Hard edges eroded by the soft lighting, fairy dust shimmering in your eyes and lips. It’s not a physical change, it’s still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light.
It feels nice. It’s been too damn long since you felt anything other than contempt towards yourself.
Dean is behind you, looming over your shoulder, and he looks even more gorgeous than the arm cuff. He looks like an angel—not the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.
Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Dean’s chest is there to hold you up, like it always is, and both of you exhale loudly. As if the same weight had been lifted off your shoulders.
You can’t help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.
“Guys, I think I found something.”
Sam stands just behind the vanity, throwing you a double look over his shoulder when he finds you pressed together. Your cheeks flush harder than before, and you clear your throat at the exact same time Dean takes a step back. The distance hurts, but everything always seems to ache with Dean. You both walk over to Sam without looking at each other.
There’s another pile of miscellaneous things at Sam’s feet, and for a moment you wonder if he only wanted to separate you from Dean in an attempt to save you from later heartache. But then you take a look closer.
The first thing you see is a deck of tarot cards. Next to it is a baby blue crystal ball, a few boxes of incense, a bunch more candles. But then you see the sword, shadows swimming along the blade like lost souls. And the Book of Shadows, and the glowing bow, and the suitcase full of little vials.
And the hexbags.
“Shit, you think it’s actually a witch?”
“Not quite.” A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. “But you’re getting warmer.”
All three of you turn around at the exact same time, Sam and Dean with their guns in hand. You tug your knife out from your belt, your fingers brushing your lower back. Your skin feels more sensitive than usual, you ignore it in favor of surveying your new companion.
Your white-knuckled grip goes slack around the handle of your blade.
Sitting on top of a nearby pedestal, smooth as the statues around him and dazzling as everything else in the room, there’s a kid.
He looks around eighteen or nineteen, his eyes big and angelic. His lips are pouty, bright pink and glossy. His whole body is glossy, that after-sex glow that makes people look holy. His hair is light blond and messy around his face, but in a deliberately sensual way, and he’s wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones.
He’s blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.
“Who the fuck are you?” Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless.
The boy laughs, low and velvety, and it really is a sight to behold. Perfect teeth, pink tongue peaking out, smooth bare thighs dangling from the black plinth. He’s not the kind of man you’re usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you can’t help but ogle a bit.
It’s only fair, you’re almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.
“Put that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.” The kid lands on the bronze floor gracefully, giving Dean an up-and-down look that drags you out of your enchantment slightly. He bites his lower lip, picking up a little dove figurine from a nearby table, spinning it between his fingers.
You’re always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time there’s not an ounce of doubt.
Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises.
Of course, someone like that could not be human.
His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you.
“Don’t get any fucking closer.” Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. It’s always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. “What the hell are you?”
You turn to Sam, and you find him already staring at you. Silently, the two of you try to put it together while Dean distracts your Adonis.
Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Sam’s voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face.
That’s certain, I don’t think angels can look like—that. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either.
You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist.
“No wonder you kids are famous, look at you!” At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Dean’s gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesn’t seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. “Those pretty faces, those eyes!” He cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. “I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t given you the Ganymede treatment.”
Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.
“Holy fuck.” You gasp, dragging the god’s glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentine’s day, erotic overload. “Lord Eros.”
The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit.
Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who you’re up against. This isn’t good. This can’t be good.
“I see you’re the smart one! Such beauty as well.” Eros purrs, licking his lips slowly. It makes you squirm, both uncomfortably and for a different reason that makes you want to vomit. You must be worked up from the books. Your whole body feels swollen and vulnerable. “If anyone was to find my little vault, I’m glad it’s you.”
“All of this is yours?” Sam asks, lowering his gun.
“I’m bad at throwing things away.” The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. “What can I say, I’m sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.”
He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur.
“Eros. Which one is that again?” Dean seems to have shaken off the god’s enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. He’s given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.
It’s not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire.
“Cupid, for the Romans.” Eros groans loudly at Sam’s words.
“Romans, they were so fucking boring.” The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. “Had such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.” He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times.
You hope he’s not getting a hard-on.
“Okay, so you’re like—a supercharged cherub?” You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.
“Don’t you ever compare me to those guys!” Eros’ voice is still saccharine and melodical, but now he sounds all whiney as he squeezes the little dove in his hand until his whole hand is white. Dean’s shoulders relax. Oh no. “They’re disgusting little things who can’t tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!”
You can see Dean choosing his retort carefully, you try to give him another warning. Your breath stutters at the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, and you end up choking on the words. The arm cuff feels warm against your skin. Every inch of your being feels hot.
“Careful there, princess, you’re gonna break a nail.”
Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time.
“I would be really careful, Dean Winchester.” His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. “I may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.”
“Dean,” you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you?
“Am I supposed to be afraid?” He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. “What, you’re gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?”
“Dean.” This time it’s Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. “He’s not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.”
Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until he’s just a step away from the three of you. You can’t handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close.
“Yeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.” The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. “But it’s not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but he’s simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy… that’s who you should be afraid of.”
His eyes scan you one by one, staying on you for just a moment too long before moving to Dean. Then, he grins, leaning so close that his little button nose brushes Dean’s crooked one.
“But you already are, aren’t you?”
You’re not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces.
“We're not here to antagonize you.” Sam intervenes. You’re still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. “We just wanted to make sure everything was in order.”
“And it’s not.” Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. “You have all of those people in town under a spell. We can’t have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.”
Dean and his fucking bravado. It’ll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while you’re too damn defective to act.
You try to talk to Eros, take back Dean’s words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Eros’ eyes flare.
“You’re more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But you’re also more… complex.” He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. “Nice bling you have there.”
Shit.
Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck can’t get any worse.
Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesn’t budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.
“What did you do?” Dean snarls.
When the sharp metal starts to dig on your skin deep enough to break it, you give up. The bronze wires go back to resting gently around your arm as soon as you let go, reverting to warm and delicate.
“I didn’t do anything.” Eros’ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. “You did. It’s not nice to take what’s not yours, you know?”
Dean and you stare at each other, terrified. Hot flashes, ache between your thighs, wet.
You double over, hands holding your lower stomach. Every cell in your body howls, your mouth waters, your legs tremble, and you can’t hear anything. For a moment, you’re sure you’re dying.
“—me! I took it! Kill me!”
Dean’s voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Eros’ cackle is piercing. It brings you back.
“I’m not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste that’d be.” The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. “I’m the god of desire, baby. I’m here to make people feel good.”
“Wait, wait,” you cry, trying to straighten up. You only manage to take a step toward Eros before you fall to the floor, knees smashing against bronze. “Fuck!”
You remember when you were younger, around seven or eight, and you used to throw yourself to the floor. Letting your knees give up, at any given moment, giggling all the way through. The thud of bone against tile, the slight ache, the bruising. You did it, over and over again, until your skin turned all shades of purple. And then you’d run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed.
Disgusting, from the very start.
“Fuck!” You repeat, but this time it’s in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. “Stop, stop, please! It feels—”
Your words are so breathy that you’re not sure anyone can understand you. Your eyes are glassy as you crawl back from the amused god, the world turning technicolor as the pressure builds. Your back hits something, a wall or pedestal or table, and you pull your knees up to your chest.
“I’m gonna—ah.” You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whatever’s behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. “It hurts, please. Please, stop.”
“You think it hurts now?” Eros kneels by your side, and you’re able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like it’s melting back into the ocean. Not a release, but a promise. Your body ends up achy with the frustration of dropping so suddenly, boneless and exhausted. “The flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until you’re in your fifth orgasm.”
“You son of a bitch!” Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy feet. “Take that shit off of her, or I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”
Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so close—Dean’s muddy jacket against the pristine white of Eros’ shirt—makes you buzz all over.
“That’ll just hurt you more than me, handsome.” The god winks, salacious. “Oh, in another life, in another life.”
It’s a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure.
The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit you’ve never found hot before.
“How about I make you boys a deal?” Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. You’ll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. “You help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?”
“Survive this? So it is gonna kill her.” You don’t think you’ve heard Sam this furious before.
Did the cuff affect your perception of reality? Or does the fairy dust glow affect others? Because the Winchesters would never be this concerned about you otherwise. Why are they so angry?
They probably don’t want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, you’re dead weight on their already sinking ship.
“No, but it’s gonna get… nasty.” Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.
A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, “How do we help?”
Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull.
“You’ll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.” The god is still glued to Dean’s chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. “You’re either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or you’re gonna despise her. Either way, I’m in for a fabulous show.”
With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches.
Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everything’s sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so it’s easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh.
“...we gonna do?”
“...ake her back…somewhere safe, so she…”
“...don’t know w…”
“...research in the car. Come on.”
Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories.
Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violence—Eros’ whole deal.
“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Sam’s voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. “We need to get to the car, and you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. Okay?”
You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean won’t carry you.
It makes sense, you wouldn’t want to touch something as gross as you either.
Before your mind can slip again, arms slide under your knees and back. A second later, you’re airborne.
You gasp, holding onto Sam’s shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and you’re able to take in the brothers’ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. It’s a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get.
Dean’s shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but you’ve learned to recognize when he’s upset like a sixth sense. You must make a noise of some kind, because Sam is shushing you under his breath and murmuring gentle reassurances just for you.
“We’re gonna find out how to get the cuff off. You’re fine, we won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with us.”
“I know.” Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybe—just maybe—you were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. “I trust you.”
He gives you one of those beams that bring out his dimples, fringe falling onto his eyes as a gust of fresh air hits your face. The smell of soil and grass is comforting, no more roses or cream. You’re safe.
For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.
Shut the fuck up.
Of course, peace doesn’t last long. The path down the field to the road out of town is long, cobblestone surrounded by yellow grass, and it all starts again soon enough.
The bronze heats up, your skin grows sensitive, a weight on your chest grows. Your tongue feels too slick against your teeth, your thighs are pressed too close together, the necklace around your throat is pushing deliciously against your windpipe. The ocean roars, preparing.
“Sam.”
Your voice is low and whiny. You’ve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Sam’s arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesn’t drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you can’t do this right now.
Sam has never been more than a possible friend, a little brother that you love wholeheartedly. But your body is on fire and the pain feels good and he smells too much like Dean—
“Sammy,” you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. “Sammy, I need—I need you to stop touching me. Right now.”
“What?” Sam sounds confused, but you can’t make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Sam’s hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. It’s building. Up, up, up.
“Stop touching her.” Dean’s somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. “Sam, fucking let her go!”
“But—”
Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesn’t help. “Stop touching her or I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
Just like that, you’re plummeting.
The world spins, air roars all around you, there’s more screaming. Then, pain.
Hard concrete under your hands and knees, stinging on your skin, warm crimson dripping. It should be awful, it should stop the heat between your thighs and uncoil your gut, but it only makes it worse.
Someone yells your name and you make a little agonizing noise, curling onto yourself on the dirty ground, arms wrapping around your middle like you can contain the blazing bomb ticking inside of you. The cuff rasps against the pavement, you want to cut off your arm.
“You told me to let her go!”
“I didn’t mean drop her, you fucking brute!”
The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of blood—you gasp desperately.
You’re sick. You’re so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and you’re left begging it to please, don’t do it. You’re a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.
You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well.
Divinely, intrinsically sick.
Breath by breath, second by second, you claw your way back from the edge. The heat gets more bearable, the fuzz goes back under your skin, the fog dissipates. The space between your legs is still throbbing, dripping and scorching, but now you can shift your knees without feeling like you’re gonna fly off your body.
Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that you’re still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air.
The wave has passed.
“I don’t think—” Your voice is hoarse, you hope you weren’t being too loud. “I don’t think you should touch me anymore.”
You feel like a kid again, tiny and weak on the floor while the two men stare down at you. You keep your eyes on your bloody hands, ashamed, just like you had when your mother had caught you looking at a Heath Ledger magazine cutout for too long. You can feel the judgement in her eyes, her ugly words of immorality, the shame. Shame, shame, shame.
“Son of a—” Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. “Come on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Baby’s right there, you can do it.”
Your eyes flicker up to find the Impala, parked just a few feet to your right. You almost, almost made it. It only makes you feel worse.
Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breasts—your stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuck—you rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little.
Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. It’s humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car.
“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Dean murmurs before closing your door, once you’re already laying down across the backseat. “You’re gonna be okay.”
You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
The car ride is hellish.
You’d decided to rent a small house instead of a hotel, expecting to work this case for a couple of days. It has two rooms and a small kitchen, secluded enough that no one would catch you working spells or burning bones.
It’s a blessing. You can’t imagine having to deal with this in a motel room. At least here you can scream your head off if you want to and no one will call the police.
But it’s also a curse, because it meant you were trapped in the Impala for a while, with the roaring of the engine making your bones vibrate and everything smelling like earth and gunpowder and DeanDeanDean.
“I can’t find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.” Sam’d said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?”
You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement.
You hadn’t talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all you’d been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, who’s slowly waking up again.
Still, you felt Sam’s gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.
How’re you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.
How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.
I don’t know who’s gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.
The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?
“I fucking hate when you two do that.” Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. “Fucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.”
Dean. Sam rolled his eyes before retorting something to his brother out loud, his eyes leaving yours.
Dean.
Your stomach flipped. You closed your eyes and didn’t open them again until you reached the house.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once you’re already out of the car. In the old colonial house everything smells like cockroaches and old lady, and Dean is far away from sight somewhere in the kitchen. It at least makes it easier to waddle into your room without collapsing.
Eros was right, it slowly starts getting worse. Your skin feels completely raw, like someone plucked all your feathers and left you to roast over a bonfire. You don’t understand how it is supposed to feel good. It’s just torture.
Your legs tremble as you crawl into bed, breath choppy and muscles on fire. Your clothes feel too coarse against your tender flesh, scratchy and heavy and wrong, so you rip them off with frenzied hands.
It’s only once you slide your panties down your legs that you notice how ruined they are. The thin fabric completely soaked through, translucent and sticky with it, some even trickling down your thighs.
The cold air of the room against your naked pussy feels like both a punishment and a relief. You break down in goosebumps, legs giving up as you fall face first on the mattress, completely bare except for Eros’ cuff and overpowered by the terrible ache seizing your body.
Suddenly, musk, coffee and motor oil hit your nose. With a strangled moan, you tilt back your head and find one of Dean’s shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh.
He’d been late this morning, scrambling all over the house while you and Sam waited outside. This is his sleeping shirt, some old band merch that he barely washes. He probably just threw it over his shoulder when he came to check the salt lines in your window.
When you’re questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, you’ll claim that you tried. You tried really, really hard to ignore the shirt. But the smell of Dean is so strong, the fabric so smooth unlike your clothes—and it might just be your overheated body, but it still feels warm and worn against your cheek.
The beast takes over once more, and you bury your face against the frayed neckline.
Finally, you have your first orgasm.
There’s barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second you’re drowning in Dean’s shirt, the next one you’re drowning in pleasure. And oh, there it is. Pleasure at last.
All the pain transforms, shifts, blooms. Your hips jerk against the blankets, the fabric bunching up between your thighs and brushing over the puffy lips of your cunt, making you hiss at the overwhelming friction. Your hands fist the shirt, pulling it closer to your face, until you can taste it on your tongue and down your throat.
The wave becomes a tsunami, washing all over you and dragging away any resemblance of suffering. It’s all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you can’t help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium.
This time the fall isn’t as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and you’re left drained but blissed. The shirt is soaked with your spit and the blankets soaked with your arousal. The room smells like sweat and sex and madness. The beast is roaming free, your mind is empty of any shame, you’ve never felt more alive.
Why have you been denying this to yourself for so long?
Someone calls your name from outside the door. You almost fly off the bed. “Can we come in?”
“No!” You yell before clearing your throat. “Wait—wait a second.”
“...We can come back later.”
“No, No.”
You quickly bundle Dean’s shirt and the blankets up in a little ball, throwing them inside the closet before pulling on clean underwear and a big sweater, long enough to hit mid thigh. You chuck one of the extra comforters Dean had brought you last night “just in case you get cold,” onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.
“Come in, it’s okay.”
You brush your sweaty hair off your forehead as the door opens, finding some drool on your chin. You wipe it off before either Sam or Dean can see, still a little too high on the afterglow to care all that much.
The Winchesters stand very still by the door, an old book in Sam’s hands and some water bottles in Dean’s, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. They’re not too far off.
“Hey, so—” Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. “Oh. Oh, wow. Uhm—”
You frown, lucidity returning, worried that you’d missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. “What?”
Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after you’d forced them to look at Eros’ warehouse. He blinks a few times before his eyes return to his book, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, like a gutted stag.
The bliss starts to turn into tar.
“Nothing, just—wow.” Sam’s voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he can’t handle a white lie to save his life.
“What?” You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously.
“Are you feeling better?” Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you can’t judge him.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s still working.” You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. “But the wave’s passed.”
“Another one?” You nod at Sam’s question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. “That’s around five minutes earlier than the last one.”
“Great.” You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. “So Eros wasn’t bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.”
“It was more intense?” Sam questions as if he’s conducting an experiment, you feel like you’re under his microscope. “How come?”
You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothers’ eyes on you. “I’m–I mean–I don’t–ugh.” You hide your face against your knees, your voice muffled. You wish you could just perish right now, but you also know that if you want Sam to find a cure, you need to tell him as much as you can. “It…toppled over. Like, all the way.”
“Huh?” One second, two more, and then: “Oh.”
Dean curses under his breath, sharp and angry. You lift your head just in time to watch him storm out of the room, your heart shattering all over the carpet as he slams the door behind him.
Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesn’t make it better. You hate his pity, you hate that everyone knows how pathetically in love you are with Dean, you hate that they all feel sorry for you. You hate that Dean will never feel the same.
Sam whispers your name, you shake your head.
“Just do whatever you need to do,” you murmur, sinking further into the bed. “Before I get sick again.”
Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s sick.
Now you remember why you don’t let yourself have this, not in this way. Because it’s degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldn’t desire like this, for this. Blood shouldn’t taste good and sweat shouldn’t smell good and Dean shouldn’t feel good.
He doesn’t deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when it’s so clear it repulses him.
You allow Sam to take a closer look at the bracelet, answering all his questions with an emotionless tone and letting your mind wander far away, where neither pleasure nor pain exist and you’re free of this carnal torment.
By the time Sam shuffles out the door, you’re half asleep already. He doesn’t dare to touch you again, but you can feel him giving you one last comforting look before locking you up in your room, like the monster you were always destined to be.
Falling onto the waiting arms of Morpheus is easy when every bit of you is spent and fuzzy. The breeze comes through the window, soothing whispers of leaves and sunlight. But in the distance, you can faintly hear Eros’ cackles, haunting you.
༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚
You haven’t seen Dean in a day.
The rest of yesterday was spent drifting in and out of sleep, your body so unaccustomed to this amount of exertion that it could barely handle being awake for more than a few hours.
Hours that were spent with you rolling around bed, riding wave after wave. At first you only dared to hump your pillows, ignoring the call of Dean’s shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter.
It was enough, for a while. It felt safe, instinctual, less depraved.
But then, when your thighs were sore and trembling, threatening to give up under you, you started to use your fingers. Rubbing small circles over your clit, sliding lower until your folds parted, dipping into the warmth of your entrance. You’d scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for it—you forgot how good it could be.
You had to bite down on the sheets as your digits rammed inside of you, curving up to press against that gummy spot just as your thumb found your clit. Your other hand fondled with your breasts, pulling on the perks of your nipples and making you throw your head back.
Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.
Not too soon after that, the fantasies started.
Dean, always Dean. Over you and under you and next to you. Between your legs or draped over your back or shoving you to the floor. Burying his face in your pussy or pushing your head down on his cock. Calling you pretty as he kissed all over you, calling you dirty as his hand wrapped around your neck, calling you both as he came so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your throat.
You’ve wondered if you started hallucinating at some point, because his voice in your ear was so clear and real. His name was always on your tongue, whispered or stifled or bloody, canines biting down on your arm deep enough to draw blood just to keep it down.
Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldn’t stand not jumping in the shower, sticky with sweat and spit and arousal. But your skin was too raw for the decent water pressure of the house, the tiles were too cold, the water too hot, and you couldn’t stand looking at yourself in the mirror.
But then you’d discovered the handheld shower head.
It’d been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruised—every orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind.
But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast.
After a two hour “shower,” you were able to sleep through the night.
Sam had checked on you periodically, always knocking loudly on the door before coming in, leaving water and food on your bedside table before updating you on his research. Sadly, he hasn’t found much.
He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You don’t ask, he doesn’t explain. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding mirrors—you don’t want to see what your disease has done to your body.
You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.
You’d ask Dean, but Dean hadn’t shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devil’s traps, not to make sure you’re not dead.
You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, you’d lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.
Sleep wasn’t perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing.
After your first orgasm of the morning, you were able to take an actual shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed up in something other than oversized cotton shirts, ready to be reintroduced into society.
You’d learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. You’d learned that the period between waves only gets shorter after a set of three or four, and that you have about five minutes after it starts before it gets unbearable. You learned that ignoring it only makes it more painful and more abrasive, and that trying to stop it is useless.
You also learned that you weren’t made to stay in one place only.
You’re already going stir-crazy, after one day of being locked up. If the curse is going to kill you, you want to see the sunlight at least one last time.
“I’m going out.” You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. “I’ll be back in exactly—” You glance down at your watch, where you’re timing your next wave. “Twenty-five minutes.”
“You’re what?”
You almost spit out the piece of bread you’d jammed into your mouth, not expecting Dean to still be here. His voice brings back memories of phantom praises and degradation and naughty orders. You have to physically shake them off before the tide rises early.
You turn around, finding Sam sitting on the dinner table, eyebags under his eyes and a million books surrounding him. Next to him, Dean is sipping on a cup of coffee, looking tired and upset, still in his pajamas and looking like he hasn’t left the house at all.
They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you don’t let it deter your initiative.
“There’s a corner store less than a mile down the road,” you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. “I’m just gonna go buy some ice cream and I’ll be back.”
“The fuck you are!”
That makes you pause, just a few feet away from the door. Dean gets mad at you, sometimes. He gets irritated or grumpy or annoyed, but he never talks like that to you. With that much fury, with that much scorn.
“Excuse me?”
Dean is by your side in a second, arms crossed, wearing a scowl so deep that his face might just be stuck that way forever. “Go back to your room.”
You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you.
“Is that an order?” Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. You’re seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when you’re like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to put it back together. How dare he, fusing your souls together in an everlasting way, just to take them both with him.
How fucking dare he.
“I’m the guy who has to deal with your mess while you’re in there—whatever.” If you were less furious, you’d notice the flush creeping down his neck. “So go back to your room, and let us work.”
“You have to deal with my mess?!” you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. “You were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!”
Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you don’t care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.
“Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out getting passed around like a blunt?”
It’s depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.
“That’s got nothing to do with this.”
“It does if you’re getting in my way!” Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. “So why don’t you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.”
“Because I’m stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.”
“Hellenistic.” Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.
“No one’s asking you to!” You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because you’re just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. “Go! You’re free, Winchester. Leave! I’m not getting in the way of your fun, so don’t get in the way of mine.”
The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second you’re almost sure that the brothers left. But then, “Is that what this is about?”
You’ve never heard Dean like this, voice bitter and broken. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, and he looks like you just shot his puppy. At your attention, his mask hardens like concrete.
But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.
“You want to go find someone? Have some fun?”
Oh.
You’ve thought about it—someone else’s hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until you’re all placid sweet water. You could find some poor bastard too desperate or too foolish to notice the rabid foam in the corner of your lips, someone willing to take mercy on you, someone who can give you what you need.
Nonono. That’s all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong.
You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.
“Maybe,” you answer instead, because you’re half delirious from Eros’ magic and the cuff is warming up again. Dean grimaces, gaze dropping to the floor, and the bomb that explodes inside of you is pure wrath. “What, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you can’t handle the idea of someone fucking me?”
Now Dean looks like he’s about to hurl.
“Guys—”
“That’s not—ugh, you can be so…” Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like he’s physically trying to swallow back his words.
“No, no. Say it.” You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still won’t look at you, so you shove him back, craving a fight almost as much as you crave his love. He stumbles, just a few inches, because he just has to be built like a freaking wall of bricks. “Say it, Dean.”
To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw shit around, doesn’t even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve.
“You’re going back to your room, and we’re gonna keep researching. That’s the end of it.”
Dean’s tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs.
It doesn’t help how infuriated you are.
“You’re not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!” You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles don’t budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut.
“I’m not letting you go outside right now,” he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Not when—when you look like that.”
A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal.
It’s not a surprise that Dean isn’t attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.
“Fuck you, Dean.” It comes out in a half-choked sob. You attempt to push him again but your touch is weak, a barely-there brush of your hand before you take a few clumsy steps back, tears burning on your eyes and needles prickling your skin. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you, I—”
You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. It’s too late for the store, and there’s nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and it’ll last too long and it’s too cold outside to take a walk—
Dean calls your name, a desperate plea you’ve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.
But you’re burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Dean’s chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and he’s so warm and firm behind you and you can’t—
White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’re made of pure lighting. It’s better than Dean’s shirt, It’s better than the showerhead.
It’s Dean, finally.
You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. There’s the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But it’s all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Dean’s touch brought you.
It feels like it lasts hours, maybe days. An infinite spiral of gut-wrenching climax, a rollercoaster speeding up until you touch the sky, clouds on your fingertips and dew between your legs.
When you come back to yourself, you’re once again on the ground. Your knees are sore, your throat is dry, your underwear is soaked. Spasms still travel through your body as you try to catch your breath, gasping violently and pawing at the legs in front of you for support.
Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere.
“Dean.” This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you can’t help but cling to his legs. Begging, praying for forgiveness. Like a sinner bleeding on an altar, like a sacrifice watching the executioner sharpen his knife. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m—”
Tears, streaming down your face like a broken dam. Your words melt into a bundle of sobs and wails, your whole body shaking with the force of them. If Dean didn’t hate you before, he for sure hates you now.
Now that you’ve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.
“Sweetheart…” Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you.
You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. “No, No. Don’t touch me! I’m sick! I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sick and I’m sorry.”
With a click of his tongue, Dean fists your ankle, dragging you across the floor and right into his body with just a yank of his arm. A loud moan escapes your lips.
His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around.
“Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.”
You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But you’ve been locked inside your room for a whole day, dealing with the rabid beast inside you all by yourself, yearning for the tiniest bit of comfort.
Comfort like Dean’s bare arms against yours, like his voice—his real voice—murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. It’s impossible not to take.
Because you’re selfish and ugly and starved.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat. I’m sorry for clinging to you like this. I’m sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. I’m sorry for wanting you. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? “It’s the cuff, I know. I—I’m sorry.”
You can’t help but tug him closer, fingers gripping his shirt and digging onto his ribs, your nose buried on his sternum. Your legs are intertwined, his hands are rubbing up and down your back, he’s everywhere.
“Why? I’m the one who’s fucked up.” You’re not even sure Dean can hear you, your voice so tiny and broken. A chair scraps against the floor somewhere behind you, you hide your face further into Dean’s chest. “Hell, you didn’t consent to that at all, I’m so sorry.”
A moment of silence. Sam, who you’d forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. “I’ll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.”
Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.
You’ll be okay?
Probably not.
Sam chuckles, shaking his head.
I’d beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.
With that, he leaves. You’re left staring at the door, wondering how this all would’ve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you should’ve never been here.
“You didn’t either.” You turn back to Dean, confused. He watches your face for a second before dropping his gaze to your hands on his shirt, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t consent to this, either.”
“What?”
“Sweetheart, I—goddamn it.” He huffs, one of his hands leaving your body to rub over his face, rough and angry. Without thinking, you pull it away from where his pretty skin was already turning red under the punishing touch. You hold his palm in yours, cradling it against your chest. “You’re cursed and in pain, and I’m just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”
You blink a few times, tears still wet on your cheeks and slick still sticky on your thighs, wondering if the last orgasm left you with severe brain damage. Because what the fuck is he talking about?
“Dean…” you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. “All I’ve done is drag you and Sam into my—problem, over and over again. I’m the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?”
So many things flash on Dean’s face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.
“You really have no idea what you do to me.” For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Dean’s words keeping you grounded. “I’ve got a handle on it most days, but when you’re right here, moaning so sweetly and writhing so prettily… shit, baby, even the strongest man would falter. And you have the audacity to look like that.”
It hits completely different now.
“What are you saying, Dean?” You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white.
He utters your name, low and husky—an imprecation, a psalm.
“You know damn well.”
“No,” you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises that’ve haunted you for so long. “I have no idea.”
“I want you, sweetheart.” He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. “I’ve been wanting you for years. I’m the one who’s truly sick.”
A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing of your body, you’d pinch yourself to make sure it’s not just another vivid dream.
“But you never look at me?”
“What?”
“You never look at me, Dean.” Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Dean’s hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. “I’m always there, but you just see right through me.”
“Oh, baby.” Everything goes fuzzier every time he says it. Something in your face must show it, because Dean drops his hand and tries to pull back. You whimper, tugging harder on his shirt, practically crawling onto his lap. He groans. “You think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldn’t risk—I couldn’t risk losing you. Not you.” He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. “Still, you are all I can see.”
With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Dean’s lips.
But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony.
“Dean.” You mutter, because that’s all that's in your mind. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”
“Stop,” he pleads, but his hands latch onto your waist. You moan again, the prickling on your skin now a lot gentler, a lot less disgusting. Almost beautiful. “I can’t. It’s the cuff, baby. You don’t really want this.”
“I do. I want you, more than anything else.”
“Stop it. Now.”
You can’t.
“I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you, Dean.”
Your name, again, imploring.
“It’s not the stupid arm cuff, it’s not Eros’ magic, it’s not anything else. It’s just me. Me, wanting you so bad I can’t breathe when you’re not with me.” After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. “I’ve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when I’m patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.”
Dean tries to look away again, but you won’t let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did.
“Look at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.”
You’re not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Dean’s mouth is on you.
It’s violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Dean’s tongue is so far down your throat it makes you gag a little. He tries to apologize, but you shut him up by grinding down against his crotch, a hard bulge already there to welcome you under thin fabric.
You’re basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Dean’s fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder.
“Fuck. Fuck, baby. I’m goin’ insane.” He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. “You have no idea—lookin’ so gorgeous, like fuckin’ sex reincarnated. I’ve been losin’ my mind.”
He sounds deranged, it’s only gasoline to the wildfire inside of you. You snarl against his collarbone, scratching at his shirt like it personally offended you, lips collapsing with the high neckline. Dean chuckles, endeared.
“Calm down, baby girl.” He uses the hand on your hair to guide you away from where your teeth were abusing the space between his neck and shoulder. You pout at the loss, Dean licks it away. “You’re so desperate, darling.”
He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until he’s lying down on the tiles, climbing over him until the outline of his cock is pressed right against your ass, gnawing on the hills of his pecs and down the ridges of his ribs.
“You have no idea, Winchester.” You make your way down his body, running your tongue through the faint trail of hair under his navel and chewing on his hip bone. Dean’s hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. “I’ve been locked in that room for ages. I’m more than desperate.”
“It was less than a day.” Dean’s laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement.
His cock springs up proudly against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precum already. He hisses as the cold air hits him, and your mouth waters so bad you have to swallow down a mouthful of it.
“How are you pretty all over?” You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. He’s big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. “Fucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.”
You pounce on him, taking him all the way down your throat in one go. Your gag reflex is completely gone, it has to be the arm cuff. The bronze burns against your skin, almost satisfied, and you hope Eros isn’t watching from somewhere.
But deep down, you don’t really care. He can enjoy the show.
All that matters is the veins of Dean’s dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud you’re glad there aren’t any neighbors nearby, as you start bopping your head. Your throat contracts around his length, and the strain of his fingers on your locks have you humping his leg, dying for a little friction.
“Shit, darlin’, warn a guy.” He pants, starting to thrust up into your mouth. You pin his hips down to the floor, letting the edge of your teeth brush right under the engorged head. Dean cries out the sweetest noise you’ve ever heard. “Yeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckin’ mouth, so warm and wet for me. You’re heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.”
You feel anything but angelical right now, sweat beading on your forehead as you pull back until just the tip is on your tongue, using your hand to stroke the rest of his shaft. Your tongue dips into his slit, savoring the bitter and musky taste of precum, the beast howling for more.
“Shit, shit. Wait.” Dean tries to drag you up by the hair, but you claw at his hips and stay right where you belong, suckling on his cock while your other hand fondles his balls. “Stop, I’m gonna—Gonna cum, sweetheart. You need—”
You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at him—green irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. It’s better than the guy in Eros’ book, better than your wettest dreams. He’s perfect.
“I want you to cum.” You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. “I want to taste it, De.”
Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.
“I’m not cursed like you, you little vixen. I can’t—” He shudders as you start to leave little kitten licks all over him, lowering your head until you can suck one of his balls into your mouth. “Motherfu—I can’t come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.”
A long, dragged moan vibrates in your chest at that, your hips rutting harder against his leg. You return to the head of his cock, leaving a saccharine open-mouthed kiss there.
“It’s okay, I can wait.” You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Dean’s fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. “Besides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.”
“When did you—Ah!” The back of your throat must be bruised, aching as Dean bumps into it again, tender flesh holding the memory of his cock. The thought brings you closer to orgasm than you’d like to admit. “When did you get so filthy?”
Always. You want to say. I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this perverse.
Instead, you squeeze his balls in one hand and hollow your cheeks, tongue twirling around him before pushing against the pulsing vein on the underside. He growls hoarsely before going really still, spilling all over your mouth, head falling back on the floor with a thundering bang.
The overly-familiar feeling of climax reaches you, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, no longer tearing you apart from the inside out. Your hips stutter against Dean’s thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release.
He’s coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. He’s all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.
You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Dean’s softening cock before climbing back on top of him.
He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glistening—absolutely drained. His hand slips from your hair, falling onto your thigh clumsily, neck and chest blooming with teeth marks and hickeys. You puff up with pride.
“Come on.” You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isn’t gone, but it’s not wrecking you either. You’re hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but you’re not hurting. Not anymore. You’re just eager. “Let’s get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.”
Dean groans, curling into himself a little. “You’re a psycho, I should’ve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.”
“You can thank Eros for that.” Anguish flashes on Dean’s face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until he’s a puddle under you. “Stop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."
“Jesus Christ.” His hands return to your body, kneading the fat of your ass and your upper thighs, making you roll your hips faster. Still, when his eyelashes flutter open, something troubled dances in his eyes. “You’re batshit crazy. I adore you.”
That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. It’s just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside.
“Come on, big boy.” You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. “Unless you don’t wanna fuck me?”
With an exasperated huff, Dean collects you in his arms and jumps to his feet. You yelp, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clutching his shoulders.
“Dean! What are you—”
“You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.”
It’s not special, you have to remind yourself. You’re not special.
You end up in your room, your sheets crumpled and still holding the shape of you, the open window barely helping the smell of sweat and sex.
“You really made a mess in here, huh?” Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. “Left all alone, so fucking needy.”
“Yes,” you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. “It was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.”
“But you tried, hm?” He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. “Tried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?”
You nod, a little fevered under Dean’s gaze. His hands start to roam all over, brushing your legs and squeezing your waist and cupping your tits over your bra. You arch against the touch, impatient. “Off. Dean, take it off.”
“Not until you tell me what you did,” he whispers in your ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Your breath hitches, wondering if you could cum from his voice alone. Probably. Stupid Cupid magic. “Tell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.”
He’s being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead.
All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow you’ll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, you’re allowed to indulge.
“I—I touched myself,” you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. “I rode my pillow and fucked myself with my fingers, made myself cum over and over again until my legs stopped working. I played with my tits, like this.” You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. “And I imagined it was—”
You cut yourself off, scared that such a confession will ruin everything, but Dean keeps making his way down your body. Kissing the valley of your breasts, finally taking off your bra, sucking each nipple into his mouth until they’re stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.
“What did you think about, baby girl? Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”
“You. I thought of you.” His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Dean’s head is between your legs. He licks a long strip up your slit over the translucent cotton of your panties, a reward. You keen, thighs hooking over his shoulders. “Ngh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongue—” He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. You’re gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. “Of your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.”
“You’re so wet.” He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.
“It-it’s the cuff. I’m sorry—”
“You’re fuckin’ soaked, darling.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. “Drippin’ for me, such a good girl.” And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. “Shit. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”
That’s enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Dean’s head—who doesn’t complain in the slightliest—and you’re cumming again.
“Son of a bitch.” You’d laugh at Dean’s astonishment if you weren’t so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. “Another one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?”
“I’m not—” Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. “I’m not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But I–I kinda passed out, so.”
“Mhm.” Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. “Well, let’s find out.”
“Huh?” You’re a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isn’t for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. “More?”
“Oh, darling.” His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. “I’m not anywhere near done with you.”
With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesn’t stop for a while.
He makes you come on his tongue two more times before he lets you rest, pressing kisses all down your legs and over your bruised knees, leaving matching ones on your hips and up your sternum. He peppers little pecks across your shoulders, dips down until he can suck on your tits again, his fingers circling your entrance before entering you.
Another orgasm finds you with three of his digits massaging your insides and his mouth suckling on your breasts. It feels oddly romantic. Dean’s a little ditzy after, licking his fingers and babbling about how good you taste, slumping against you like a giant teddy bear, impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waist bearing down on you.
His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes.
“Dean.” He only mumbles against your skin, cock snugly pressed between your asscheeks, your legs encircling his waist. You try to tug him back by the hair, make him face you, but he refuses. He sounds sulky, almost spoiled. Pussydrunk. “Baby, c’mon. Let me see you.”
When you finally get a glimpse of his face, it leaves you breathless. Puffy lips, drool on his chin, blush making his freckles pop up. His eyes are glassy, his pupils so huge that almost no green is visible, his hair spiky and all over his forehead.
You brush it back with a gentle hand, revering. Your pretty boy, who isn’t yours at all.
“Look at you.” Deciding that you’re going to hell anyway, so might as well, you lick a long strip up his face. From chin to temple, collecting sweet spit and salty sweat on your tongue. Dean honest to god whimpers, so you repeat the action on the other side. “Such a pretty thing.”
“Not pretty.” He goes for macho, it comes out huffy.
“No? You’re a big bad hunter?” He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”
“Shut up.” He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “You’re pretty.”
“Real mature, lover boy.” You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. “What’s next, you’re gonna accuse me with your mommy—?”
Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Dean’s cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful.
“I’m gonna cum inside you. That’s what’s next.” For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. “I–I didn’t mean that. I’ll go get a condom, don’t worry—”
“No!” You claw at his shoulders when he tries to get up, yanking him down and making his dick catch on your entrance. You both moan, your legs already trembling. “I wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.”
“You sure?” His voice is tight, like he’s holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.
“Yes, yes,” you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Dean’s. “Please, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.”
Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust.
You’re so full, you feel like you’ll tear at the seams. It’s been years since you’ve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you can’t fathom how you’ve lived this long without it.
“There you go, good girl.” His hands move to rest on each side of your head, bracing himself as he starts rolling his hips. His face is tucked against the side of your neck, and he almost sounds as destroyed as you. “Look at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.”
Oh, he has no idea.
His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind could’ve come up with. Dirty fucking mouth and sharp tongue, leaving you shaking in his arms. You tangle your body with his, arms around his shoulders and ankles crossed on his lower back, suddenly afraid that the gods will get jealous and try to take him from you.
They’ll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.
“Dean—” You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you weren’t even aware existed. It’s like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know you’ll hold the shape of him long after he’s gone. Maybe forever. “You’re–God—”
He pulls back until you can see his face, his hands circling your waist and pulling you down on his dick, the headboard banging against the wall with each rock of your bodies. He sucks on your upper lip, his voice a deep growl that rumbles through your whole body.
“You like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?”
“Yesyesyes.” You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. It’s so different from Eros’ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. “Feels so good, De. You’re so–you’re so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.”
Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.
“You’re gonna be the end of me.” His pace picks up, rabid. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders and tugging him down until his chest is glued to yours, needing every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. “So fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy I’ve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.”
You throw your head back, tongue lolling out as Dean starts to gently pet at your clit, the bundle of nerves too sensitive for anything else. Still, it feels like you’re being engulfed by nectar.
“I wanted to kill them.” You babble, your mind sluggish with Dean’s touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. “All those other girls, all those ‘smokin’ singles.’ I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.”
Part of you knows you’ll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Dean’s cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.
“Fuck, why is that so hot.” He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You can’t move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. “It’s only you now, baby. Just you.”
You know it’s not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe it—that you could be Dean’s best, Dean’s only one. It’s as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.
It doesn’t stop it from turning you all dopey. The room is filled with your obscene moans and the slap of skin against skin, your mouth parted wide open and eyes rolled back as Dean continues to murmur lewd nothings against your cheek.
“‘M gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.” He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. “Stupid cuff, making you look like a fuckin’ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you don’t even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.”
It’s almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Dean’s cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that you’ll press down on later.
The cuff starts to smoke. You’d almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like it’s charring your skin, burning so hot it almost goes back to cold. Dean gives you a specially deep thrust, your whole body seizing with it, and it all melts together in a rush of unbearable pleasure.
You turn your head to the side, writhing under Dean’s unrelenting weight, but there’s nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face.
You bite down on it, hard.
Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering.
“You’re bleeding,” you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”
You think you scream his name, you’re not really sure. Pleasure numbs your every other sense as your final orgasm hits, making all of the others seem like tiny ponds in comparison. This is a cyclone, and you’re in the eye of the storm.
The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you can’t tell them apart—Dean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage.
For a second, they’re all one and the same.
You come back down like you’re resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you can’t really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.
“...love you, love you, love you, love you.”
You’re repeating it over and over again, like a prayer. Through blood-stained lips and tar-coated teeth, like a violent wolf offering its neck to the hunter.
“What?” Dean’s stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against his—thankfully still hard—cock. Dean holds you down, both his hands cupping your face a little more forcefully than he intended, squeezing your cheeks until your lips are pursed and you have no choice but to look into his eyes. “What did you say?”
There’s no point in lying. You’ve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here.
“I love you, Dean. I really fucking lov—ah!”
He slams into you with refound vigor, dragging you up and down the bed until you're lightheaded, the whole world spinning as he whines like a puppy, cock twitching against your walls.
“I love you too.” You’re sure you imagined it at first. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, crashing his lips with yours hard enough to break them, spit and blood and desperation all mixing on your mouths. “I love you so much, holy shit. I’ve loved you forever, baby girl, I can’t believe—fuck.”
He’s feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy.
It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way he’s moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.
You grab Dean by the shoulders and push him off of you, taking advantage of his wooziness to leave him flat on his back on the mattress. In less than a second you’re straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.
“Repeat it.”
Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesn’t know what to do with them, astonished. You suck on your teeth slowly, savoring the ambrosia of his blood before a smirk takes over your face.
Slowly, your other hand makes its way up Dean’s chest, until it rests neatly against the base of his neck. With a shiver of raw excitement washing down your spine, you squeeze, hard enough to make him wheeze.
“Repeat it, De. Say it again.”
His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest.
“I love you, sweetheart.”
You impale yourself all the way down his shaft. Dean keens shamelessly when he bottoms out, hips jerking up as his hands clench on your hips. You hope they leave even more marks, little half-moons and rouge fingerprints.
You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adam’s apple—sometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless.
It’s like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. You’re untouchable. You’re celestial. You’re Dean’s.
“Again,” you order, a little too pleading to be demanding. But Dean only whimpers, erratically humping up into you as he worships you, tears clinging to his long eyelashes and hands trembling. “Look at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.”
“What the fuck?” Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe.
“Say it again, baby. Be good for me, and you’ll get a reward.”
Dean stammers before croaking out: “I love you, more than you could ever imagine.”
Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Dean’s face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open.
“Good boy,” you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. “Now swallow.”
With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as he’s pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. It’s immaculate.
You’re trying to catch your breath when you’re abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Dean’s chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal.
You stay there for a couple of minutes, maybe years, maybe centuries. Your skin sticks together as you cool down, your mouth still tasting like his cum and blood, your fingers still loosely holding his neck. It’s truly out of your wildest dreams.
“What the fuck was that?” Dean eventually chokes out.
You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. “That was me off the leash.”
“Holy shit.” His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. “I might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That was—” He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.
“I love you, you fucking dork.”
Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. “I love you too, sweetheart.”
You sigh, already expecting the post-wave exhaustion to come, but the tide is calm. Not retreating, not threatening. Just peaceful sweet water.
You slide off Dean, ignoring his little grumbling complaint. You hiss as he slips out, sore in the best way possible. Dean pounces on you, rolling onto his side so his gaze can rake down your body. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, you were perfect.”
You look down on your own body—purple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think you’re perfect as well.
Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours.
“Did I—?”
“Yes. When you said you loved me, the first time.” Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. “It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
“More than the singles you were going to comfort today?”
Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. “There’s no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.”
You try to play grumpy, but it’s impossible with Dean’s soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.
“Besides, none of them compare to you.” He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. “The spell, it gave you this—after-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.”
You chuckle, your fingers finding the mark of your teeth on his arm, tracing the little indents. You hope it scars, so everyone who ever looks at Dean knows he’s yours. Only yours.
“So it was the cuff? What made you want this?”
“Nah, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.” You can feel his grin against the top of your head. “Besides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.”
You snort, bumping his chin softly. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
But then, it dawns on you.
“The cuff!”
You swiftly sit up, ignoring Dean’s little wounded whine. You stare down at your arm, the cuff still resting snuggly against your flesh. But the metal is freezing, and the fairy dust is faded and dull.
With trembling fingers, you tug the thing down, just once. It slides right off, landing on the mattress with a little bounce. Relief floods you, strong enough to annihilate any hint of frustration. There’s no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck.
“See, I told you, you’d be okay. We survived another day.”
This time, when you lean back on him, there’s not an ounce of guilt or fear or disgust in you. The beast is gone, running free and wild, one with your soul. You might be sick, the punishing eyes of your mother forever engraved in your brain, but you’re not ashamed anymore.
Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.
You try to look for the cuff again, but it’s gone. In its place rests a French countryside postcard, a peach-scented pink mist evanescing around it. You pick it up, holding it so both Dean and you can read the sparkly gel pen scribbles.
“I know you might not believe me, but I’m truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome would’ve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, I’ll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I can’t promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction.
As promised, your little old town has been freed. The villa where I am right now is at least four miles away from any civilization, so please don’t come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.
Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open.
Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and don’t forget to thank me in your prayers!”
“Fucking asshole.” Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. “Might have to go find him, blast his face off.”
“But then you’d have to get on a plane, pretty boy.”
Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.
“Maybe if you’re with me, I can do it.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, I could do anything with you by my side.”
Someone knocks on the door, loudly.
“Guys!” Sam yells through the thick wood. “I’m back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldn’t wait at the gas station any longer. Hope you—fixed things! I guess. I’ll go put my earbuds on, so don’t worry about me, just thought I’d let you know I’m here!”
Shuffling, prolonged and awkward.
“There’s ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Or—whatever.”
Sam’s heavy steps disappear down the hallway. All it takes is one shared look for you and Dean to dissolve into laughter, limbs tangled together and souls comfortably merged into one, no longer teared apart.
“Shower?” Dean hikes you up his body, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You give him a slow up-and-down look, licking your lips obscenely. “Don’t even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?”
You grin, because he doesn’t know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.
“Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”
“Happy Valentine’s, sweetheart.”
NOTES: okay, so. this is actually kind of special to me because tomorrow, feb 15, it'll be a year since i first started posting on this blog. And the first fic I posted was valentine's inspired (pls don't go look for it my writing was terrible) so i thought it was fitting to post a little tribute to the story that started it all.
it's been amazing to share my writing in here, and i couldn't be happier that i decided to take a chance after giving up on fanfiction so long ago. it's so heartwarming to see how much you've showered me and my silly stories with love, and i'll be forever grateful to all of you.
anyway, i don't wanna bore you out with my emo sobbing. happy valentine's day, i adore you, and see you again soon!
"-and don't let them stay up past seven-" Dean orders into the phone, trying to sound stern, "-they'll say they're not tired but you can't listen to them- no not even fifteen-" There's a pause. He slowly brings the phone down, eyes going wide as he looks at you, "He hung up on me!"
"Probably because that's your third call in an hour." You try to hold back a laugh at your husband's expression.
"I'm gonna phone him back-"
"Baby-" you finally stand up, walking over to him, "-Stop calling. Sam's got this, he's good with the kids, you know that. The whole point of this weekend was for us to relax and you're more tense than when we left!"
"I'm fine! I just need to tell him-"
"Stop-" You lean up to kiss him, pressing your lips against his lightly to stop him talking, "-I got you a present."
He quirks an eyebrow, prompting you to continue.
You lean down to your bag, opening it up and pulling out a small ziplock bag, one pre-rolled joint inside.
---
"Jesus look at you-" His fingers are curled around your waist, pupils blown and mouth hung open in a half groan, absolutely enamored.
"De- baby- fuck-" you can't say anything else, your thighs burning as you ride him, his cock filling you on every hard thrust of his hips up into you.
"Y'so goddamn gorgeous-" he hums, smiling without realizing it, "Have your eyes always been this bright?"
"You're so high-" you giggle, running your hands down his chest.
"You're high- I'm just in love-"
The sound of Dean's ringtone cuts through your conversation. He lifts it, Sam's face lighting up the screen. You know you both have the same feeling- that small twinge of worry that it's an emergency. Dean picks it up, holding it to his ear.
"The kids okay?"
There's a small pause, then he gives you a nod to continue, everything obviously fine. You move slowly, letting him fill you as you stretch out above him.
"Yeah, yeah if they want ice-cream give them ice-cream-" he hums, rubbing his thumb against your waist, "-Yeah they can watch that, it's not that violent-" he looks up at you, a dazed expression of awe spread across his face, "-Yeah they can stay up 'til nine, why not!" He nods slowly, then pulls his phone away from his ear, "He wants to talk to you."
You take the phone out of his hand, holding it up as you continue to grind your hips, "Hey Sammy-"
"Who the hell is that and what have you done with my brother."
summary – you're supposed to be helping him study. supposed to listen, and nod and tell him if he starts rambling. just like he's doing now. but instead, all you seem able to do, is stare. stare at his pretty mouth, and perfect face, and think.
notes – based on this request <3 i had so, so, so much fun writing this, pls. also realized how having a whimpering, pathetic sammy winchester in my bed would actually heal my life (oh and also; i edited the whole fic when i went to post it on ao3, so if you saw the pre-edit version, shhh, no u didn't)
content warnings – smut, 18+ content, adults only! standford!sammy, pwp (plot? what plot), sub!sam/verse!sam, top!reader/verse!reader, im not sure if they're dating or not (which sounds crazy since i wrote it but i didn't know if i wanted them to be boyfriend/girlfriend or not #struggles) semi established relationship?, they clearly like each other (lolol), more than a situationship, less than dating, i wrote it with female!reader in mind, but i think? you could reader it as genderneutral!reader too (pls don't cancel me if it doesn't fit), making out, grinding, dry humping, swearing, reader is a menace and sammy is desperate, shy!sammy, nerdy!sammy, pathetic!sammy, whimpering, humiliation kink (sam), begging, premature ejaculation (oops), not proofread, english is not my first language pls
It's really not fair, you think. Quietly, in the privacy of your own mind. Eyes watching sammy like a hawk, as the screen of your laptop slowly fade to black in your lap. Entirely forgotten in favor for the gentle giant sitting in front of you.
You're on his bed in his off-campus apartment. Him in jeans and a t-shirt, you, clad in one of his old shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. The only makeup on your face, the remnants from yesterday. Comfortable, relaxed.
He's rambling, again. Flailing his hands, as he talks you through the different stages involved in defending criminals… or something. In all honesty, you stopped paying attention when he started chewing on his pen—instead zoning in on his mouth, everything else around you turning to white noise. Your focus entirely dedicated to his lips; his pink, perfect, lips. Wrapping 'round the cap of the ink-pen like it's somehow supposed to help him find the right words.
He denies having an oral fixation whenever you confront him with it. Just flushes a delicious shade of pink, and says it helps him think. Avoiding your eyes while he says it. You've never believed him. And even if it is true, it's still distracting.
You're supposed to be helping him study. Supposed to listen, and nod and tell him if he starts rambling; just like he's doing now. Instead, all you seem able to do, is stare. Stare at his pretty mouth, and perfect face, and think.
Think back to last night, when he had his face buried in your neck, panting—rough and gravelly—his whole body shivering, hips stuttering, as he rutted into you. The blunt head of his cock bullying that deliciously, gooey spot inside of you that always had you arching your back, and nails digging even further into his, soft, damp skin. Leaving a small trail of moonshaped dents up and down his back.
You know he's close when he starts whimpering in your ear, begging, "Please- s'good for me- just, fuck, need-" one hand already leaving your hip, trailing down to the low of your belly, pressing. Right atop where he's carving into you, and effectively ruining you for anyone else. It's always too much, but also not enough.
So you encourage him. Tug at his hair, and scratch your nails between his shoulder blades. Begging for more, "sammy, please- harder, need'you-" and that always does it. Has him moaning prayers in the shape of your name, his hips pistoning—out of breath and out of rhythm—and then he's—
Saying your name. He's saying your name. Now, here.
Your eyes snap up immediately; he's talking to you. Looking at you with that familiar furrow in his brow, that tells you he's concerned, but curious. Probably wondering why you've suddenly gone non-verbal on him.
You just stare at him, lips slightly parted, as you collect yourself. Praying he hasn't caught the way you're pressing your thighs together under the laptop. You try and remind your brain (and body) that you're here to help, and not to distract him (he started it, your honor!).
He says your name again, slower this time, before putting his own laptop to the side, scooting a little closer to you on the bed. His big (so, so big) hands pressed palms down atop his thighs (his big, big thighs- okay seriously concentrate). His head tilted, still just looking. And why is he so fucking cute?
"You okay?" he asks. And there's no accusation in his tone, only concern. Sweet, and genuine and him.
And that's almost enough for you to just.. jump his bones right then and there; to hell with his law degree, and your own dignity. Sadly, you do still have some (small) shred of self-control left in you. So, instead of straddling his thighs—like you want to—you press your own thighs a little tighter together, hoping it's subtle enough to not catch his eyes.
With a noncommittal hum, you let your eyes glide to his; meeting his concerned stare with a smile. Small, and coy. You nod, slowly, "You're so pretty when you ramble," you say, almost to yourself, but the effect is all the same. The realization hits him like a tidal wave; cheeks flushing, brows un-furrowing, hands fisting on his thighs. "Makes me wanna kiss you silly," you continue, smile growing, satisfied, as his eyes begin to flitter 'round the room. Looking anywhere but you.
"Oh-" is all he says. Suddenly at a loss for words. And it's so sweet, you almost feel bad for him. Almost. But you also know him; know that his bashfulness, is not to be confused with discomfort. Still, you take pity on him. Deciding to play nice, play fair. For now.
"Yeah." you nod, again, gentle still, as you reach out to close his laptop, and then, your own. Eyes never leaving his face. "Is that something you want?" you ask him, voice low, tone even. Controlled, despite how hungry you feel. And Sam is by far, your favorite meal.
You feel a little like a predator, circling your prey, when you plant your hands on the mattress—Your laptop already discarded to the floor—Crawling (note: stalking), closer to him on the bed.
When he nods, it's fast and eager. Eyes hazy, lips parted. Tongue darting out to wet his lips, almost on instinct. And he might not be brave enough to speak, but he's not going anywhere; he's exactly where he wants to be. Already straining in his jeans, one big hand pawing pathetically near his crotch, like it'll help. You both know it won't. Not until you're kissing him, touching him.
While on any other night, you might make him work for it, you have neither the will, nor the patience tonight. So you waste no time straddling his thigh, humming in gentle agreement when he wraps one, big arm around your waist; the other already snaking it's way up your back. His hand finding it's way into your hair, fingers carding through locks, sweet and desperate. Like he just can't help himself. Like he needs to touch you anywhere and everywhere, at once.
And if he's already breathing heavy, you don't tease him about it. You just nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck, and breath him in. Lips already blazing a wet, openmouthed trail along the soft skin below his ear. Basking the way his breath hitches when you find that particularly sensitive spot that only you, know about. "Baby- ah-" always making the sweetest sounds for you, when you nip at the skin. Lovingly, gently. Like a menace. Normally, you could spend hours like this; teasing, playing. Getting him all worked up and whimpering. But right now, you're desperate. Even more so than him, maybe.
You're ready rolling your hips along the length of his thigh; the drag of his denim particularly delicious against your core, even through your shorts. "Shh, baby, i'know what you need," you coo—mocking, condescending, but oh so sweet. His hips already stuttering in response. Because he loves it; loves when you talk like this. When you use that beautiful voice of yours to placate him, to tell him how pathetic he is. How needy and impatient and sweet he is. Even if it makes his stomach curl in shame, and his ears burn with embarrassment. Because it also makes him so fucking hard he can't even string together a proper sentence. Can't find the right words, can hardly think.
So he nods, eager and flustered, and paws at your waist, your hips. Anywhere his hands can reach; anywhere you'll allow him to touch. He needs you so bad it hurts, and because you're nothing if not merciful, you always give in. Gives him what he wants, and let's him take what he needs.
Finally, your lips find his. Hot, heavy and hungry. You suckle on his bottom lip, asking for permission, and he grants it. Immediately, he let's you in. Let's you take too. And he kisses you back with fever; matching your desperation with his own. Pulls you even closer, trapping you against his chest while his other hand claws at your curves. Licking into your mouth, sucking on your tongue with urgency. Groaning at the taste of your lip balm—sweet, like cherries, or vanilla—mixing with the distinct taste of you.
Already, he's rolling his hips to meet yours, painfully hard in his jeans. The denim fabric straining on his length, agonizingly painful, but also so, so good. Your fingers travel delicately from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, only to tug at the strands till it stings; swallowing the low groan erupting from his chest, as he begins gasping into your mouth.
The nails scratching at his scalp, bordering on painful; just the way he likes it.
When he tries to move you, to reposition your hips so your core aligns directly with his cock, you let him. You know what he needs, and you're more than happy to give. Especially when he whimpers a small "thank'you" into your mouth, before going back to sucking on your bottom lip. It sends a thrill right through you; heat flooding your veins, electric and white-hot. It's your turn to moan now, high and whiny. Needy.
He can't himself; not with you. Not when you're right here, in his lap, looking and sounding so perfect. Not when you're so soft, and so warm. Letting him kiss you. Letting him rub his cock against your clothed pussy like a fucking pervert. Swirling your hips, whimpering so sweetly into his mouth. Pulling at his hair, repositioning his head—his mouth—the way you like it. Sucking on his tongue, biting on his lip. Grinding on his cock, frantic and eager, and not just for him, but for your own pleasure too.
It's too much. The friction is too good, your sounds too perfect, and your mouth too warm and wet and– "Fuck- baby, ah- baby-"
His orgasm hits him like a freight train; hard, and fast and mind-numbing. His whole body doubling over, as he seeks you out. Hands on your hips in a bruising grip, as his hips begin to falter. His cock pulsing violently, spurting ropes upon ropes of warm, hot seed into his jeans. He's no longer kissing you, just panting into your mouth, eyes shut tightly, forehead resting on yours. Your voice, cooing, "There you go, baby. so good f'me," encouraging him to just let it happen; let himself cum into his pants like a fucking virgin.
When his hips finally still – shaking, cock still twitching in his pants – you just pet his hair, comforting your pathetic boyfriend(?), kissing his jawline, mumbling little pet names and, "good boy"'s against his throat. It's almost enough to get him hard again.
With two, strong arms wrapping around your your body—warm, perfect and his—he buries his face in your neck; ashamed, embarrassed and out of breath. Trying hard to just... breathe, and not freak out. Willing his lungs to behave, and his heart to act normal.
"Sorry.." he murmurs into your skin, and you can practically hear the frown in his voice. Can kind of feel it, too. You just giggle; disbelief and amusement laced together in something sweet. No real mocking, or ill intent. Then your pull back just enough to look at him, hazel eyes meeting yours in shame. His whole face flustered, cheeks burning. "Are you kidding me?" you question, biting your lip, "That was so fucking hot, Sammy," And if his face was burning before, he's actively on fire now.
He doesn't know what to say; mouth opening and closing repeatedly, before finally settling on saying nothing. Instead, he smiles. He feels.. shy, a little embarrassed, but mostly? Mostly he's just in awe. Looking down at you with such reverence and affection, it might begin to make you blush, if he doesn't look away soon.
But you don't get to brush it off, or turn the attention back to him. You don't even get to tease him about the fact that he's looking at you like you hung the fucking moon. No, before you even get to open your mouth, he's pushing you back onto the bed, arms pinned above your head, his mouth attacking your throat. Nipping and licking at your collarbone. "Wanna thank you," he murmurs, voice all gravely, when his hands begin pushing your his shirt up, and off your body. "Wanna taste you, please-"
𓍯𓂃 you should see the things we do in my dreams || sam winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: pining, forced proximity/one bed trope, sexsomnia, friends to ???, grinding, oral sex (f receiving), munch!sam, is this exhibitionism?
➶ summary: sam is harbouring a bit more than a major crush on you, and tonight you might just let him show you how important you really are to him.
➶ word count: how long is a piece of string? 5.1k words apparently...
quick note: inspired by one of my fav fics ever by @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth (please go read it and their other work!!!) - genuinely think about it daily…
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part two here
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here
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Road tripping is simultaneously your favourite and least favourite thing to do with the Winchester brothers.
When a hunt takes you far away from the bunker - where there’s nothing but forest after forest or field after field, town after town, and stateline after stateline - you feel most at home when you’re on the road in the four walls of that sleek and purring black metal machine that etches memories onto your body like you’re a vinyl record. Blaring rock ’n’ roll music (and the occasional pop tune, but Dean will deny it despite him tapping along on the steering wheel) down the highway, bickering on acceptable answers for a game of ‘I spy’, and a never-ending mixture of sweet and savoury treats keeps the three of you going for hours. Sometimes, you’d wish the hunt would never end.
The sleeping arrangements, on the other hand, sometimes make you wish that God would come down and smite you himself.
If you’re lucky enough, the three of you secure two separate hotel rooms where everyone gets their own bed to sprawl out in.
On those other days where you’re not so lucky, though, the sight of only one set of keys dangling in Sam’s hand and his tight-mouthed look as he leaves the reception makes you and Dean both groan and roll your eyes.
In this event, the brothers would both insist that a lady “even one as rough as yourself” was never to take the floor and had to take one of the two beds, while they rock-paper-scissored each other on who took the couch (if that was even an option). Dean usually drew the short straw…
Although you appreciated the comfort and warmth of a bed regardless of the groaning noises the old mattresses would make under the tiniest amount of weight, or how musty and thin the bedspread was, the squabbling and sardonic chivalrousness of the brothers really started to grind your gears. After a couple months of this set-up, and a few sore backs later, your frustration peaked and you snapped at how ridiculous and stubborn they were being.
Now, a single-motel-room-stay means you rotate between who you share one of the two beds with because you’re smaller than the two 6-foot giants to hunt with, and the easiest to sleep next to. Lucky you.
A road trip hunt with a Dean-bedshare means headphones or heavy sleeping pills are a must - that man snores like his life depends on it. Whilst you’ll never be cold in a bed with that human radiator, he does also love to starfish, which means space is a bit of luxury.
Sam gets nervous when it’s his nights.
He knows this sleeping arrangement is less than optimal for you, especially when you’re with Sam because he’s just so big, and you’re just putting up with it because you care about both of them, but that doesn’t mean he won’t make sure you’re as comfortable as you can possibly be.
When he knows it’s his rotation, Sam replicates the bed positioning in your room at the bunker by pushing the motel bed into the corner of the room furthest away from the door so that you can be against the wall, where you feel safest. A present (read: security blanket) from being a hunter for so many years.
So after Baby pulls into this cross-country hunt’s motel carpark just before midnight, a late spring heat still simmering in the air, and Sam returns with only a single set of keys, he knows this week is going to be difficult - it’s his turn with you.
Sam’s had a crush on you from the moment you fired a shotgun shell filled with salt past his head at a particularly nasty demon who had him in a chokehold one squeeze away from death. But he’s loved you since the night you cried into his shoulder after you’d lost an entire family to a Wendigo eight months ago. He’d rubbed your back in soothing circles to calm you down, burying his nose into your hair and whispering it’s okay repeatedly. He could never turn back from that night.
The ceiling fan whirs quietly above, the wind current soft in the room. Sam is stripped down into a white singlet and black sleep shorts on the bed’s left side, the top sheet covering his legs as he lies with his back propped up by a pillow against the motel wall. The bedside table lamp to Sam’s left colours his body in a faint yellow and orange so that he can read while he waits for you.
He’s moved the bed already, now tucked under a large window where silvery clouds glow outside in the sky.
He tries to act nonchalant when you open the bathroom door and step out into the shared room, a light baggy shirt sitting half-off your shoulder that finishes just above where your sleep shorts end. He tries not to gawk at your exposed thighs, hunching his shoulders and dipping his head down to stare at the book in his hands to distract himself.
The bottom of the bed dips on its right side by the wall as you sit to watch the crappy soap opera on the TV. Sam slightly lowers his book to peek at you as you mindlessly plait your hair at the edge of the bed. He admires how soft you look. If he had the guts, he’d crawl behind you, kiss your shoulder, and do your hair himself. He’s watched you enough times to know how to do it, but most importantly, how you like it done.
Dean’s already called it a night. His snores not quite drowned out by the TV.
“Do you want me to keep the TV on?”, you call to Sam as you tie off your plait, still facing the TV.
“Uh, no,” he replies softly, “not unless you need it to fall asleep?”
“No, I’ll be okay.” You half turn your body to smile at him, before putting out your hand for Sam to pass you the remote. His heart stammers as you make eye contact.
Sam’s noticed you only really have the TV on during the night when you’re sharing a bed with Dean. He’s not quite sure what that means, yet.
He rests his book on his lap to grab the remote and leans forward to hand it to you. He thinks about spreading his fingers across the remote so that your fingers graze his as you take it, but decides against this. The TV clicks off.
Sam watches as you climb up the bed and pulls the sheet back for you to hop under. Although you make him nervous, he wishes he could do this every night.
You settle in the bed - Sam bookmarking his current page and placing it on the bedside table before turning the lamp off. He shuffles down the bed and rolls onto his right shoulder so that he’s facing you at eye level.
You both stare at each other, silently and serenely. Your face is laying against your pillow, the top of your right hand resting in your left palm just under your jaw. Moonlight caresses the right side of your body and Sam thinks you’re glowing; angelic. He worries you’ll hear his heart beat thundering in his chest if you listen into the mattress carefully enough.
A couple inches separate your bodies - perhaps three-hands-wide. It’s an acceptable amount of space for two close friends, but that boundary could easily and quickly be crossed. A small shift forward by your hands, your legs, or your face is all it would take.
A particularly loud snore leaves Dean’s chest, making both of you quietly giggle.
“God, he’s so loud”, Sam groans.
“I know. I think he could take on a lawn mower with that snore”, you chuckle.
“Maybe even a Boeing 747.” You snort at that. Sam’s heart leaps at making you laugh.
You both chat for a bit about the day, as well as life in general - a key element to your routine when sharing a bed with Sam. Every feature of your face is lit so sweetly. He can see how your nose scrunches and your eyelashes flutter when you passionately talk about something you like. Sam knows that when you fall asleep later, he’ll sneakily admire your face in its unguarded state, with the soft beautiful noises that fall from your lips when you’re deep in sleep. He thinks that might be his favourite view.
“Goodnight, Sammy.” You smile softly at him.
Sam returns your comment, his voice dropping to a whisper as he says your name.
You nestle in the bed to get yourself comfortable for sleep, before closing your eyes. A small sigh leaves your nose.
Sam looks down at the blanketed curve of your waist. It moves gently with the rise and fall of your quiet breaths. You were so close to him that he could reach out and touch you if he wanted to. He really wanted to.
With his index finger, Sam traces the dips of your body along the mattress in the small space between you both. His eyes close briefly as he imagines how you’d feel against his fingertips. He does sort of know how it would feel, though - he’s grabbed your arm and your waist when you’ve slipped in front of him; he’s held your hand when he’s pulled you up onto a wall you’re too short to climb; and he’s felt you shoulder to shoulder and back to chest when hiding from some monster hunting you. Sam just wishes he could touch you in a way other than a friend does… Like a lover would…
His eyes drift open and they return to your face. When they reach your eyes, he realises you’re staring right back at him. He freezes.
“Hi,” you whisper sweetly, shifting your head a little, “can’t sleep?”
Sam’s not sure how to react. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights. How long have you been awake? Did you notice him looking at you? Could you see that it was a look of more than a friend? Of someone who longed badly to reach out and touch you?
He shakes his head timidly against his pillow at your question. Sam is suddenly aware of the heat from your body. He himself feels like a nuclear bomb about to self-destruct. “I think it’s the heat.”
You hum. “I’d offer to turn up the fan, but I think it only has one speed.”
There’s a beat of silence. “How about we take the sheet off, Sammy?”
The way you say his name makes his stomach flip. He doesn’t have time to react as you sit up on your left arm and lean over him to rip the sheet off, your breasts pressing briefly across his chest. Sam’s nostrils flare and he takes a big swallow, his throat bobbing noticeably. He tries to stifle a groan and not think about it.
When you lie back down, you’re closer to Sam than before. Maybe one-and-a-half-hands-wide separate you now. “That better?”, you ask.
“Yeah,” he breathes. God, you’re so close to him. He can smell the faint remains of your perfume from the day. It sends a rush through his body and warms his chest.
Sam notices your eyes glide over his face, stopping for a moment on his lips. A gentle smile appears on your face, then your eyes return to his. Sam feels his cheeks redden, his breathing quickening and lips parting. He can’t tell if he wants you to keep looking at him like that or if he wants to bury his face in the sheets.
You shuffle a few centimetres closer, your lips also parting. Your eyes are locked with his. “Good.”You reach out and squeeze his left bicep. He tenses, waiting for your soft, warm hand to return to your side. But it doesn’t. It just sits there on his skin. His eyes snap down to look at your small hand on him. He takes a shallow, shaky breath and looks back at you.
He swears he sees a glint in your eyes, something with a suffocating heat simmering behind it, that is asking him to touch you. He tries to pass it off as a trick of the moonlight, but then your hand starts to rub tenderly up and down his arm. You’ve never touched him like this before. It’s simultaneously calming yet maddening. It ignites the nerves under his skin with each slide.
You both sit in silence for a minute.
But Sam’s mind is racing. Is this really happening? He hears your breathing speed up. Do you actually want me the way I want you? Your hand pauses on his arm. Keep touching me. He sees you looking at your hand, beginning to move it back to your side. No. Don’t take your hand away, please.
Sam swallows again, thinks fuck it, and finally gets the courage to touch you. He tries to be slow and tender, but he moves too fast, grabbing your wrist hanging midair between your bodies. It makes you take a sharp inhale at the sudden contact.
He goes to speak, but words fail him. Jesus, fuck. He blinks a little stupidly, adjusting his grip to be softer, then slides his hand up your arm to your elbow. He briefly stops, inhales, then moves his hand to rest down on your waist.
He’ll hit his head against a wall if he lets this moment pass.
Sam’s hand falls on the band of your sleep shorts, a small section of your skin is exposed where your shirt has ridden up. He echoes your movements on his arm ever so slowly. You let out a small sigh. Or was it a little moan? His hand flexes.
Your legs move first, finding his knees to press yours against; followed by your hips, so close that he knows a roll of yours or his hips would cross that boundary of friendship forever; your chest, maybe a finger apart; and then your face.
You tilt your head up slightly, your nose brushing his. Your lips are so close to his that your next breath out ghosts his mouth. He can smell your toothpaste, now. A growing heat blooms in his groin.
That beat of silence returns, but this time it’s different. It’s heavier. Sam’s ears burn - a mixture of love, need, admiration, and hunger. Another beat passes. The low whirring of the ceiling fan blows the electric current running between both of you.
You lift your hand to cup the left side of Sam’s face. Your thumb strokes once against his jaw. His eyelids flutter. Sam’s fighting the urge so hard to not just grab your hair and smash your face into his.
“I dream about you touching me, Sammy”. The words fall so effortlessly from your mouth Sam thinks he misheard you. Then you lean in.
A very quiet whimper escapes his throat as your lips carefully meet his. It’s warm, sweet, fearful, relieving.
Fuck.
Sam can feel you humming faintly against his lips. Fuck fuck.
Your fingers, stilled on his face, slide to the back of his head to bury themselves in his soft brown hair. At first, they curl gently, tenderly rubbing his head. Then you tug - not hard - just enough to bring him in deeper to the kiss, to tell him you want more. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Sammy,” you breathe against his lips, eyes hooded. His hand on your waist is heavier. His touch turns to a grip. He can feel the goosebumps rising on your skin.
The gap between your bodies closes as you roll your hips into him, he groans into your mouth, his brow scrunching. Sam can’t ignore your breasts pressed against his chest, now. And you can’t ignore his thick and hard cock nudging your core.
Both you and Sam have clearly forgotten about Dean in the next bed over, snoring lightly. Or maybe neither of you care. But who can blame you, you have more pressing matters at hand.
Your hand is still buried in Sam’s hair, tugging more frantically now. Sam’s right arm moves from underneath him to grab the side of your neck, pulling you in impossibly closer. He can feel your pulse thudding in his hand. It’s as quick as his deafening his ears.
This is it, Sam thinks. Don’t fuck it up.
Sam’s nerves dissipate for a second as he rolls on top of you. The kiss changes. The sweetness and uncertainty still lingers, but it’s shifting into something more messy, more sure, more desperate. His legs bracket yours; his left pressed firm between your thighs and his right on the outer side of your left.
Your left hand replaces your right in his hair as you move it to Sam’s shoulder, clutching at his flexing muscles as Sam’s left hand starts kneading the flesh of your waist. His thumb is rubbing deeply into the side of your navel.
He doesn’t ever want to stop touching you.
Both of you are panting into each other’s mouths. Each kiss is searing, your teeth nipping his lips. Your bodies meet with every roll, stroking the fire blazing between you. When Sam delivers a particularly deep grind into your hips and core that makes you gasp, your back arches. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip in the next kiss.
Sam pulls back, just a little, his forehand dropping to yours. Your chests are both heaving. “You are so beautiful.”
It makes you roll your eyes, grinning, “Shut up and keep kissing me.” He smiles and leans back in.
This is not the time to say “I love you.” He decides to show you, though, by doing the next closest thing to it.
He inhales. “Can I…can I keep going?”, he sheepishly asks against your lips, beginning to slide his left hand down to the side of your hip, pausing, then down to the top of your thigh that’s just covered by your shorts. Your panting fans his face.
“Please.” Your mouth moves down to his neck, biting and leaving hot open-mouthed kisses along his damp skin. “Take whatever you want from me.” His breath stutters, eyes darkening. There’s no uncertainty, now. It’s all primal.
Sam grabs your jaw with his right hand, pulling you back up into a long, deep, and passionate kiss. Then his mouth begins to trail down your body.
He feels feverish. You want him. You want him.
The way you’re laying in front of him, eyes sparkling with dilated pupils, smiling at him like you love him. Could you love him? God, he doesn’t know what to think. Or how to. He just knows what he wants.
“I want to make you feel good,” he groans your name into your clothed sternum. He hears your breath hitch, breasts rising to bump his face. Mental note: come back here afterwards.
Sam moves to kneel between your legs and continues kissing down your torso, “I’ve thought about how you’d look under me”, he hums on your right rib set, both hands now positioned at the top of your thighbones gripping the flesh, “how soft you’d be ”, he lifts up a section of your shirt, making your breathing quick and shallow, “how you’d feel against me”, he bites and sucks at this newly exposed spot to the right of your navel, “how you’d sound if I got to touch you like this.” A low moan falls from your mouth, head lulling backwards into the pillow, hips rolling into his face. He huffs, smirking.
Sam’s face pauses at your lower waist; his nose is sitting against your short’s waistband and his mouth ghosts the middle space below your hips. His jaw clenches, closing his eyes briefly as his breath stutters again. Two thin layers separate him from where he so desperately wants to be. Fuck, he’s wanted to do this to you - for you - for what seems like an eternity. He pushes his forehead down into you slightly to centre himself. Don’t cum yet don’t cum yet.
You call his name at his lack of movement. It’s so needy. It makes him salivate.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he whispers. He’s never called you that. At least not while you’re awake. You don’t seem to tense or flinch, so he thinks it’s okay. He hopes he can call you it again tomorrow.
Sam’s hands slide back up along the outside of your thighs to your waistband, making you shiver. His fingertips rest on your waistband and he looks up at you, dark and hooded eyes boring into yours; he’s giving you one last chance to back out. You smile softly at him and lift your hips eagerly so that he can ease your shorts down.
He swallows, and gently guides your sleep shorts down your hips, then your thighs, your calves, and then your feet.
Just one thin layer now.
Sam can already see your arousal soaking through your underwear. Oh fuck. A wrecked groan rumbles in his chest, his hips rolling into the mattress.
God, the sight of you. Maybe he should just bury his face in your pussy now, underwear still clinging to you, and make you cum like that. He doesn’t want to tease you like that tonight, though. Maybe next time.
His hands, planted on your thigh bones, grip the newfound flesh. You feel just as soft and warm as he had imagined. Goosebumps from your skin prickle under his palm and fingers. His cock twitches against his sleep shorts, and the restriction makes him muffle another groan.
“Christ,” he purrs, kissing the top left corner of your underwear, “look how wet you are,” he moves to kiss the right side.
You sigh breathlessly, reaching for Sam’s left hand to caress it, “It’s all for you, Sammy.” He hums in satisfaction at your words.
Okay, okay, he thinks to himself. Focus, Sam.
Both hands grab the elastic of your underwear to roll down your body. The scent of your arousal hits him almost instantly and he parts his mouth, panting. His nostrils flare - you smell so sweet. It’s enough to thicken the fire blazing inside him, especially his cock. Drool is pooling in his mouth.
Sam can hear you above him, whining slightly at the air change near your core. Sounding just as desperate for this as he is.
He moves both his right index and middle fingers along your mound, mesmerised at the way your body shudders and hips buck at his touch. He pauses just above your clit before shakily running his fingers through your folds, down to your opening. A sharp gasp falls from your mouth and your brows scrunch, back arching away from the mattress.
Fucking hell you feel like heaven itself. The heat and wetness from your folds makes Sam lose awareness of his surroundings for a second. All his senses are focused on you. He feels like he’s on fire; blood pulsing hotly through his veins, each breath rushing through his chest like a dry wind sparking embers.
He pulls his fingers away, eliciting an instinctive whimper from you, your hips lifting off the bed.
Sam stares at his fingers, dumbstruck - he was glistening with your arousal in the moon light. He brings his fingers to his lips with a shaky exhale before putting them in his mouth. A low and broken moan escapes his chest as he sucks them, his tongue swirling his fingers, eyes fluttering shut like he was tasting and committing to memory something seraphic. It makes him want to cum right there.
“I’m gonna make a mess,” Sam moans your name hoarsely, his voice laced with both awe and heated reverence. “You taste so fucking good.”
Your chest is rising and falling rapidly with each second that passes with Sam’s face sitting right by your heat. Your eyes are locked with his, pupils blown wide out. Your mouth is gaping in desperation. He feels feral. Hungry.
Sam guides your legs to sit over his shoulders. Both of you shuffle slightly to get comfortable - he wants you both to be here for a long time.
His hands move to hold both your thighs so that they rest against his face. He drops his eyes from yours to stare at your core - arousal glistening across your folds and dripping down onto the mattress - and it stirs something possessive in him.
Sam lowers his head to your slit and breathes you in, nose brushing your slick warmth as he exhales a groan so low and guttural it rattles through your bones.
He’s changed his mind. This was definitely his new favourite view.
He starts slow, careful - Sam kisses the soft part of the inside of your left thigh, echoing on your right, before the tip of his tongue enters your sweet slit and slides down.
Dear God. The taste and scent of your core floods his mouth and nostrils. Your left hand flies from the side of you to cover your mouth, eyelids fluttering. You both whimper needily at the sensations; you into your hot palm and Sam into your heat.
But when he licks a long wet stripe from the bottom of your folds to your clit so slowly that your hips buck and a pornographic moan shatters from your lungs, Sammy can’t help himself.
You were just so responsive to him.
He does it again. Slow, thick, dragging. His tongue flattens and moves down and up the length of your folds, collecting everything - spit, slick, and heat. He groans, deep and rough, as he buries his face further into you like he’s starving.
Sam extends his tongue to lap at you, kitten licking and slurping at your slit, encouraging you to give him more of your slick wetness. Your body twitches at every roll of his tongue, every suck of his mouth. Sam’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his brows scrunching and curving in sheer desire, indulgence, and love.
He couldn’t see anything else outside of you. You were fisting the sheets, hips twisting and legs flexing.
“God, yes, Sammy, right there, right there, Sammy, fuck.” You cry quietly, grinding down against his face, “You’re so good, you’re doing so good, Sammy, don’t stop, please don’t stop…”
Sam ruts into the bed like an animal, fucking himself against the mattress. He can feel his rock hard cock pulsing and leaking with precum.
“Keep talking,”he begs weakly, voice muffled against your core, spit and arousal dripping down his chin, “Tell me…tell me how good it feels. I need to know I’m making you feel good, sweetheart, please.”
Fuck he hopes you’ll let him do this again.
Sam’s tempo increases as his tongue begins circling your clit, lightly sucking it to draw you deeper into his mouth. His nose is pressed firmly into you - he wants to suffocate on you.
Loose curls fall onto Sam’s forehead, dampened by a mixture of his sweat and your sweet arousal coating his face as you grind into him and he buries himself in you.
Neither of you can stop moaning.
His fingers are gripped hotly and tightly on the flesh of your soft thighs. He means to be gentle but he’s too desperate for you, and he knows there will be purple bruises there in the morning. He’ll kiss them tomorrow to say sorry if you let him.
Sam’s head moves with every roll and turn of your hips so that his mouth stays attached to your clit and folds. Listening to your breathing and feeling how your body moves, he’s learning that you really like when he licks the left side of your folds and rub his nose on your clit. Your mouth falls slack when he does that.
He kisses sloppily and hungrily up and down your heat, wetness smeared across his face and nose. His tongue slips down to your entrance to work inside you. A sharp, high-pitched moan falls from your lips. If you sound like this when he’s eating you out, he can’t wait to hear you when you cum.
“Sammy, I’m-I’m gonna…“ you breathe out, too flushed from the building pleasure to finish your sentence. He feels your body tense and moans at your movements. You were going to fall apart in front of him. God, he was about to do it. He was about to make you cum. He shoves his face further into your heat.
“Please, sweetheart,”he growls against you, vibrating through your wetness, “please cum for me.”
Your back arches off the bed, hands fisting Sam’s hair in pure ecstasy. “Sam…” you moan, uncontrollably, body shuddering. You take a loud inhale, mouth wide open and….
A hot wet flush spurts around Sam’s groin, jerking him awake.
“Fuck!” He swears quietly to himself.
His hips roll once, then still. He’s panting harshly as his eyes fly open. It’s pitch black. He can’t see anything. He pauses for a beat while his eyes adjust to the darkness. He can hear the ceiling fan still whirring above.
Did I just have a fucking wet dream?
Yes. Yes he did.
Sam groans quietly to himself, scrunching his brow in embarrassment and disappointment in himself.
That was stupid, Sam, stupid, he bullies himself.
Sam lifts himself onto his forearms, sweat dripping down his body onto the bed. When did I fall asleep? He turns his head to the left towards the window - to you - to see if you were awake, or even there. You are.
He can just see how your lips are parted slightly, nostrils moving lightly as you inhale and exhale soft breaths. You’re still asleep.
Jesus Christ.
The sheet is still covering both of you, but you’re curled towards him in a foetal position. Your right arm is outstretched, hand resting sweetly next to his pillow. It must have been quite close to his face…
Sam carefully slides his right leg out from under the covers and onto the floor first, then his other leg, as he gets out of the bed slowly so he doesn’t disturb you. God knows this would be the absolute worst time for you to wake up and see him like this.
The moving air current from the fan hits him like a winter’s gale, making him shiver.
He wobbles past Dean’s bed, who is deep in sleep and (of course) starfished across the mattress. Reaching for the bathroom door, Sam grabs the handle and turns it cautiously to open the door. He flails briefly for the bathroom light switch, finding it, then softly clicks the door shut behind him before turning it on.
Sam leans against the door, back pressed firm against the cold wooden frame and head repeatedly hitting it faintly.
I am in so much trouble.
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Oh my poor Sammy. Somebody give this man a cuddle.
If y’all enjoy this, I have plans for a second part, but let me know your thoughts!!
And to the lovely anon in my inbox with the Sam request - if you're reading this, I SEE YOU!! I am writing your request as we speak 💚💚💚
𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 : months of jealousy, lingering looks, and mutual pining finally boil over when sam and dean realise they’ve both fallen for you. what begins as a childish bet over which brother can make you break first turns into an honest confession neither of them expected. you refuse to choose between the winchesters, and once they agree to share, all three of you discover exactly how much trouble two jealous brothers can cause : 14k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : 18+ . sam winchester x fem!reader x dean winchester . polyamorous relationship dynamics . no incest . the brothers do not interact sexually . jealousy . possessive behaviour . mutual pining . competitive flirting . praise kink . dirty talk . pet names . consensual sharing . threesome . oral sex . blowjob . deepthroating . mouth fucking . hair pulling . spit . gagging . penetrative sex . unprotected sex . riding . clitoral stimulation . multiple orgasms . overstimulation . nipple play . facial ejaculation . cum swallowing . messy sex . light degradation . soft dominance . mdni
navigation : kofi . this was requested ages agoooo, sorry for the wait </3 i had writers block.
DEAN WAS CLEANING THE SAME gun for the third time that night, and Sam knew it because the slide had already clicked back into place twice before. The bunker was quiet around them, all low lamps, old paper, whiskey breath, and the distant hum of pipes buried deep in the walls. Dean sat at the library table with his boots kicked out, a rag twisted between his fingers, and his jaw set in that particular way Sam had learned to read before either of them were old enough to shave. It meant Dean was irritated, but not in the usual way.
This wasn’t a bad lead, a broken engine, or some smug demon getting under his skin. This was worse because Dean couldn’t shoot it, burn it, salt it, or make a joke mean enough to chase it away. The problem was you, and Sam knew that because he was having the exact same problem on the other side of the table. He had a book open in front of him, some old Men of Letters volume with a cracked spine and tiny print, but he hadn’t taken in a single sentence for the last twenty minutes.
Every few seconds, his eyes moved without permission toward the hallway, where you had disappeared after telling them you were going to change. Dean noticed every time. Sam noticed Dean noticing. Neither of them said a word, which only made the silence feel more guilty.
You had been with them long enough to make the bunker feel different, and Dean hated how much he liked that. You weren’t just another hunter passing through with a fake badge, a half-healed bruise, and a duffel bag full of knives. You had become part of the place in small, stubborn ways, leaving your boots near the stairs, your favourite mug beside the coffee maker, your notes tucked inside books Sam swore nobody else was allowed to annotate.
Dean had complained the first time he found your jacket thrown over the back of his chair, but he hadn’t moved it for three days. Sam had noticed that too. Sam noticed everything when it came to you, which made him feel like a creep on the nights when he caught himself listening for your footsteps in the hall. Dean was less subtle, but he liked to think he wasn’t obvious. He was wrong.
Sam had seen the way Dean watched you when you bent over a pool table during interviews, the way his hand found your shoulder in crowded bars, the way his smile got tight when another man made you laugh too easily. Dean had seen Sam too, though. He had seen the way his brother softened when you said his name, the way Sam’s anger dulled around the edges when you touched his arm, the way he leaned closer when you spoke like the rest of the room had gone quiet.
Dean still remembered the first night they met you because you had walked into the middle of their hunt like a thunderstorm with a shotgun. The case had been ugly from the start, a string of disappearances around an abandoned church in Ohio, the kind with too many bones under the floorboards and not enough locals willing to talk. Sam had been elbow-deep in research for two days, and Dean had been getting twitchy from waiting around, which meant they were both a little too tired and a little too sure of themselves when they went in.
Then the spirit had come out of the walls faster than expected, and Dean had ended up flat on his back in the mud with the breath knocked out of him. You stepped over him, fired a round of rock salt into the dark, and said, “You always let ghosts throw you around like that, or am I special?” Dean had stared up at you, rain dripping off his lashes, too surprised to be annoyed as quickly as he should’ve been. Sam had come running from the other side of the graveyard, flashlight cutting through the downpour, and he had stopped dead when he saw you standing there.
You had blood on your cheek, mud on your jeans, and a look on your face like you had already decided the Winchesters were a full-time headache. By sunrise, you had helped them burn the bones, called their plan reckless, and accepted diner coffee from Sam with both hands curled around the mug. Dean had told himself you were trouble. Sam had thought the same thing, but softer.
After that, you kept crossing paths with them until it stopped feeling like coincidence and started feeling like a choice. Dean would never admit it, but every time your number lit up his phone, something in his chest settled before he even answered. Sam was worse in a quieter way, always asking if you were okay before asking what case you were on, always saving you a seat at the library table when you came through Lebanon.
You teased him for it once, nudging his boot with yours beneath the table, and Sam had gone pink around the ears like he was still capable of being embarrassed by kindness. Dean had laughed at him, of course, but only because your foot had brushed Dean’s ankle next, and his own thoughts had turned dangerous enough to make mockery feel safer. You became the person they both looked for after a hunt, the person they both wanted beside them in the Impala, the person they both pretended not to watch when you were curled up on the couch in one of their stolen flannels.
It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t simple. Nothing about wanting you had ever been simple. Dean wanted you loudly, even when he tried to hide it. Sam wanted you carefully, which somehow made it worse. The worst part was that you seemed to know.
The hunt that night had only made things uglier between them. You had gone undercover at a bar outside town, all warm smiles and easy laughter, leaning close to some suspect with your hand wrapped around a glass you barely drank from. Dean had watched from a booth with his shoulders stiff and his mouth pressed into a flat line, looking like he might break the table if the man touched you. Sam had been standing near the jukebox, arms folded, expression calm enough to seem harmless to anyone who didn’t know him.
Dean knew him. Dean saw the tension in Sam’s jaw, the way his eyes followed the man’s hand when it drifted too close to your waist. “You gonna glare him to death, Sammy?” Dean had muttered, but his own voice came out rougher than he wanted. Sam hadn’t looked at him right away. He kept watching you smile at a man neither of them trusted, and the old protective instinct twisted into something much more selfish inside him.
“You’re one to talk,” Sam had said finally, low enough that only Dean could hear. The words should’ve ended there, but Dean had looked over just as you laughed at something the man said. His hand tightened around his beer bottle. Sam saw that too, and something bitter and competitive sparked between them before the hunt had even finished.
By the time the three of you got back to the bunker, the air inside the Impala had been thick enough to choke on. Dean drove too fast, one hand loose on the wheel and the other tapping restless patterns against the leather. Sam sat in the passenger seat with his shoulders squared and his eyes on the road, acting like he wasn’t listening to you shift in the backseat.
You were quiet behind them, probably tired, probably amused, probably too aware of the way both brothers had gone tense the second that man at the bar looked at you like you were something he could keep. Dean glanced at you in the rearview mirror more times than he needed to. Sam caught every single look reflected in the glass.
“Case is done,” you said from the backseat eventually, your voice soft but edged with curiosity. “So why do you both look like you’re still hunting something?” Dean huffed, like the answer was ridiculous. Sam didn’t answer at all. That was when Dean knew his brother was in deep, because Sam Winchester only got that silent when the thing he wanted was sitting too close and too far away at the same time.
Now, in the library, Dean kept dragging the rag over the pistol like friction might burn the image of you out of his head. Sam closed the book in front of him with careful hands, the sound small but final. Dean’s eyes snapped up at once, because everything Sam did had started to feel like a challenge tonight. “You gonna actually read that thing, or are you just trying to look thoughtful?” Dean asked, his voice lazy in a way that didn’t fool Sam at all.
Sam leaned back in his chair and looked at his brother over the book, expression mild but eyes sharp. He didn’t answer right away, because he knew Dean hated waiting almost as much as he hated being seen through. The library light caught on Sam’s cheekbones, making him look tired, annoyed, and far too composed for Dean’s liking.
Then Sam looked toward the hallway again, where you still hadn’t reappeared, and Dean felt something hot and ugly move under his ribs. “I’m thinking fine,” Sam said at last, his voice measured. “That’s usually the part where you get nervous.” Dean laughed once, short and humorless, because the comment landed too close to the truth. He set the gun down carefully, which only made him look more dangerous.
You appeared in the doorway before Dean could answer, and both brothers went still in two completely different ways. Dean’s stillness was physical, a sudden pause in his hands, his breathing, his entire posture, like his body had forgotten what it was doing. Sam’s was quieter, but no less obvious, his gaze lifting to you and staying there just long enough to give him away.
You had changed into soft shorts and an oversized shirt, your hair slightly messy, your face bare of the focus you wore on hunts. You looked comfortable in their home, and that did something unbearable to both of them. Dean’s eyes flicked over you before he forced them back to your face, and Sam watched him do it with a tightness gathering in his chest. “You two are doing that thing again,” you said, stepping farther into the room.
Your voice carried easily in the quiet, teasing at first, but there was something underneath it that made Sam’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. Dean tilted his head, acting confused because denial had always been one of his favorite bad habits. “What thing?” he asked, like he hadn’t been sitting there vibrating with jealousy for the better part of an hour. You looked at Sam instead of answering Dean, and Dean’s smile sharpened.
Sam saw the way Dean reacted to your attention shifting, and he hated the small satisfaction it gave him. You weren’t trying to be cruel. That was the thing that kept ruining them both. You didn’t toss them looks because you wanted to watch them bleed.
You did it because you were honest with your attention, because when you cared, it showed, and when you wanted, that showed too. Sam had seen it in the car, in motel rooms, in the bunker kitchen when you reached over him for coffee and lingered close enough that he could smell your shampoo. He had seen you go warm under Dean’s praise, and he had seen you turn quiet when Sam’s voice softened around your name.
“The thing where you both act like you’re mad at each other, but somehow I’m the one getting stared at,” you said, folding your arms loosely as you leaned against the table. Dean dropped his gaze to the movement for half a second, then dragged it back up, annoyed with himself. Sam looked down at the closed book like it might offer mercy. It didn’t. “Maybe you like being stared at,” Dean said, and the words came out lower than he meant them to. You didn’t flinch. You smiled, and Sam felt the room tilt around it.
Dean knew he should stop there. He knew that tone, that look, that dangerous little space opening between all three of you was exactly the kind of thing that ruined people’s sleep and made mornings complicated. But then Sam looked at you again, and the look on his brother’s face was too careful, too hungry, too patient. Dean hated patience when it came to you. He hated the way Sam could stand there and make restraint look like devotion. “Careful, Dean,” Sam said, and his voice was calm enough that it sounded almost kind. Dean turned his head slowly, brows lifting as if Sam had just done something interesting and stupid at the same time.
There was no raised voice, no slammed glass, no dramatic shove toward violence, but the tension between them snapped tight anyway. You felt it too, because your smile faded into something softer, something more aware. “Careful with what?” Dean asked, though they all knew he wasn’t asking because he didn’t understand. Sam’s eyes stayed on him for a moment, then moved back to you. “With acting like you’re the only one who gets to say things like that to her,” he said. The words landed heavy in the room, and Dean’s grin disappeared.
For a few seconds, nobody moved. The bunker seemed too large around you, too quiet, every small sound suddenly amplified. Dean could hear the faint buzz of the light overhead, the shift of Sam’s breathing, the tiny inhale you took before you tried to hide it.
Sam could hear Dean’s knuckles flex against the table, could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, could feel the old Winchester warning signs lining up one by one. You looked between them, and something in your expression changed from amused to caught. Not scared. Not uncomfortable. Caught, like you’d walked into a room where the truth had been waiting long before you arrived.
“Is that what this is?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “You’re both mad because you think the other one’s getting too close?” Dean wanted to answer fast, something smart and filthy enough to knock the softness out of the moment. He couldn’t. Sam’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again, and Dean saw it. That was what finally pushed him over the edge.
Dean leaned back in his chair, but there was nothing relaxed about him now. “I think Sam here’s got this idea in his head,” he said, dragging his eyes from his brother back to you, “that if he waits long enough and talks soft enough, you’ll just fall right into his lap.” The sentence should’ve sounded like a joke, but it didn’t. It sounded like an accusation dressed up in Dean’s usual arrogance, and Sam’s face went still in the way that meant the comment had hit exactly where Dean meant it to.
You looked at Sam, and Dean hated himself a little for watching your reaction so closely. Sam didn’t rush to defend himself. That was what made him dangerous. He took his time, sitting back with one hand resting on the closed book, his thumb brushing the worn edge of the cover like he was thinking through every possible consequence before choosing the worst one.
“And Dean thinks if he smirks hard enough and calls you sweetheart,” Sam said, voice low and even, “you’ll forget he’s terrified of wanting anything that wants him back.” Dean’s eyes flashed. You went completely still.
That should’ve been the moment one of them backed down. Sam knew it. Dean knew it. Even you seemed to know it from the way your eyes searched both of their faces, no longer teasing, no longer pretending this was just another argument they’d laugh about later. But the truth was already in the room, and neither brother had ever been good at walking away from something once it started bleeding.
“You both sound ridiculous,” you said, though your voice didn’t have enough force behind it to make either of them believe you meant it. Dean’s mouth tugged up at one corner, but his eyes were too dark for the expression to feel light. Sam’s face softened when he looked at you, and Dean hated that too, hated how Sam could make sincerity look like a weapon.
“Maybe,” Sam said, and his voice gentled in a way that made your fingers tighten around the edge of the table. Dean saw it. Of course he saw it. “Or maybe we’re just done pretending,” Sam added, and the room seemed to shrink around the three of you. Dean’s smile returned slowly, but this time there was no humor in it.
The bet came out of Dean because Dean was always better at turning fear into something reckless. He looked at Sam first, like the idea was meant to challenge him, then at you, like he already knew it would make your breathing change. “Fine,” Dean said, tapping two fingers against the table once. “Since we’re all being honest, maybe we settle it.”
Sam’s brows drew together, suspicion flickering across his face, because he knew that tone and almost never liked where it led. You didn’t ask right away, but your attention sharpened, and Dean felt it like a hand around his throat. He stood slowly, chair scraping against the floor, and Sam’s posture shifted at once, not defensive exactly, but alert. Dean didn’t move toward you yet.
He wasn’t that stupid, and despite everything burning through him, he wasn’t about to make you feel cornered. “Settle what?” you asked finally, and the softness in your voice made Sam’s eyes narrow at Dean in warning. Dean’s gaze stayed on you. “Who makes you break first,” he said. The words dropped low, warm, and dangerous, and your breath caught before you could stop it.
Sam heard that breath and felt every thought in his head go quiet. Dean heard it too, because his eyes darkened with immediate satisfaction, the kind that made Sam want to wipe the look off his face. But Sam didn’t move. Not yet. He watched you instead, watched the way you tried to gather yourself, watched the way your gaze moved from Dean to him like you weren’t sure whether you wanted to run from the fire or step closer to it.
“That’s not a bet,” Sam said after a moment, though his voice had gone rougher than before. Dean glanced at him, pleased that he’d managed to drag that much reaction out of him. “No?” Dean asked. “Sounds like one to me.” Sam stood then, slower than Dean had, and the height of him changed the balance of the room. He kept his hands visible, his distance careful, his focus split between Dean’s challenge and your face. You swallowed, and Sam saw that too. Dean saw Sam see it, and the whole thing turned sharper.
You looked like you were trying to decide whether to laugh or tell them both to get a grip, but the flush at your throat betrayed you. Sam’s expression softened again, and Dean wanted to curse because he knew exactly how effective that would be on you. “You don’t have to play along with anything just because he’s being an idiot,” Sam said, and he aimed the words at you, not Dean.
It should’ve made the moment gentler. Instead, it made Dean’s jealousy flare hotter, because Sam’s concern sounded intimate, like he had already earned a place closer to you than Dean had. You looked at Sam for a long second, and Dean’s fingers curled at his side. “I know,” you said, and your voice was steady enough to make both brothers listen.
You shifted against the table, not backing away, not stepping forward, just staying exactly where you were as if you wanted them to understand that the choice was yours before it was anyone else’s. Then your eyes moved to Dean. “And what makes you so sure I’d beg for either of you?” Dean’s smile came back slow and wicked, but Sam saw the relief underneath it. You hadn’t shut the door. You had opened it wider.
Dean took one step closer, stopping with plenty of space still between you, and Sam clocked the restraint with reluctant approval. Dean was reckless, but not careless with you. That mattered, even if Sam was too wound up to feel generous about it. “Because you like pushing,” Dean said, voice low enough to roughen at the edges. “You push and push, then act surprised when somebody finally pushes back.”
His words made your eyes narrow, but your mouth gave you away, parting just slightly before you pressed it shut. Sam watched the reaction with a strange ache in his chest, equal parts want and irritation. Dean had always known how to hit the obvious nerve first. Sam preferred the hidden ones. He took a step too, not toward Dean, but enough that you felt his presence from the other side.
“And because you’ve been waiting for us to say it,” Sam said, quieter than Dean, but no less certain. Your attention flicked to him, and something vulnerable moved over your face before you buried it. Dean saw that expression and realized with a bitter twist that Sam might be right.
The library had become too warm, or maybe that was just the weight of three people refusing to pretend anymore. You glanced down at the table, then back up, and Dean saw the question in your eyes before you formed it.
“So what?” you asked, and your voice came out softer now, not weak, not shy, just honest in a way that made both men stop posturing for half a second. “You two make a bet over me, and I’m supposed to what? Stand here and let you decide who knows me better?” Sam’s face shifted first, guilt flickering there because the question landed exactly where it needed to. Dean’s jaw tightened, and for once he didn’t have a fast answer.
The silence that followed was different from the one before. Less jealous. More serious. Sam looked at Dean, and Dean looked back, both of them understanding at once that the game ended before it began if you weren’t holding the center of it. “No,” Sam said finally, turning back to you. He spoke carefully, every word chosen with the kind of restraint that made Dean grit his teeth. “You decide if there’s anything to decide.”
Dean nodded once, rough but immediate, because whatever else he was, he wasn’t going to let you think for one second that your wanting didn’t matter more than theirs. “You say no, it’s no,” Dean said, and the cockiness had dropped out of his voice, leaving something rawer underneath.
“You tell us to shut up and go back to pretending we’re normal, we do that too.” Sam almost laughed at that, because none of them were normal, and pretending had never saved them from anything. You noticed the faint movement in his expression and looked at him again. Sam held your gaze, steady and open, though his heart was beating hard enough that he could feel it in his throat.
Dean watched that silent exchange and had to force himself not to interrupt it. That was the worst part of loving you around Sam. Dean wanted to be selfish, but he knew Sam would be good to you. Sam wanted to be patient, but he knew Dean could make you feel wanted in a way that burned bright and immediate. Neither of them could hate the other’s wanting when it looked so much like their own.
You breathed in slowly, and the room seemed to wait with you. Dean’s hands were loose at his sides now, but his whole body looked like restraint had become a physical effort. Sam stood a little farther back, giving you space, though his eyes never left your face. You looked from one brother to the other, taking in Dean’s heat, Sam’s control, the jealousy they had been dragging around like a curse they couldn’t bury.
“And if I don’t tell you to shut up?” you asked. Dean’s expression changed so quickly it almost made Sam roll his eyes, that familiar Winchester grin flickering back with dangerous relief. Sam didn’t smile, not quite, but his gaze deepened, and you saw it. You saw both of them.
That was the thing that had always undone them. Dean stepped closer to the table, careful, still waiting. Sam’s voice came from your other side, low and steady, not rushing you. “Then we talk rules,” he said. Dean’s grin widened just enough to make your stomach twist. “And then,” Dean added, softer now, “we find out who you ask for first.”
You stood there for a few seconds after Dean spoke, and the silence felt different than it had before. It wasn't sharp anymore, and it wasn't angry. It felt exposed, like somebody had finally turned on the lights in a room all three of you had been hiding inside for months.
Dean remained near the table, his shoulders tense despite the confidence in his expression, while Sam stood a little farther away with his hands loose at his sides. Neither of them was pushing. Neither of them was moving closer. For the first time all evening, they were waiting entirely on you. Your heart was beating hard enough that you could feel it in your throat, because you had spent so long imagining this conversation that actually standing inside it felt unreal.
You'd imagined Dean admitting he wanted you. You'd imagined Sam doing the same. You had never imagined both of them standing in the same room, looking at you like this. The possibility of it had always seemed too selfish to say out loud. So you wrapped your arms around yourself, partly for comfort and partly because you suddenly didn't know what to do with your hands.
You had fallen for Dean first, though not in the dramatic way romance novels promised. It happened gradually, hidden inside long drives and late-night diner stops and the way he always made sure you were walking on the inside of the sidewalk without even thinking about it.
Dean was warmth and movement and noise. He was music turned too loud, coffee made too strong, terrible jokes after terrible hunts, and the kind of loyalty that frightened you because it was so complete. He made you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. He made you feel wanted in a way that was impossible to ignore. Every time he called you sweetheart, something inside you tightened despite your best efforts.
You noticed the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren't paying attention. You noticed how quickly he became protective whenever another hunter got too familiar. There had been moments when his jealousy flashed so openly that you almost reached for his hand without thinking. You knew Dean wanted you because Dean was terrible at hiding it. The problem was that you wanted him back enough to be scared of it.
Sam had happened differently. Sam had happened quietly, slowly, the way dawn arrived when nobody was looking at the sky. You couldn't even identify the exact moment it changed. Maybe it was the first time he stayed awake with you until four in the morning while you researched a case neither of you could solve.
Maybe it was the way he listened whenever you spoke, like your words deserved his complete attention. Maybe it was how careful he became whenever you were hurt, never treating you as fragile but always making sure you weren't carrying pain alone. Sam made you feel seen in places you usually kept hidden. He remembered little things you forgot saying. He noticed when you were tired before you admitted it.
He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it without ever asking twice. Sometimes he would look at you across the library table with this quiet expression that made your chest ache because it felt so honest. He didn't flirt the way Dean did. He simply stayed close. Somehow that became even more dangerous.
The worst part was that you had realized they both wanted you months ago. Dean's jealousy practically announced itself every time another man smiled at you too long. He became sharper, louder, more possessive in little ways he probably thought nobody noticed. Sam's jealousy was quieter, but you had learned him well enough to recognize it. He would grow still. He would watch.
His voice would become softer in that way it only did when he was trying very hard not to feel something. You had seen Dean glare across bars because someone touched your elbow. You had seen Sam step between you and strangers so naturally that nobody even realized what he was doing.
You knew they both wanted you because nobody looked at another person the way they looked at you without wanting more. The problem wasn't uncertainty. The problem was that you wanted them too. You simply didn't know whether either Winchester could survive hearing that truth.
You had spent months assuming you would eventually have to choose. Some nights, lying awake in your room, you would imagine Dean knocking on your door. Other nights, you imagined Sam staying behind after research and finally saying your name the way he sometimes looked at you.
You never let yourself imagine both of them because it seemed impossible. Dean and Sam loved each other fiercely, but they also competed over everything from pool games to pie. You couldn't imagine either brother being willing to step aside. You couldn't imagine either brother wanting to share something as complicated as feelings. So you stayed quiet.
You laughed off Dean's flirting. You pretended not to notice Sam's lingering looks. You convinced yourself that eventually one of them would move on or find somebody else. Instead, the tension only grew. Sometimes you caught Dean watching you while Sam was talking. Sometimes you caught Sam watching Dean watch you. Those moments made your stomach twist with equal parts hope and guilt.
Dean shifted beside the table, and his voice softened enough to surprise you. "You don't have to answer right now." His eyes remained fixed on you, but there was something gentler behind the heat now. Dean Winchester could be reckless, arrogant, and impulsive, but he wasn't careless with your feelings. That mattered more than he probably realized. Sam nodded slightly from where he stood. "He's right." The agreement between them felt almost stranger than the argument had. You had expected competition.
You had expected jealousy. You had not expected them both to step back at the same time and give you room to breathe. That simple act made your chest ache because it proved what you had secretly suspected all along. Neither one of them wanted to win if winning meant hurting you. Dean folded his arms, looking suddenly uncertain beneath all his confidence. Sam glanced toward the floor briefly before looking back at you.
"I've known for a while," you admitted quietly. Your own voice sounded unfamiliar in the library. Dean blinked first. Sam went completely still. You looked down at your hands because looking directly at them suddenly felt impossible. "Not everything," you clarified. "But enough." Dean let out a breath through his nose. "We're not exactly subtle." His attempt at humour earned the faintest smile from you. Sam's expression softened immediately at the sight of it.
"How long?" he asked. The question was careful, almost hesitant. You thought about it honestly before answering. "Long enough to know Dean gets jealous whenever somebody flirts with me." Dean looked offended for approximately two seconds. "That obvious?" You glanced at him. "Dean, you practically growl."
Dean muttered something under his breath that made Sam smile despite himself. The sight of Sam smiling relaxed something inside you because it reminded you that beneath all the tension, these were still your boys. These were still the men who sat with you during nightmares and brought you food after difficult hunts. Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Okay, fair." Sam looked toward you then, his expression more vulnerable than you had ever seen it.
"And me?" he asked. The question carried genuine uncertainty. That almost broke your heart. Sam Winchester, who could read ancient languages and understand monsters nobody else believed in, somehow didn't know whether you had noticed him looking at you. You met his eyes fully. "You look at me like you're trying not to," you said softly. Sam went quiet immediately. Dean looked between the two of you and sighed dramatically.
"Great," Dean said. "So apparently we're both idiots." His voice carried some of its familiar warmth again, which helped ease the tightness sitting between all three of you. You found yourself laughing quietly, more from relief than amusement. The sound seemed to affect both brothers in entirely different ways. Dean smiled automatically because your laughter always did that to him.
Sam relaxed visibly, his shoulders lowering slightly. "You know what the worst part is?" you asked. Dean lifted an eyebrow. Sam waited. You swallowed before continuing. "I didn't know if either of you would be okay with me..." Your voice trailed off. Dean's expression changed first. Sam's followed immediately afterward. Neither of them interrupted. Neither of them rushed you. The patience of it gave you courage.
"I thought eventually I'd have to pick one of you," you admitted. The confession settled heavily into the room. Dean's jaw tightened slightly. Sam's eyes lowered for a moment before returning to you. "Because I knew how I felt about Dean." You looked toward him briefly.
Dean's expression had gone completely serious now. "And I knew how I felt about Sam." Sam looked almost startled hearing his name spoken like that. Your heart hammered against your ribs because these words had lived inside you for so long that speaking them felt impossible.
"But I never knew if..." You paused again. Dean took a slow breath. Sam remained perfectly still. "I never knew if either of you could handle hearing that I didn't want to choose." The honesty of it left you feeling exposed. Dean's eyes widened slightly. Sam looked almost stricken.
The silence afterward wasn't uncomfortable. It was simply full. Dean looked toward his brother for the first time in several minutes. Sam met his gaze. Whatever passed between them happened quietly, years of understanding condensed into a few seconds of eye contact. You watched them looking at one another, and it hit you again how much you cared about both of them together.
Dean brought out pieces of Sam that nobody else could. Sam steadied parts of Dean that nobody else could reach. You loved their arguments, their loyalty, their ability to communicate entire conversations through glances. You had never wanted to come between them. If anything, the idea terrified you. "You two matter too much to each other," you said quietly.
Dean looked back at you immediately. Sam did the same. "I never wanted to be the reason something changed between you." Dean's expression softened so completely it almost hurt to see. Sam looked like he understood exactly what you meant.
Dean rubbed his thumb against his lower lip before speaking. "Sweetheart, we've been driving each other insane for forty years." The faint humour helped. You smiled despite yourself. Sam shook his head slightly. "You're not ruining anything." His voice carried absolute certainty. Dean nodded immediately afterward. "Seriously." The reassurance settled somewhere deep inside your chest. You had spent months fearing this exact conversation because you assumed somebody would lose. You assumed somebody would get hurt.
Instead, both brothers stood there looking at you with the same impossible tenderness. Their jealousy suddenly made more sense. Their arguments made more sense. The longing looks and tense silences and protective instincts all fit together now. They hadn't only been afraid of losing you. They had been afraid of losing each other too.
You looked between them again, suddenly overwhelmed by how much you appreciated the ridiculous honesty of the evening. The bet itself was stupid. Childish, even. It sounded exactly like something Dean Winchester would invent because he didn't know what else to do with his feelings. Sam clearly knew that too, judging by the look he gave his brother. But beneath the ridiculousness sat something that touched you more than you expected.
Two men you loved had spent months wanting you enough to become jealous. They had noticed each other's feelings because they were both paying attention to you. They had reached a point where pretending no longer worked. Dean wanted you enough to risk rejection. Sam wanted you enough to admit it aloud. That knowledge settled warmly inside your chest. You looked down briefly, suddenly shy in a way that hunting monsters had never made you feel. "The bet is kind of stupid," you said quietly.
Dean immediately groaned. "Knew it." Sam rubbed a hand across his face. "Dean..." The embarrassment on both their faces made your smile widen slightly. You shook your head before either of them could retreat completely.
"No, I mean it is." Dean looked resigned. Sam looked apologetic. You took a slow breath. "But..." That single word brought both their eyes back to you immediately. You could see hope there now, carefully hidden but unmistakable. Your pulse jumped harder. "I appreciate it too."
Dean frowned slightly, confused. Sam looked curious. You folded your arms more tightly across yourself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt. "Knowing that you both want me enough to be jealous." The confession made Dean inhale sharply. Sam's eyes softened again. Neither of them spoke.
Your cheeks had begun warming several minutes ago, but now the heat spread fully across your face. Dean noticed immediately because Dean noticed everything physical about you. Sam noticed because he noticed everything else. The library suddenly felt too quiet again. You looked at Dean and saw all that heat and confidence hiding uncertainty underneath. You looked at Sam and saw all that patience concealing the exact same fear.
They wanted answers. They wanted reassurance. More than anything, they wanted to know whether this conversation was about to end with disappointment. Your fingers tightened against your sleeves. Your stomach twisted hard enough to make you dizzy. Dean opened his mouth like he might speak, but stopped himself. Sam waited. Both of them waited.
You finally looked up, your face warm and your heart pounding, and met both their eyes at once. Dean seemed almost afraid to move. Sam looked like he was holding his breath. The weight of months sat between all three of you. The jealousy. The pining. The late nights. The stolen looks. The fear of saying the wrong thing. You swallowed once, and your voice came out softer than you intended.
"What if..." Dean's expression changed immediately. Sam took the smallest step forward before stopping himself. You could feel yourself blushing now, unable to hide it anymore. Your eyes moved from Dean to Sam and back again. For the first time all evening, you allowed yourself to say the truth exactly as it existed. "What if I want both of you?"
Neither brother answered at first. Dean’s mouth parted, but whatever quick remark had been waiting on his tongue disappeared before it could leave him. Sam’s breath left him slowly, his expression shifting from surprise to something so openly hopeful that you nearly had to look away.
You could almost see both of them replaying your words, searching for some hidden condition or cruel misunderstanding. Dean looked at Sam, and for once there was no challenge in it, only a silent question that carried the weight of everything they had already admitted.
Sam met his gaze steadily, his throat moving as he swallowed. The jealousy between them hadn’t vanished, but something inside it had softened, becoming less like a weapon and more like a fear they finally shared. Then Dean let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh and dragged one hand down his face.
“Both of us,” Dean repeated, testing the words like he wasn’t entirely convinced he was allowed to believe them. You nodded, though the movement was small because your nerves had started making your whole body feel strangely weightless. Sam watched your face closely, careful even now, like he needed to make certain your answer wasn’t coming from pressure or panic. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rougher than before despite how gently he spoke.
“I’m sure,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as warmth spread down your neck. Dean’s eyes moved over your expression, searching for hesitation, and some of the tension finally left his shoulders when he didn’t find any. Sam took a slow breath, the smallest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then we can work with that,” he said, and Dean turned toward him with his eyebrows raised.
“We can work with it,” Dean agreed, though his tone made it clear he was already imagining several ways to prove that point. Sam gave him a warning look, but there was no real anger behind it anymore. “That doesn’t mean this is going to be simple,” Sam said, looking between you and Dean.
Dean scoffed softly and folded his arms, trying to disguise how vulnerable the moment had made him. “Nothing with us is simple, Sammy.” His gaze settled on you again, his expression losing some of its teasing edge. “I’m gonna get jealous,” he admitted, the honesty sounding almost uncomfortable in his mouth. Sam glanced at him before adding quietly, “So will I.”
“I don’t need either of you to pretend you won’t,” you told them. Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious, but attentive in a way that meant every word mattered. Sam stepped closer to the table, though he still kept enough distance to let you breathe. “Then we talk about it when it happens,” he said.
“No turning it into some competition where one of you has to win,” you added, giving Dean a pointed look. Dean placed a hand over his chest with exaggerated offence, but the faint colour rising along his neck betrayed him. “I have no idea why you’re looking at me.” Sam’s mouth twitched before he said, “And no making decisions for her because you think you know what she wants.”
“And neither of you gets to pull away without telling me why,” you continued, looking at Sam this time. His expression changed immediately because he understood exactly why that rule belonged to him. Dean glanced at his brother, some quiet recognition passing over his face before he looked back at you. “Fair,” Sam said, though the word came out softer now. Dean nodded once, the gesture firm and immediate.
“Yeah, fair.” The agreement settled between you, fragile but real, and the last of the earlier hostility seemed to drain from the room. What remained was heavier in a completely different way, all anticipation, heat, and three people suddenly aware that nothing stood between wanting and acting on it except permission.
Sam moved first, but only by a single step. Dean followed more slowly, circling the edge of the table until the two of them stood on opposite sides of you. You stayed exactly where you were, your palms pressed lightly against the worn wood behind you as your heartbeat climbed higher.
Sam raised one hand, stopping before his fingers reached your face. The restraint in that unfinished movement made your stomach tighten more than confidence ever could. “Can I touch you?” he asked, his eyes fixed on yours. “Yes,” you whispered. His fingertips brushed along your cheek so carefully that the tenderness of it almost hurt.
Dean came closer behind you, near enough that the warmth of him reached your back without his body touching yours yet. “Still okay?” he asked, his voice lower beside your ear, stripped of every joke he usually used to protect himself. “Yes,” you answered again, more steadily this time. His palm settled at your waist, broad and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.
Sam watched your reaction, his thumb tracing once beneath your cheekbone while Dean’s fingers flexed gently against your side. Being held between them should have felt overwhelming, but instead it felt like the answer to a question your body had been asking for months. “You two are being suspiciously careful,” you murmured, trying to disguise how uneven your breathing had become. Dean’s quiet laugh brushed across the side of your neck as he said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”
Sam’s expression darkened at Dean’s words, though the change wasn’t directed at his brother this time. He leaned down slowly, giving you every chance to turn your head or change your mind. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. You answered by curling your fingers into the front of his shirt and pulling him the final inch toward you.
The first kiss was softer than you expected, a careful press of his mouth against yours that lasted only long enough to make you chase him when he began to pull away. Something in Sam snapped at the movement. His second kiss landed harder, his hand sliding from your cheek to your jaw as he tilted your face upward and kissed you with a hunger that didn’t match his usual gentleness. A quiet sound escaped you before you could swallow it, and Dean’s grip tightened instantly at your waist.
Dean pressed closer behind you, his chest finally meeting your back while Sam kept your attention trapped in front of you. One of Dean’s hands spread over your stomach, holding you securely as his mouth brushed beneath your ear. The touch sent a shiver through you, and Sam felt it in the way your fingers clenched harder around his shirt.
“Didn’t know Sammy had that in him, did you?” Dean murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin below your jaw. Sam broke the kiss just enough to glare past you at his brother, though his swollen mouth ruined any real attempt at intimidation. “You talk too much,” Sam said, his voice low and strained. Dean smiled against your neck. “She usually likes it.”
You turned your head before Dean could say anything else and caught his mouth with yours. He made a surprised sound that quickly deepened into a rough groan, his hand pulling you more firmly against him as he returned the kiss without hesitation. Dean kissed exactly the way you had always imagined, hot, demanding, and almost impatient, like he had spent too long restraining himself to waste another second.
Sam’s hand remained against your jaw, his thumb stroking over your skin while he watched, the jealousy in his eyes tangled tightly with fascination. You reached for him blindly, catching his wrist and keeping him close so he couldn’t mistake your attention shifting for rejection.
His expression softened immediately, and Dean felt the movement, breaking the kiss with a breathless smile. “Look at that,” he murmured, his forehead resting briefly against yours. “Already making sure neither one of us gets left out.”
“I meant what I said,” you whispered, still holding Sam’s wrist while Dean’s hand stayed firm at your waist. Sam stepped closer until there was hardly any space left in front of you, his body boxing you gently between both brothers without making you feel trapped. “We know,” he said, though the wonder in his voice suggested he was still trying to believe it. Dean brushed his nose against your temple, his breathing warm and uneven beside your face.
“And we meant it too,” he added. Sam’s eyes moved briefly to Dean’s, and whatever silent conversation passed between them ended with both men turning their attention back to you. The jealousy would come, and so would arguments, mistakes, and all the complicated pieces none of you could solve tonight.
But when Sam kissed you again and Dean’s arms tightened around you from behind, you realised complication had never frightened you as much as losing this chance would have.
Dean’s chest pressed harder into your back as Sam crowded closer in front of you, their bodies hemming you in without either brother touching the other. The thin fabric of your shirt did nothing to soften the heat pouring from both of them, and every breath you took made your body brush against Sam’s while Dean’s arms tightened around your waist. Dean’s erection pushed thick and unmistakable against the curve of your ass, his hips giving one involuntary roll before he caught himself with a rough exhale against your neck.
Sam was no better, the hard length of him pressing against your lower stomach through his jeans whenever you leaned into his kiss. “Feel what you’ve done to us, sweetheart?” Dean murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself for a man whose breathing had already gone ragged. You rolled your hips backward just enough to make him groan, then pressed forward into Sam until his jaw tightened and his hand closed around your waist.
Sam caught your chin between his fingers and kissed you slowly, but the controlled pace only made the hunger beneath it more obvious. “Still good?” he asked against your mouth, his eyes dark and fixed on yours. “I want more than good,” you whispered, and both men reacted like the words had struck straight through them.
Dean’s hands slid beneath the hem of your oversized shirt, his palms spreading over the bare skin of your stomach while Sam lifted the fabric carefully from the front. “Arms up,” Sam said, and the softness of his instruction made you obey before you even had time to tease him. Dean helped pull the shirt over your head from behind, letting it fall somewhere beside the table while Sam’s gaze dropped openly to your chest. The shorts came next, Dean hooking his fingers into the waistband while Sam steadied you with both hands at your hips.
“You boys always this coordinated?” you asked, breath catching when the material slid down your thighs. “Only when there’s something worth working together for,” Dean replied, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you stepped free of the shorts. Sam crouched briefly to guide them over your feet, his knuckles brushing your calf before he rose again with a look that made your knees feel loose.
Your underwear remained in place for only another second before Dean traced the damp fabric between your legs and let out a low, satisfied sound. “Sammy,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “she’s already soaked.”
Heat rushed across your face, but Sam’s expression turned reverent rather than smug as he took in the sight of you standing bare between them. Your breasts rose and fell with every unsteady breath, full and soft beneath his gaze, their weight shifting slightly whenever Dean moved you against him. Your nipples had tightened into hard little peaks from the cool air and the attention, and Sam brushed the back of one finger over the nearest one as though he couldn’t resist testing your reaction.
The light touch made you gasp, your chest arching instinctively toward his hand while Dean cupped your other breast from behind. “Sensitive,” Dean observed, rolling your nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger until your thighs pressed together. Sam’s eyes followed the movement, then dropped lower when Dean slid your underwear down and exposed the wet shine gathered along your folds.
You were slick enough that the inner curves of your thighs glistened, the evidence of your arousal impossible to hide even before Dean spread you slightly with two careful fingers. A slightly unruly patch of pubic hair rested above your pussy, soft and natural, and Dean’s grin deepened when he noticed the way you tried to glance down at yourself. “Don’t you dare get shy now,” he murmured, kissing beneath your ear while Sam said softly, “You’re beautiful exactly like this.”
You turned in Dean’s arms before either man could keep staring without consequence, catching the hem of Sam’s shirt and tugging it upward. Sam lifted his arms and let you strip it away, his broad chest and defined stomach coming into view beneath the warm library light. Dean made an impatient sound behind you, so you reached back and dragged at his shirt too until he laughed and pulled it off himself.
Their jeans were harder to manage with your hands shaking, but you worked Sam’s belt loose first while Dean kissed your shoulder and offered entirely unhelpful commentary. “Easy there, sweetheart, you break the giant and I’m not carrying him,” Dean said, earning a flat look from Sam and a breathless laugh from you. Sam’s cock sprang free when you pushed his jeans and underwear down, long, thick, and flushed dark at the head, a bead of precum already shining at the tip.
Your mouth went dry at the sight, and Sam’s stomach tightened when your fingers wrapped experimentally around his shaft. Dean stepped out of his own jeans beside you, revealing himself just as hard, his cock slightly shorter than Sam’s but heavy and broad, the veins standing out along its length as it curved toward his stomach. “Still think the bet was stupid?” Dean asked, and you answered by stroking them both once, making their teasing disappear into matched groans.
They guided you toward the couch with a hand at each hip, not rushing you but leaving no doubt about where they wanted you. Dean reached it first and dropped onto the cushions on his back, stretching his body along the length of the couch with his legs parted and his cock hard against his stomach. “C’mere,” he said, curling two fingers toward you while his eyes dragged over your naked body.
Sam stayed behind you, one palm sliding down the line of your spine as you climbed onto the couch between Dean’s legs. You settled on your knees facing Dean, your hands braced against his thighs while he watched you with a mixture of hunger and disbelief. “You’ve thought about this,” you accused, leaning close enough that your breath warmed the head of his cock. “Every damn time you wore my flannel with nothing under it,” Dean admitted, his voice cracking slightly when your lips brushed him.
Sam knelt on the couch behind you, his thighs framing yours without touching Dean, and gathered your hair away from your face so Dean could see you clearly. “Show him what he’s been imagining,” Sam murmured near your ear, and the command sent a fresh pulse of wetness down your thighs.
You wrapped one hand around Dean’s shaft and licked slowly over the bead of precum at his tip, tasting salt as his abdomen clenched beneath you. His head fell back against the couch with a rough groan, but he forced himself to look down again when you opened your mouth around the broad head. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed, one hand fisting in the cushion instead of grabbing you before you invited it.
You took him deeper a little at a time, letting your tongue flatten along the underside while your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t yet fit. Dean’s hips twitched upward, then stopped when Sam planted a steadying hand against your lower back and gave him a warning look over your shoulder. “Don’t make her choke because you can’t control yourself,” Sam said, though his own voice sounded strained from watching your lips stretch around Dean.
Dean laughed breathlessly and threaded his fingers into your hair with deliberate care, guiding rather than forcing as you bobbed your head. “Hear that?” he murmured, eyes locked on your face while you hollowed your cheeks around him, “Sammy’s pretending he isn’t dying back there.” Sam answered by sliding two fingers through your soaked folds, and your moan vibrated around Dean’s cock hard enough to make him swear.
Sam stroked you from behind with slow, deliberate passes, spreading your wetness from your entrance to your swollen clit while you continued sucking Dean. Each glide of his fingers made your hips rock backward, your body asking for more even while your mouth stayed full. “So wet,” Sam said, the words almost lost beneath Dean’s ragged breathing.
He pressed one finger inside you, then a second, curling them until your knees shifted wider on the cushion and another muffled cry escaped around Dean. Dean looked wrecked beneath you, his lips parted and his chest rising hard as he watched Sam prepare you without ever looking directly at him. “That’s it,” Dean praised, brushing your hair back from your flushed face, “take what you need from him while you take care of me.”
Sam withdrew his fingers only when your pussy was clenching greedily around them, and you heard the slick sound of his hand closing around his own cock behind you. He rubbed the thick head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your arousal and nudging your clit just enough to make your whole body shake. “Tell me you want it,” Sam said, one hand gripping your hip while the other lined his cock up with your entrance.
You pulled off Dean just long enough to drag in a breath, your hand continuing to stroke him as you looked back over your shoulder at Sam. “I want you inside me,” you said, voice shaking with need, “and I want Dean in my mouth while you do it.” Dean made a broken sound beneath you and guided your face back toward his cock, his thumb brushing affectionately over your swollen lower lip. Sam pushed forward slowly, the broad head of him stretching your entrance before the first thick inch slipped inside.
Your mouth opened on a cry, and Dean used the moment to slide between your lips again, groaning when the sound closed hot around him. Sam paused with both hands firm on your hips, giving your body time to adjust as your pussy fluttered tightly around the length already inside you. “You’re squeezing me so hard,” he whispered, bending over your back to kiss your shoulder while keeping his body carefully separate from Dean’s.
Dean stroked your cheek and smiled down at you with ruined, hungry tenderness, saying, “Look at you, taking both of us exactly the way you wanted.”
Your lips closed around Dean again, swallowing the low groan that tore from his chest when your tongue dragged firmly along the underside of his cock. Dean’s hand slid from your cheek into your hair, his fingers gathering it carefully before he tightened his grip enough to hold your head steady. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathed, watching your mouth stretch around him with a look of ruined fascination. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked as you moved, taking him deeper with every downward stroke until the broad head pushed against the back of your throat.
He started guiding you gently, testing the rhythm before giving a slow thrust upward that made your eyes water. Each push of his hips fed more of his cock into your mouth, and you relaxed your throat around him as best you could, letting him feel how willingly you took it. His cock dragged hot and heavy over your tongue while his thumb stroked the side of your face, the tenderness of the gesture contrasting obscenely with the way he used your mouth.
“Tap my thigh if you need me to stop,” Dean reminded you, his voice strained despite the careful seriousness in his eyes. You answered by gripping his leg and sucking harder, making his head fall back against the couch with a broken curse.
Once he felt you settle into the rhythm, Dean’s control began slipping, his hips lifting more firmly as he fucked into the wet heat of your mouth. His fingers stayed tangled in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted while he drew you down until your nose nearly brushed the coarse hair at the base of his cock. He rolled his hips upward again, slow enough to let you breathe between thrusts but deep enough that your throat tightened around him.
You let saliva spill from the corners of your mouth, slicking his shaft and your swollen lips as he pulled back before pressing deep again. Tears gathered along your lashes from the repeated stretch, and Dean wiped one away with his free thumb without slowing. Dean groaned when you swallowed around him, his stomach flexing beneath your hands as the muscles in his thighs tightened.
“You look so fucking pretty with your mouth full,” he praised, his voice turning rougher when you moaned around his cock. The praise made you press backward instinctively, silently begging Sam to give you more at the same time. Sam’s hand tightened around your hip as he understood the movement, and his next thrust drove deeper into your soaked pussy.
Sam fucked you with long, forceful strokes, drawing nearly all the way out before sinking back inside until his hips met the soft curve of your ass. His hips established a steady rhythm that rocked your entire body forward onto Dean’s cock each time he buried himself inside you. The angle had the thick head of him rubbing somewhere deep that made your thighs tremble and your fingers dig into Dean’s legs.
One hand remained firm on your hip, controlling your movement, while the other slid around your body and found your swollen clit. “Spread your knees a little wider for me,” Sam instructed, his breath breaking when your pussy clenched around him. You obeyed immediately, opening yourself farther and giving his fingers more room to work between your thighs.
His fingertips rubbed tight circles over your clit, slick with the wetness that coated you both, while his cock continued stretching and filling you from behind. The pressure built so quickly that your stomach pulled tight, every thrust grinding his fingers harder against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your moan vibrated around Dean’s cock, making him thrust into your mouth with a groan while Sam whispered, “There she is.”
Sam felt your body beginning to unravel before you could warn him, your pussy fluttering rapidly around his cock while your hips chased his fingers. “Right there?” he asked, already knowing the answer from the desperate way you pushed backward against him. He kept his thrusts deep and measured, grinding into you instead of pulling away as his fingers rubbed your clit faster.
Your knees shifted unsteadily on the couch, and Sam tightened his arm around your waist to keep you supported between them. Dean slowed the movement of your head, giving you room to breathe while still keeping his cock resting heavily against your tongue. He held your gaze as your eyes lifted toward him, his expression softening despite the raw hunger carved across his face. “Cum for him, sweetheart,” Dean encouraged, stroking your wet cheek while Sam drove into you again.
Sam pinched your clit lightly between two fingers before rubbing it with firm, rapid strokes, his mouth pressed close to your shoulder as he praised how tightly you were taking him. The combined pressure of Sam filling you, his fingers working your clit, and Dean’s cock pulsing inside your mouth finally dragged you over the edge.
Your orgasm tore through you with enough force to make your entire body lock between them, a muffled cry breaking around Dean’s cock as your thighs shook violently. Your pussy clamped down around Sam in repeated waves, squeezing him so tightly that his thrusts faltered and a harsh groan ripped from his chest.
Sam swore against your skin, holding himself deep inside you while his fingers continued rubbing your clit through every helpless contraction. Dean pulled his cock back enough to let you gasp for air, his hand still supporting your head while he watched your face crumple with pleasure. You shook beneath Sam’s hands, your hips twitching uncontrollably as slick wetness spread over his cock and down your inner thighs. “Good girl,” Sam murmured, pressing slow kisses along your shoulder while your pussy continued pulsing around him.
Sam kept his movements shallow until the overstimulation made you whimper, then finally stilled and let his hand rest warmly over your lower stomach. Dean withdrew from your mouth completely, his cock shining with your saliva and still hard enough to throb against his abdomen. Neither brother let himself cum, both of them visibly straining against the need because they had already decided they weren’t finished sharing you.
For a moment, all three of you stayed tangled together while you struggled to catch your breath, your body loose and trembling from the orgasm. Dean brushed your damp hair away from your forehead, looking far too smug for someone whose cock was still flushed and aching beside your face. “We’re not done with you yet,” he said, tracing your swollen lower lip with his thumb before glancing toward Sam. Sam eased out of your pussy slowly, watching the way your stretched entrance clenched around nothing once he was gone.
“Swap?” Sam asked, wrapping one slick hand around his cock and stroking himself once as he waited for your reaction. Dean’s grin sharpened while your exhausted body immediately stirred with fresh heat at the suggestion. They moved carefully around you, never touching one another as Sam stepped away from the couch and Dean shifted into a seated position.
Dean sat with his back against the cushions and his legs spread, his erection standing thick and rigid between his thighs. He reached for your hips and guided you around until you were hovering above him with your back facing his chest.
You lowered yourself onto Dean slowly, the broad head of his cock pressing through your soaked folds before stretching your sensitive entrance open again. Dean’s cock sank into you inch by inch, thicker than Sam’s in a way that made your pussy burn pleasantly as it adjusted around him. He groaned into the back of your neck when your ass finally settled against his lap and he was buried completely inside you. “Back against me, sweetheart,” he instructed, wrapping one arm firmly around your waist and drawing you against his chest.
You settled against him, your head resting briefly on his shoulder while his cock pulsed deep inside your still fluttering pussy. Dean planted his feet against the floor and lifted your hips before pulling you down again, making you gasp at the sudden force of the thrust. He thrust upward into you repeatedly, using his arm around your waist to bounce you against his lap as your wetness coated his cock.
Your breasts jiggled freely with every hard movement, the soft weight of them bouncing as Dean drove you up and down over his length. Dean cupped one from behind and squeezed it, rolling your stiff nipple between his fingers while he murmured, “Look at these pretty fucking tits bouncing for me.”
Sam stepped in front of you, towering over the couch with his cock still slick from your pussy and flushed dark from holding himself back. His cock twitched near your face, precum gathering thickly at the tip while he watched Dean make your body bounce in his lap. You wrapped one hand around Sam’s shaft and stroked him slowly, spreading the slickness along every hot inch as your lips parted beneath him. “Open up for me,” Sam said, catching your chin gently and tipping your face upward while Dean continued thrusting from below.
You did, extending your tongue so Sam could drag the swollen head across it before pushing his cock between your lips. Sam used your mouth at his chosen pace, one hand cradling the back of your head as he slid over your tongue and pressed carefully into your throat. Your free hand continued stroking the base of his cock whenever his hips pulled back, twisting your wrist and squeezing firmly enough to make his breath hitch. Dean thrust harder every time Sam pushed into your mouth, making your breasts bounce wildly while his fingers pinched and tugged your nipple.
Caught between Dean’s cock pounding into your pussy and Sam fucking your mouth above him, you could only moan around Sam’s length while both brothers praised how perfectly you took them.
Sam’s cock slid deeper into your mouth as Dean thrust upward beneath you, forcing a broken moan from your throat that vibrated around Sam’s length. Every drive of Dean’s hips lifted your body, making your lips move along Sam’s shaft while your hand tightened around the slick base of his cock. Dean’s arm stayed locked around your waist, holding your back firmly against his chest as he fucked into your dripping pussy from below.
Your breasts bounced with every impact, the soft flesh jiggling uncontrollably while Dean’s free hand squeezed and kneaded one of them. “That’s it, sweetheart, let him use that pretty mouth,” Dean groaned against your ear, pinching your hardened nipple until you whimpered around Sam. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks as Sam pushed forward and let the head of his cock press into your throat.
Sam’s fingers tightened in your hair, keeping your face tilted upward while he watched your watering eyes and saliva-coated lips. “You’re taking me so well,” he praised, dragging himself almost completely out before sliding back across your tongue. The sensation of being filled at both ends left you helpless between them, your wet pussy clenching around Dean every time Sam’s cock reached deep into your mouth.
Dean felt every contraction around him, and each tight pulse made his control fracture a little more. He planted his feet harder against the floor and drove his cock upward in forceful strokes, bouncing you on his lap until your ass slapped repeatedly against his thighs. Your slick coated the full length of him, gathering around the base of his cock and smearing across his skin whenever he buried himself completely. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” Dean muttered, slipping his hand from your breast down over your stomach.
His fingers found your swollen clit and rubbed it in rough circles while his other arm continued holding you in place. Your whole body jolted, forcing Sam’s cock deeper as you cried out around him. Sam paused long enough to let you breathe through your nose, his thumb brushing tenderly beneath one of your tear-bright eyes.
“Too much?” he asked, despite the dark hunger in his expression and the way his cock throbbed against your tongue. You shook your head urgently and stroked him faster, making Sam’s restraint disappear beneath a low, ragged groan.
Sam began fucking your mouth more steadily, guiding your head onto his cock while meeting each movement with a controlled thrust of his hips. The swollen head pressed against the back of your throat again and again, leaving you gagging softly while saliva slipped down your chin. His free hand cupped your jaw, feeling the shape of himself through your cheek as your mouth stretched around his thickness.
“Look at me,” Sam instructed, slowing just enough for you to lift your watery gaze to his. You obeyed, sucking hard as he withdrew, your tongue following the sensitive underside until only the tip remained between your lips. Sam’s breath hitched when you swirled your tongue around the head and dragged your fist firmly along the rest of his shaft.
“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” Dean said, his voice rough with pride while he continued pounding upward into you. Dean’s fingers pressed harder against your clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts until your thighs began trembling around his legs. You moaned Sam’s name with your mouth still full, the muffled sound making his cock jerk against your tongue.
Dean kissed the side of your neck while his cock drove into the deepest part of you, each thrust forcing your body upward before he pulled you down again. Your breasts bounced wildly in front of Sam, your nipples stiff and flushed while Dean’s hand occasionally left your clit to slap lightly against the underside of one breast. The soft impact made your chest jiggle harder and sent another surge of wetness around Dean’s cock.
“These gorgeous fucking tits,” Dean breathed, cupping both breasts briefly and squeezing them together. Sam looked down at your body, watching Dean’s cock disappear into your pussy without directing any touch or attention toward his brother. His gaze stayed fixed on you, on your open mouth, bouncing chest, and the desperate movements of your hand around his shaft.
“You like being watched?” Sam asked, pulling his cock free so you could answer. “I like knowing what I’m doing to both of you,” you gasped, still bouncing helplessly on Dean’s cock. Dean laughed against your shoulder and thrust hard enough to cut your next breath into a sharp cry.
Sam tapped the heavy head of his cock against your tongue, smearing precum over your lips while your hand pumped him from base to tip. “Then look at what you’re doing to me,” he said, guiding your gaze downward to the flushed length twitching in your fist. You licked the precum from his slit before taking him back into your mouth, drawing a curse from him as your lips closed tightly around the head.
Dean’s fingers returned to your clit and rubbed faster, making your pussy squeeze around him so hard that his hips stuttered. “Easy,” Dean warned breathlessly, though he sounded like he was speaking to himself more than you. You deliberately clenched again, earning a strained groan and a sharp bite against your shoulder. “Trying to make me cum before your boyfriend up there?” Dean asked, his tone teasing despite how close he clearly was.
Sam’s eyes darkened at the word, but his expression softened when you reached up and squeezed his cock possessively. “They’re both yours,” Sam murmured, thrusting back into your mouth while Dean answered, “Damn right we are.”
The renewed claim sent a fierce wave of arousal through you, and Dean felt fresh wetness spill around his thrusting cock. His fingers circled your clit relentlessly, occasionally pressing directly against it until your body jerked and your nails dug into Sam’s thigh. Sam kept fucking your mouth while you stroked the portion you couldn’t take, twisting your wrist around the slick shaft each time he pulled back.
Your breathing became ragged through your nose, broken by wet choking sounds whenever he pressed farther down your throat. “You’re close again,” Sam observed, recognizing the frantic trembling running through your body. Dean slowed his thrusts into deep, grinding movements, keeping his cock buried while he rubbed your clit with firm strokes.
“Go ahead, sweetheart,” Dean whispered, his lips brushing your ear as his fingers tightened around your waist. “Cum on my cock while you suck Sammy off.” Your pussy spasmed immediately at the command, the first hard contraction dragging a hoarse groan from Dean’s chest.
Your second orgasm built more slowly than the first, gathering beneath Dean’s fingers until every part of you felt stretched tight and unbearably sensitive. Dean kept grinding his cock into you, rubbing deep against your inner walls while his fingertips worked your clit without mercy. Sam pulled out of your mouth so he could hear you, wrapping one hand around his cock as he watched your face crumple with pleasure.
You cried out when the orgasm broke, your head falling back against Dean’s shoulder while your pussy clenched rhythmically around him. Your thighs shook violently, and your breasts bounced from the involuntary movements as Dean continued thrusting through every pulse. “Fuck, that’s it,” Dean groaned, holding you down on his cock while your wetness soaked his lap.
Sam stroked himself faster in front of you, his fist gliding over the slick length while he watched you tremble. Dean’s fingers slowed over your clit only when your whimpers turned breathless and overstimulated. He kissed your flushed cheek and murmured, “You’re gonna make it real hard for us to keep holding back.”
You reached for Sam before the last tremors had faded, wrapping your hand around his cock and guiding him back toward your mouth. Sam groaned at your eagerness, sliding the head between your lips while Dean resumed slow, powerful thrusts beneath you.
“Want my cum?” Sam asked, his voice hoarse as he gathered your hair into his fist again. You nodded around him and sucked greedily, stroking the base while your tongue worked beneath the sensitive head. Sam’s hips jerked forward, his restraint slipping as your mouth tightened around him and Dean’s thrusts rocked you against his body. Dean watched your cheeks hollow around Sam’s cock, his own breathing becoming harsh as your oversensitive pussy continued gripping him.
“Give it to her,” Dean urged, squeezing your bouncing breast as he fucked upward. Sam’s cock pulsed heavily on your tongue, his hand holding your head still while his body tensed in front of you. Your eyes stayed fixed on his as you took him deeper, silently begging him to finally stop holding back.
You knew from the way Sam’s cock pulsed against your tongue and the way Dean’s thrusts had started losing their rhythm that neither of them had much control left. Sam’s fist tightened in your hair, his hips jerking forward as another bead of precum spread across your tongue, while Dean groaned against your neck and buried himself deep inside your trembling pussy.
The thought of either of them finishing where they were made your stomach twist with need, but another image had already taken hold of you. You pulled your mouth off Sam’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging briefly between your swollen lips and his flushed head. “Wait,” you pleaded, making both men freeze despite how close they were.
Dean’s arm tightened around your waist as he fought to keep himself still, his cock throbbing hard inside you while Sam wrapped a desperate hand around his shaft. “What is it, sweetheart?” Dean asked, his voice wrecked and strained as though every second of restraint physically hurt. You looked between them, breathing hard, your cheeks hot and your lips glistening. “I want both of you to cum on my face.”
Sam’s eyes darkened immediately, and Dean made a sound behind you that was half laugh and half groan. “Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, pressing his forehead against your shoulder while your pussy clenched instinctively around him. Sam’s hand began moving slowly over his cock, but he watched you carefully as though he needed to hear you say it again before he let himself believe it. “You’re sure?” he asked, his thumb dragging across the slick head as he stroked himself.
“I’m sure,” you said, turning your face toward him and licking your swollen lips. Dean eased you off his cock with visible reluctance, holding your hips securely while you climbed from his lap and lowered yourself onto the floor. You settled between them on your knees, naked and flushed, with your thighs still wet and your breasts rising quickly with every breath.
Dean stood beside Sam without touching him, both brothers facing you as they wrapped their hands around their aching cocks. “Look at you,” Dean said, staring down at you with hungry disbelief. “On your knees, asking us to cover that pretty face.”
You tilted your chin upward and opened your mouth, letting your tongue slide out as both men began stroking themselves faster. Dean’s fist moved firmly from base to tip, smearing your wetness and saliva over his cock while his free hand cupped your cheek. Sam’s strokes were slower at first, his grip twisting around the swollen head before dragging tightly down the full length of his shaft.
Their breathing filled the room, rough groans and broken curses overlapping as they watched you wait beneath them. “Stick your tongue out farther,” Sam instructed, his voice low and unsteady, and you obeyed immediately. Dean’s thumb stroked beneath your eye while his hips pushed helplessly into his fist, his cock twitching harder every time your gaze moved between them.
“You want all of it?” Dean asked, his voice breaking when you nodded eagerly. “Yes,” you breathed, leaving your mouth open as your tongue rested against your lower lip. Sam groaned at the sight and stroked faster, his stomach tightening visibly as he reached the edge.
Dean came first with a harsh curse, his cock jerking in his hand as the first thick spurt of cum struck your cheek. Another landed across your nose and upper lip, warm ropes streaking over your skin while he continued pumping himself through every pulse. You kept your mouth open, catching part of the next spurt on your tongue before swallowing it with a soft, satisfied moan. The sight pushed Sam over immediately, his jaw clenching as his cock throbbed violently in his fist.
His cum splashed across your other cheek and chin, some of it landing directly on your outstretched tongue as he groaned your name. You closed your lips around the warm taste and swallowed, then opened your mouth again while Sam milked the final drops from his cock. Their cum covered your face in thick streaks, glistening beneath the bunker lights as you looked up at them with swollen lips and flushed cheeks.
Dean stared down at you like the sight had stolen the last coherent thought from his head, while Sam’s hand drifted gently into your hair despite the hunger still burning in his eyes. You dragged your tongue across your upper lip, collecting what you could reach before swallowing again, and Dean groaned, “Sweetheart, you’re gonna fucking kill us.”
For several seconds, nobody spoke. Dean’s breathing was still uneven as he reached down and brushed his thumb carefully beneath your eye, his ruined grin softening into something warmer when you leaned into his touch. Sam crouched beside you with a towel he had grabbed from the back of the couch, his movements gentle as he began cleaning your flushed face.
“You okay?” he asked, studying you with the same serious attention he gave every injury, despite the obvious satisfaction lingering in his expression. You nodded, still trying to steady your breathing while Dean muttered, “Pretty sure she’s more than okay, Sammy.” Sam gave him a look that should have been annoyed, but the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him.
You laughed softly between them, exhausted and overwhelmed in the best way, and the sound seemed to ease the last of the tension from both brothers. Dean offered you his hand, helping you stand before drawing you carefully against his chest. Sam moved in beside you, one broad palm settling reassuringly at your back.
“You two really held all of that in for months?” you asked, glancing between them as Dean found a blanket and wrapped it loosely around your shoulders. “In our defence, communication isn’t exactly the Winchester family business,” Dean replied. Sam snorted as he sat beside you on the couch, leaving enough room for you to choose where you wanted to settle.
You chose the space between them, curling against Dean’s side while resting your legs across Sam’s lap. The decision made both men look quietly pleased, though Dean was far worse at hiding it. Sam’s hand moved slowly along your calf beneath the blanket, soothing rather than demanding anything more.
“We still need to talk,” he reminded you gently. Dean groaned and tipped his head back against the cushions. “Of course you’d schedule the relationship meeting immediately after.” You nudged Dean with your elbow and told him, “He’s right,” which earned you an offended stare.
The conversation came in pieces, softened by lingering touches and tired laughter. You agreed that jealousy wasn’t forbidden, only cruelty and silence, and that nobody would be expected to hide what they needed. Sam insisted that each relationship had to be allowed to develop naturally instead of becoming part of some competition Dean could keep score of.
Dean complained about the accusation before immediately asking whether kissing counted as a point, proving Sam’s argument for him. You promised neither of them would be treated like a consolation prize, because what you felt for each brother was different but equally real. That answer silenced Dean completely, his expression turning vulnerable before he hid it against your hair.
Sam squeezed your leg and looked down for a moment, swallowing around whatever emotion had caught in his throat. “We’re going to screw this up sometimes,” he admitted. “Probably spectacularly,” Dean added. You smiled and rested one hand over each of theirs. “Then we fix it together.”
Later, Dean carried you toward the hallway despite your insistence that you could walk perfectly well. Sam followed with your abandoned clothes and the sort of amused expression that suggested he knew arguing with Dean would only make him more stubborn. “You’re both ridiculous,” you murmured, looping your arms around Dean’s neck.
“Yeah, but apparently you’re into that,” Dean said, kissing your temple. Sam opened your bedroom door and pulled back the covers while Dean lowered you carefully onto the mattress. Neither brother assumed he should stay, and the sudden uncertainty on their faces made your chest tighten with affection. You reached for both of them before either could retreat.
“Stay,” you said simply. Dean climbed in on one side while Sam settled on the other, their bodies curved protectively around yours without touching each other. As the bunker grew quiet again, you realised you had spent months fearing that wanting both brothers would leave you with neither, only to fall asleep safely held between them.
You’ve been pushing him the whole drive back from a hunt that nearly got you killed. He finally snaps, pulls over by the woods, and you bolt. He chases you down, tackles you into the dirt, and then fucks the attitude out of you
Warnings: smut (MDNI), primal play, chased through the woods, slap kink, spit kink, rough sex, angry sex, brat!reader, brat tamer!dean, dirty talk, chase kink, sex in a forest, degradation, light bondage, dean having anger issues, reader being reckless, protective!dean
WC: 4.8K
The Impala's engine growled low, a familiar rumble that usually soothed her nerves.
Not today.
She sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw tight, staring out the window at the endless blacktop while Dean's knuckles went white on the steering wheel. Sam wasn't here to play buffer—he'd stayed back at the bunker, nursing a twisted ankle and a stack of lore books. So it was just the two of them, three hours into a seven-hour drive, and she hadn't spoken a single word since the gas station ninety miles back.
Dean hadn't either. Not really. He'd grunted a few things. Cursed under his breath. Shot her looks she could feel like heat on the side of her face.
The hunt had gone sideways. She'd made a call in the field—a split-second decision that had nearly gotten him gutted by a wendigo's claw—and he'd been simmering ever since. The thing was dead. They were alive. But Dean Winchester didn't let things go, especially not when someone he cared about decided to play hero without backup.
"You gonna ignore me the whole drive?" His voice cut through the silence, gravelly and tight.
She didn't answer. Turned her head further toward the window, watching pine trees blur past.
"Real mature."
Nothing.
"Hey." His hand left the wheel, fingers brushing her shoulder. She jerked away like his touch burned. "I'm talking to you."
"And I'm not talking to you," she said, flat and cold. "So drive."
Dean let out a laugh. It wasn't a happy sound. "Oh, you're not talking to me? That's rich. You're the one who—"
"I saved your life."
"You nearly got yourself killed!"
The words exploded from him, and the Impala swerved slightly before he corrected. Silence crashed back down, heavier than before. Her heart hammered. Dean's breath came rough through his nose, and she watched his profile—the hard line of his jaw, the muscle jumping near his temple, the way his chest rose and fell like he'd been running.
She should've let it go. Should've sat there and let him stew until they got back to the bunker and Sam could defuse the whole thing.
Instead, she said: "Maybe if you weren't so damn slow, I wouldn't have had to make the call."
Dean's head whipped toward her. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." The words felt good, sharp and petty. She didn't mean them—she'd watched him move faster than any hunter she'd ever seen, watched him put himself between her and danger a dozen times—but the anger was a living thing inside her chest, and it wanted out. "Maybe if you'd been paying attention instead of—"
"I was paying attention to you." His voice dropped, dangerous. "I'm always paying attention to you. That's why you're still breathing.”
"Pull over.”
"What?"
"Pull the car over, Dean."
"We're in the middle of nowhere."
"I don't care. Pull over."
The Impala's tires hit gravel as he yanked the wheel. Dust plumed around them, and the engine idled rough as he threw the car into park. Dean turned in his seat, one arm draped over the steering wheel, and fixed her with a stare that would've made lesser hunters back down.
"What the hell is your problem?"
She was already reaching for the door handle. "My problem is you acting like I need a babysitter."
"My problem is you acting like you've got a death wish!"
She shoved the door open. Cool air flooded the car, smelling of pine and damp earth and the coming dusk. Dean's hand shot out, grabbing her wrist.
"Don't.”
"Let go of me."
"Sit down. We're talking about this."
"There's nothing to talk about." She twisted her arm, breaking his grip, and scrambled out of the car. Her boots hit the shoulder of the road. Beyond it, the woods stretched dark and dense, a wall of green and shadow.
Dean killed the engine. His door creaked open, and she heard his boots crunch on gravel. "Get back in the car."
"No."
"I'm not asking.”
A wild impulse seized her—stupid and reckless and exactly the kind of thing that drove him crazy. She met his eyes across the Impala's roof, held them for one heartbeat, two.
Then she ran.
Straight into the trees.
"Hey!"
His shout followed her, but she didn't slow. Branches whipped past her face. Leaves crunched underfoot. The forest swallowed her whole—shafts of dying sunlight slanting through the canopy, the smell of loam and rot and something green, alive.
"Get back here!"
His voice was closer than she expected. She risked a glance back and saw him plunging into the treeline, all coiled muscle and fury, and the look on his face sent a thrill straight through her that she absolutely refused to examine.
She ran faster.
Her lungs started burning within the first minute. The ground was uneven—roots and rocks hidden under carpets of dead leaves—and she stumbled more than once, catching herself on rough bark that scraped her palms raw. Mosquitoes hummed in her ears. Sweat beaded at her temples.
Behind her, Dean crashed through the underbrush like a freight train.
"You're gonna regret this!" His voice bounced off the trees, distorted and strange. She couldn't tell exactly how far back he was. Close. Too close. "I swear to God, when I catch you—"
A branch snapped somewhere to her left. She veered right, ducking under a low-hanging limb, and her skirt snagged on a thorn bush. The fabric tore with a sound like a gasp, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Her heart was a wild thing in her chest, and her breath came in ragged bursts, and somewhere in the back of her mind a voice whispered: What the hell are you doing!?”
But another voice—quieter, hungrier—whispered something else entirely.
The forest grew darker as she pushed deeper. The canopy thickened overhead, blocking out the last of the daylight. Shadows pooled between the trees like spilled ink. She could hear water somewhere—a stream, maybe—and the distant call of a bird.
Dean's footsteps were steady behind her. Rhythmic. Unhurried.
"The longer you make me chase you—" A branch cracked somewhere behind her. Close. Very close. "—the worse it's gonna be when I get my hands on you."
The words went through her like a current.
He was conserving his energy. Letting her tire herself out.
Smart, she thought bitterly. Too smart.
"Baby." His voice had changed. Still loud, still echoing, but there was something else in it now—something that made her stomach clench. "You're just making this worse. You know I'm gonna catch you."
She veered around a massive oak, her boots sliding on moss.
"You always run when you know you're wrong."
I'm not wrong. But the thought had no teeth anymore. She wasn't even sure why she was still running, except that stopping felt like surrender, and she'd never been good at that.
"Sooner or later—" A pause. He was closer now. She could hear his breathing, steady and controlled, utterly unlike her own ragged gasps. "—your legs are gonna give out. And I'm gonna be right there."
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, half-hysterical. She choked it down and pushed harder.
The ground sloped suddenly—down, down—and she lost her footing. Her arms windmilled. Her ankle twisted on a hidden stone, and sharp pain lanced up her calf. She didn't fall, but she stumbled badly, and in that moment of instability she heard him gain ground.
Twenty feet. Maybe less.
"You okay up there?" Almost conversational now. Almost teasing. "Sounds like you're getting tired."
Screw you, Winchester.
She found her footing and pushed on. Her lungs were screaming. Her thighs burned. The torn edge of her skirt flapped against her bare leg, and she could feel scratches on her arms where branches had caught her skin.
This was stupid. This was so stupid. What was she even—
A bird exploded out of a bush directly in front of her.
One second, silence. The next—a shriek of wings, a dark shape hurtling upward, and she screamed. A real scream, high and startled, and her feet tangled under her, and she lurched sideways into a tree trunk. The bark scraped her shoulder through her thin shirt.
She'd lost a second. Maybe two.
It was enough.
His hand closed around her upper arm.
"Gotcha."
She twisted, wild, trying to pull free, but his grip was iron. He grabbed her from behind, and for one breathless moment she saw his face—flushed, eyes blazing—before momentum and a well-placed foot sent them both crashing to the forest floor.
The impact drove the air from her lungs. She hit the ground on her stomach, Dean's weight coming down on top of her, and for a long, dizzy moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but lie there with wet leaves pressing into her cheek and his chest heaving against her back.
His heart hammered so hard she felt it through his shirt. Through her own skin. A frantic rhythm against her spine.
The forest went quiet around them. Even the birds had stopped calling.
Dean didn't move. His breath was hot on the back of her neck, coming fast and uneven, and his body was a solid weight pinning her down. One of his hands was braced beside her head, fingers buried in dead leaves. The other still gripped her arm.
"Jesus," he breathed. The word came out strangled. "Jesus Christ."
She couldn't speak. Her lungs were still relearning how to work.
He shifted, and she felt him ease some of his weight off her—not enough that she could move, but enough that she could breathe. His hand slid from her arm to her shoulder, and then to her hair, pushing tangled strands away from her face.
"I didn't—" His voice cracked. She'd never heard his voice crack before. "I didn't mean to yell like that. I'm sorry. I'm—fuck, baby, you ran from me. You actually ran from me."
The guilt in his voice hit her harder than the tackle had.
His face pressed into the curve of her neck. She felt his nose, his lips, the scrape of stubble against her sensitive skin. He inhaled. One long breath, like he was trying to memorize her scent—sweat and shampoo and the faint, lingering traces of smoke from the hunt.
"You scared the hell out of me," he murmured against her pulse point. "You always do. Every time. And then you just—you ran."
His hips shifted against her. Just a small movement, barely there, but it pressed his pelvis against the curve of her ass, and she felt it.
He was hard.
The realization sent a shockwave through her—heat and surprise and something darker, hungrier—and before she could stop herself, she squirmed beneath him. Testing. Pushing back.
Dean groaned. The sound vibrated against her throat.
"Stop." The word was supposed to be a command, but it came out wrecked. Desperate. "Just—stop moving for a second."
She didn't stop.
A growl rumbled from his chest. She felt it more than heard it, a vibration that traveled from his body into hers, and then his teeth grazed the delicate skin beneath her ear.
"Brat."
The word was hot and rough against her skin, and it did something to her—something visceral, something that made her hips push back against him without permission. His erection pressed against the thin fabric of her skirt, and she could feel the shape of him. The heat. The want.
"You like this," Dean breathed, and it wasn't a question. "You like making me chase you.”
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Her throat had closed up, and all she could do was gasp as his hand slid from her hair down her spine, tracing the curve of her back.
"Say it." His fingers found the torn edge of her skirt. Tugged. "Say you like it."
"No." The word came out breathy, barely a whisper.
"No?" He laughed, dark and low. His hips rolled against her, deliberate this time, and the friction made her see stars. "Your body's telling me a different story, sweetheart."
He pulled back just enough to flip her over.
“You think this is funny." It wasn't a question.
She realized, distantly, that she was smiling. Not a big smile. Just a little one. The kind that pulled at one corner of her mouth and made her eyes do something that always got under his skin.
His expression flickered. The desperation and the fury and the leftover fear all collided behind his eyes, and then his hand was moving, and she barely had time to register the motion before his palm connected with her left cheek.
The slap was quick. Sharp. Her head turned with the impact and her cheek bloomed hot, the sting spreading outward in a flush that she felt all the way down her neck. It wasn't hard enough to really hurt. It was hard enough to mean something.
Her breath left her in a rush.
"That's for running," he said, and his voice had gone rough in a way that made her thighs press together under his weight.
His thumb caught her chin before she could respond. He tilted her face back toward him, and his grip was firm on her jaw, his fingers pressing into the hinge of her cheek until her lips parted involuntarily.
"You don't run from me." His face was very close to hers now. She could smell the sweat on him, the leather of his jacket, the faint traces of gunpowder still clinging to his collar from the hunt. "You don't put yourself in danger just to piss me off. You don't—"
He stopped. Whatever he'd been about to say died in his throat, and she watched him swallow it, watched his eyes drop to her parted lips and stay there.
"You don't," he repeated, but it came out different this time. Softer. More broken.
His thumb moved from her chin, dragging across her lower lip, pulling it down. His other hand kept her jaw in place, holding her open, and she watched his face go through something complicated as he looked at her mouth.
He leaned down.
She expected a kiss. What she got was his spit hitting her lips.
The act was so unexpected that she made a small sound—surprise, shock, something that was definitely not revulsion despite how it should have been. His saliva was warm on her mouth, dripping down toward her chin, and before she could react he had closed the distance and his mouth was on hers.
The kiss was a mess. His tongue pushed past her lips immediately, no preamble, no softness, and she tasted him and herself and the faint salt of the spit he'd left there. His hand tightened on her jaw, holding her in place while he kissed her like he was trying to punish her mouth for all the things it had said in the car.
She kissed him back just as hard. Her hands came up and fisted in the front of his jacket, pulling him down, and he made a sound against her lips that was half-growl and half-groan.
"You're a nightmare." He pulled back just far enough to speak, his lips still brushing hers. "You know that? You're an actual nightmare. I was so fucking scared."
"Dean—"
"Shut up." He kissed her again, shorter this time, biting her lower lip as he pulled away. "You don't get to talk yet. You lost talking privileges when you sprinted into a dark forest to win an argument.
His knee pushed between her thighs, spreading them.
"I should be pissed at you," he said, and his voice was low now, almost conversational. His thumb found the corner of her mouth, pressed down gently on her lower lip. "I am pissed at you. You pulled a stunt back there that could've gotten you killed."
Her breath hitched as his thumb slid past her lips, into the heat of her mouth.
"And then you ran." His jaw tightened. "You ran into the damn woods like I'm something you need to escape from."
She wanted to tell him that wasn't it. That she wasn't running from him—she was running from the fight, from the fear, from the way he looked at her like she was something precious and fragile and terrifying all at once.
But his thumb was still in her mouth, and she couldn't form the words.
Dean stared down at her for a long moment. Then his expression shifted—anger melting into something rawer, more vulnerable—and he pulled his thumb free with a soft pop.
"You know I'd never hurt you, right?"
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I'm an idiot," she whispered. "Because you were right, and I didn't want to hear it."
Something in his face broke open. His forehead dropped to hers, and for a moment they just breathed together—shared air, shared space, the forest alive and watching around them.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he said. "You know that?"
"Need you." The words were torn from somewhere deep in his chest. "Need you to understand—"
She didn't let him finish. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, and the sudden pressure made him gasp against her mouth.
"This what you want?" His hand slid under her shirt, palm rough against her ribs. "This what you were running for?"
"Shut up, Dean."
"Make me."
She bit his bottom lip. Not hard enough to break skin—just enough to sting. He jerked back, eyes wide for half a second, and then they went dark. Predatory.
"Oh, you're gonna pay for that."
His hand came down on her cheek.
Not a punch—a slap, open-palmed and precise, the impact sharp and stinging and hot. Her head turned with the force of it, and stars exploded behind her eyes, and for one dizzy moment she didn't know up from down.
Then she looked back at him and smirked.
His pupils blew wide.
"That's it." His voice was wrecked. "That's exactly—" Another slap, this one on the other cheek, lighter but still enough to make her gasp. "—what I'm talking about."
His thumb hooked into the corner of her mouth, pulling her jaw open. She watched, dazed, as he gathered saliva and let it drip from his lips onto her tongue. The sensation was obscene—warm and wet and utterly filthy—and she swallowed instinctively before he sealed his mouth over hers.
"Been driving me crazy," he muttered against her lips. "Every damn day. The way you walk around the bunker in those little shorts. The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
He freed himself from his jeans, and she felt the hot weight of his cock against her thigh.
"The way you talk back to me in front of Sam. Like you're daring me to do something about it."
His hand slid under her skirt. Found the damp fabric of her underwear. Pulled it aside.
"This is me doing something about it."
He thrust inside her in one motion.
She cried out—a sound that startled nearby birds from their perches—and her back arched off the forest floor. The stretch was intense, almost too much, and her body clenched around him instinctively. Dean groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder, his hips stilling for one breathless moment.
"Okay?"
She couldn't speak. Could only nod, her nails digging into the leather of his jacket.
"Words, baby."
"Yes. Yes, it's—" Another gasp as he shifted slightly. "It's okay. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He pulled out until just the tip remained inside her, then slammed back home. The pace he set was punishing—hard and fast, each thrust driving her deeper into the leaves and moss. Her skirt bunched around her waist. Her shirt rode up, and the cool air made her nipples tighten beneath her bra.
"Take it." His hand found her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his. "This is what you get. Making me chase you like an animal."
His palm connected with her cheek again. Lighter this time—more of a tap, almost teasing—but it made her clench around him, and he cursed under his breath.
"You like that? Like getting slapped while I'm inside you?”
She didn't answer. Couldn't. The only sounds she could make were broken little moans, punched out of her with every thrust.
His hand released her jaw and moved to her chest. Fingers found the hem of her shirt, yanked it up over her breasts. Her bra followed, and then his mouth was on her nipple—sucking, biting, soothing with his tongue—while his free hand delivered a stinging slap to the other breast.
"Look at you." He pulled back to admire his work—the pink flush spreading across her chest, the wet sheen of his spit on her skin. "Look at what you let me do to you."
His hips never stopped moving. The rhythm was brutal, relentless, driving her higher and higher toward a peak that felt almost terrifying. The world narrowed to just him—his scent, his weight, the sound of his breathing and the slap of skin on skin.
"This is what you get." He pulled back and drove in again, harder, his hips slapping against her thighs. "This is what you get for making me chase you."
She tried to respond, but his hand left her hip and her right cheek bloomed hot with another slap, perfectly timed to the bottom of his thrust. The impact made her clench around him involuntarily, and Dean groaned, his rhythm stuttering.
"Fuck. Do that again."
He slapped her again—lighter this time, more of a tap, but still enough to make her gasp—and she clenched around him just as hard. His forehead dropped to hers, his breath coming in harsh pants against her mouth.
"Look at me."
She opened her eyes. She hadn't realized she'd closed them.
His face was inches from hers, sweat beading at his temple, his pupils blown so wide his eyes looked black. He was still inside her, still grinding in small, desperate circles, and she watched the war play out across his features. Anger and need and guilt and want, all of them fighting for dominance.
"You could have gotten hurt." His voice cracked. "You could have fallen. Hit your head. Stepped in a hole. Anything."
"But I didn't."
"But you could have." He thrust into her again, harder, punctuating the word. "And I would have had to—I can't—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. Instead, he kissed her again, messy and desperate, and his hips found a rhythm that was punishing in its intensity. The hand pinning her wrists tightened. The other slid down to her ass, cupping her, angling her up so he could drive deeper.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into the small of his back, and the change in angle made her cry out. He was hitting something deep inside her now, something that made her vision go spotty at the edges, and Dean felt her reaction and made a sound that was almost a laugh.
Before she could process what was happening, he had flipped her again. Onto her stomach. His hand pressed between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest to the forest floor, and then he yanked her hips up and back until she was on her knees with her ass in the air.
"Dean—"
"Shut up." He entered her from behind in one brutal thrust, and she cried out into the pine needles. "You don't get to talk. You lost talking privileges. You lost everything privileges."
His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, and the arch of her spine made him sink even deeper. She was making sounds she couldn't control now, high and desperate, and the forest was swallowing them whole.
His pace was relentless. The sound of his hips slapping against her ass echoed off the trees, mingled with his ragged breathing and her broken moans and the distant whisper of wind through the canopy. His fingers tightened in her hair, pulling harder, and she felt the sting in her scalp travel all the way down her spine.
"You're gonna come when I tell you to come." His voice was a growl against her ear, his chest pressed to her back now, every inch of him surrounding her. "Not before. You got that?"
She nodded, or tried to, but his grip on her hair made it difficult.
"Say it."
"I got it."
"Yes sir."
The words sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She swallowed hard. "Yes, sir."
"Good girl." He released her hair and straightened up, both hands finding her hips now, gripping hard enough to bruise. His pace didn't slow.
His hand came down on her ass with a crack that made her yelp. The sting bloomed hot and immediate, and he rubbed the spot afterward with something that was almost tenderness before slapping the other cheek just as hard.
"You made me scared." Slap. "You made me angry." Slap. "You made me run through the fucking woods." Slap. "For ten minutes." Slap. "In the dark." Slap.
Each slap was punctuated by a particularly hard thrust, and she was losing her grip on reality now, the sensations blurring together into one overwhelming wave. Pine needles under her knees. The smell of earth and sex and his sweat. The sound of his voice, rough and broken, still lecturing her even as he fucked her into the forest floor.
"I was so—fucking—scared." His rhythm was starting to break down, his words coming in shorter bursts. "I thought something—was gonna—get you. Or you were gonna—fall. And it would be—my fault."
She wanted to tell him it wouldn't have been his fault. She wanted to tell him a lot of things. But all that came out was a moan as his fingers found her clit, circling with a pressure that made her vision go white at the edges.
"Not yet," he growled. "Don't you dare."
"I can't—Dean, I can't—"
"You can. You will. Not until I say."
His thumb pressed harder, and she bit down on her own arm to keep from screaming. Her whole body was trembling now, wound tight, every muscle straining toward a release he was holding just out of reach.
"Please." The word came out broken. "Please, Dean, I need—"
“Shhh baby i call the shots here, yeah?” She nodded frantically as drool ran down her chin.
"Good girl." His voice was ragged in her ear. "That's my good girl."
His rhythm faltered. Grew erratic. She felt him swell inside her—felt the tension in his body, the way his breath caught and his hips stuttered—and then he pulled out at the last moment, spilling himself onto the small of her back with a groan that seemed to be torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Birdsong began to filter back in. The forest, which had gone quiet during their coupling, slowly resumed its evening rhythm. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called.
Dean collapsed beside her, his chest heaving. His hand found hers in the leaves and held on.
"You okay?" His voice was hoarse.
She turned her head to look at him. Dirt smeared across his cheek. Hair a disaster. Jeans still unbuttoned. He'd never looked more beautiful.
"I think so." Her own voice was wrecked. "I think I'm—yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."
He rolled onto his side, and his free hand came up to cup her face. His thumb traced the spot where he'd slapped her, feather-light.
"Too much?"
She shook her head. "No. No, it was—" Her throat closed up. She didn't have words for what it was. Didn't have words for the way he made her feel, or the way her body still hummed with the aftershocks, or the way his eyes softened when he looked at her.
"I'm still mad at you," he said.
"I know."
"You can't just—you can't do that. In the field. You can't put yourself in danger like that."
"I know."
His jaw tightened. "If something happened to you—"
"Nothing happened to me.”
"Because I was there." He sat up abruptly, raking a hand through his hair. Leaves fluttered from the strands. "Because I saw what you were doing and I got there in time. What if I hadn't? What if next time—"
She sat up too, wincing at the soreness between her legs. "Dean, I did what I thought was right."
"What you thought was right nearly got you killed.”
"And you've never done anything stupid on a hunt? You've never made a call that put you in danger?"
"That's different.”
"How? How is that different?"
"Because—" He stopped. Swallowed. "Because when it's me, it's fine. When it's you, it's not."
She stared at him. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and honest and utterly, infuriatingly Dean.
"That's not how this works," she said quietly. "That's not—you don't get to decide whose life matters more."
"I know." His voice cracked again. "I know that. I just—I can't lose you. Okay? I can't. So if that means I'm an overprotective asshole sometimes, then fine. I'll be an overprotective asshole."
She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to respond to the raw vulnerability in his eyes, or the way his hand was still tangled with hers, or the fact that he'd just fucked her into the forest floor and then confessed that he couldn't live without her.
So she kissed him instead.
Soft this time. Gentle. Her lips brushed his, and she tasted blood and sweat and the faint salt of tears she hadn't realized she'd shed.
"We should get back to the car," she murmured against his mouth.
"Yeah. Probably."
Neither of them moved.
"It's gonna be dark soon."
"Mm-hmm."
"Dean."
"Five more minutes." He pulled her against his chest, wrapping his arms around her. "Just five more minutes. Then we can go back to being functional human beings."
She laughed. It came out wet and shaky, but it was a laugh. "I don't think we've ever been functional."
"Fair point."
They lay there in the fading light, tangled together on the floor of the forest, and for a little while the rest of the world didn't exist. No hunts. No wendigos. No arguments or guilt or fear. Just the sound of his heartbeat against her ear, steady and strong and alive. Then—
"Hey."
She tilted her head up to look at him. "Yeah?"
A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. The kind of smile that made her stomach flip and her thighs press together.
"You know we're not done, right?"
Her breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" His hand slid down her spine, over the curve of her ass. Squeezed. "—I'm still mad at you. And you're still a brat. And we've got a whole forest out here.”
"Dean. It's getting dark."
"So?"
"So there could be... things out here. Animals. Monsters."
"I've got a gun in my jacket." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "And I'm not done with you yet."
The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold.
"You can't be serious."
He rolled on top of her again, pinning her down, and she felt him hardening against her thigh. Again. Already.
"I chased you through half a mile of woods," he growled against her throat. "Do you have any idea what that did to me? Watching you run? Watching your little skirt flip up every time you jumped over a log?"
"I—"
"You're gonna run again," he said. "Right now. And I'm gonna catch you. And when I do, I'm gonna bend you over the nearest tree and show you what happens to brats who think they can outrun me.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Dean—"
"Run."
She ran.
And behind her, crashing through the darkness with a hunter's grace and something far more dangerous in his eyes, Dean Winchester gave chase.
A/N: goys a freakin insect flew on my toe while writing this #yummyfeet
