In Her Sweet Clutches
Main Masterlist ❀ Dean Winchester Masterlist ⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Dean Winchester x fem!Reader ⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean loves being at your mercy - and now you know just how.
WARNINGS / TAGS 18+ LIGHT SMUT | Fluff Established relationship | Play-fighting | Dean's being a bit immature and gross lol | Cute bantering | Dean pins reader down | Cojones squeezing and teasing | Dom! -> Sub!Dean dynamics | lots of whimpering and he loves it | No use of Y/N.
⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~ 2,6k
⋆ ˚｡⋆ J/NOTES Happy 20th anniversary, Supernatural! And to all of my lovely moots and friends I have met through this crazy show!!! I am so so grateful for having you in my life, I love you guys to bits 🫂💗💗💗 (please ignore the fact that I posted this past midnight - it's still Sunday in some parts of the world, right?)
Your knee pits hit the edge of the motel bed and buckle the same moment Dean follows, his weight toppling on top of yours as he buries you beneath his body. The mattress dips. The springs groan. The otherwise silent night fills with giggles and filthy talks. Sounds of open-mouthed kisses chasing each other, breaths hitching into something more promising.
Outside the window, the motel's neon lights flicker and shade the bedroom walls in a sweet cotton-candy pink, while the cheap room's smell is anything but.
None of it matters to neither of you, though. Because for the next two hours? You've got the room for yourself. And you'll make it count.
Dean sits back onto his hunches, bracketing your squirming shins, and begins to shrug off the green denim while your hands fumble with your own leather jacket.
When the bubblegum filter from the adjacent window lights up his face – you have to stop in your movements. Jacket discarded somewhere on the rug. Attention now fully on Dean. On the black streaks that litter his skin and shade his freckles with charcoal – to be precise.
"Oh God – you look like a soot-covered chimney sweep," you cackle. Dean flashes a crooked grin in response.
"Those are for good luck, right?"
"Sure."
You nudge your knee between his legs and he doubles over, face colliding with your stomach, with his arms still tangled behind his back in his denim. You grunt – then giggle at the sight of him fighting the damn thing like a deer caught in a fence.
"That's funny, huh?" he jokes and wiggles himself back to his knees as you free yourself from him and escape to the backrest. You flash a mischievous smile across the bed at him and that has Dean change his plans on the whim.
"Think'm gonna catch'n undress you first..."
He slips his denim back over his shoulders and next moment he's on you.
Dean pounces – you squeal – he pulls you down under him by your ankles.
"C'mere you little tease-"
Within seconds his body's above you, caging you in like a predator. Your back arches in response and he begins to crawl over you to reach your lips with his own, capturing them in a hungry kiss that tastes like smoke and bonfire. Your nose scrunches at the bitter taste but Dean's not letting you pull away just yet.
His hands sink into the bedding next to your chest, boxing you in as he drapes his weight across you like a heavy blanket. Hot and smelly – the stench of the salt 'n burn still stuck to his skin, just like his denim and the black muscle tee hugging his torso.
At last your lips part with a desperate gasp for air. Buzzing and smeared with charcoal.
Dean doesn't loose any time and moves in again – but you'd quickly grabbed him by his shoulders to keep him from drowning you in more sooty kisses.
"Dean – you really need a shower first," you remind him, but he just groans and rolls his eyes like he's heard the same jab for the past hour drive back to your motel room already.
Yes, he'd managed to slip on their escape from the cop patrolling the cemetery and yes, he'd tumbled face first into the damn pile of bones and ashes – not burning anymore, thank God – but did you have to remind him of that embarrassing moment for the rest of the night? He just knows you'll never let him hear the end of it.
"Well," he smacks his lips, expression annoyed despite the fact that a black smear's framing his eyes like a raccoon's, "so do you," he retorts. You snort.
No, in fact you don't. Because unlike Dean, you did not sli-
At the same time Dean reached up to push a hand into his dark blond, grimy hair. Then the bastard ruffles it right above your head for the grey flakes to rain down on you.
"Dean!" you scream and try to shield your face with your arm – but Dean quickly snatches your wrist with his other hand and pins it down above your head, laughing. "Nuh-uh – sharing is caring, honey."
You try to wiggle out of harm's way, shove him back by the shoulder with your free arm, but he's not budging. He has sat his weight down onto your lower half, straddling your hips and effectively keeping you pinned beneath him and at his mercy.
"You arse!"
"Language, sweetheart," he grins down at you like a boy who's just won a schoolyard brawl, "Y'know, I can get even dirtier." You huff but can't help a smile.
Others might call him childish, gross and immature in moments like this, but to you it's these moments of light-hearted playfulness you cherish the most.
But it's still gross as fuck and you'd strangle the bastard if you had both hands free.
Dean leans down – your one wrist still locked in place while your other hand hangs onto his tee – nudges your jaw up with his nose for his tongue to draw one, long, wet line up your throat. You gasp, then bite back a soft moan.
"Hmm," He pauses. Brows knotting together, green eyes on you while he lets his tongue swipe his lips, audibly tasting you. Then continues in a mock-serious tone. "Yup, now you're definitely dirty, too." This time you roll your eyes with a snort.
"What's next? You gonna smear your soot all over my face?" He holds your gaze. Green eyes glinting. His lips slowly tugging into a roguish smirk. Oh no.
Dean's lifted himself up and onto his hands and knees the next beat. You squeal and he laughs deeply as you both dive into a playful grapple. After a few seconds, he achieved to capture both of your wrists in one hand and pins them down again above your head.
"Ah yeah- Want to see ya painted black, baby~" he singsongs – the lyrics off key, but the deep timbre of his voice makes up for it as always and has the rumbling sound successfully tingling in your stomach.
"Don't – Don't you dare!!"
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he grins down at you victoriously while his free fingers go to grip your jaw before you can escape him. He hovers over you, his cheek smearing a charcoal streak of soot along your own cheek on his way to your ear to murmur into to it. Filthy and hot.
"Gonna make a damn mess of you" – you manage to slip one hand free of his grip and snake it down between your two bodies where you expertly zero-in on his crown jewels, meanwhile he continues – "Maybe I'll even taste you with my dirty lips and ha-aah-k-" his voice is strangled into a mixture of a surprised gasp and the yelp of a dog whose tail has been stepped on.
Dean, towering over you like a hungry wolf one moment, folds like an omelette the next.
You smirk. Your palm cupping his jewels through his jeans. Squeezing.
Dean's head drops to your shoulder, his grip on your wrist and jaw faltered, fingers dug into the sheets now, arms shaking as he tries to hold himself upright.
He groans a breathy "-fuuuck" next to your ear. You bite back a cheeky giggle.
"You trying to kill me?" he wheezes.
"Just a little payback."
"Payback? By trying to castrate me?" he rasps a weak attempt at a chuckle while he manages to lift his head enough to meet your eyes. That typical Dean-smirk on his lips again. Forced to keep it in place with every muscle twitching under his stubbles in protest.
But his features soften slightly when his words manage to elicit that sweet iconic smile of yours. He leans down, presses his coarse lips to your neck, where he continues against your skin. "If you don't wanna risk gettin' knocked up by me you could've just said it, y'know. No need for violence."
"Oh yeah?" you grin at the fact that his hips are still locked in place. He's trying his best to play it cool with every asset he's got to offer waist-up, but you're not one to be fooled by his charm or bravado. "Not enjoying my nutcracker grip?" You quip and mark your words with another, deliberate, squeeze of his misters.
Dean's reaction is instantaneous.
His breath hitches. Forehead drops to meet your shoulder once again… and then a whimpering sound escapes his lips – you still in the moment.
"You – you good?" you ask in concern. Maybe your nails did a little more through the fabrics of his Jersey's than just tease him?
He doesn't answer. And his silence only adds to your guilt. So you angle your shoulders as well as you can, with his head still burrowed in the crook of your neck, trying to catch a look at his face.
"De?" you probe once more. Your free hand goes up to gently rub his shoulder.
"Don't-" he begins and you almost loosen the grip around him when the same second he continues in a muffled, "Don't stop."
You blink down at him. Or, well, the back of his head and the messy, ash-matted hair that's partially brushing the underside of your jaw.
The room falls silent, save for his ragged breath and your heart picking up its pace.
After a beat, Dean wiggles his hips.
Barely.
Like he's testing whether you've heard his small, pathetic plea. And you have, so you do what you did before and wrap your fingers around him once more, applying some pressure to him. Never painful – just enough to draw another reaction from him.
And what a reaction it is.
Dean's jaw goes slack. His shaky exhale is underlined by a soft whine. His weight drops to his elbows – chest hovering only inches above yours. The bed wobbles beneath you. Next to your face, you feel his breathing growing heavier. Hot against your skin. His strong arms have sunken into the floral patterned sheets left and right of your head.
He'd crumbled – just at a simple touch of yours.
And now Dean is literally trembling.
Then it clicks. He likes it.
A smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. Excitement taking over. Oh how the tables have turned.
Usually Dean is the one who has you wrapped around his finger – quite literally too, whenever he'd drag one, two, or three of them down your soft walls and have you whimper his name until he'd finally give in and hook them to that spot which made you roll your eyes back and soak his arm in your arousal.
His face pushes further into the slope of your neck. His hips move – just a fraction – testing the waters. He breaths another weak "Oh fuck-" when you tut at his attempts and tighten your grip in response.
You tip your temple against the side of his head where your lips find his ear to murmur into. "You like it when I've got you in my hands, Winchester? Hm?"
His jaw ticks. Then falls loose, mouth dropped open with a throaty, "Uh-...Uh-huh".
Damn.
"What was that?" you purr. He winces under his breath. You remember Uncle Ben's words "with great power comes great responsibility" and decide to let go of him.
... just to unbuckle his belt with a flick of your fingers and next thing slip your hand down his pants and beneath his boxers because you ain't Spiderman and you know Dean would've done the exact same thing.
As if on command, Dean groans softly. A visible shiver goes down his back. His eyes flutter shut, his chin resting on your shoulder. It's all the confirmation you need.
God – what a sight. How he unravels on top of you with just the slightest touch of yours to his most sensitive parts. How you both know that you could seriously harm him – yet both know that you never would. But the "If she wanted to, she could." is what makes this so much more exciting and arousing.
Your other hand circles the back of his neck, threads into his messy hair and tugs at him for your mouth to level with his ear again.
"Words, baby. I need words."
"Uhn…" he groans, unable to say anything else. You successfully robbed master-of-snarky-comments-Dean of his words. It has your heart flutter and your lips tug at a warm smile. To witness the way he tries so hard to not fully give in – to keep at least a shred of his composure – and to fail so beautifully as you begin to massage his crown jewels, it is truly the best thing ever.
"Please…" he suddenly manages to gasp out. His voice ragged and desperate. "Please don't stop, baby."
With the next shaky sigh that escapes his lips, his chest practically melts into yours. You feel him let go of his last bit of control. The tension of his muscles now solely focused on anticipating your next pleasurable move.
"That's it…" you hum pleased and your praising words has his weight press down on you even more.
Meanwhile his hips are twitching in the air, reacting to the smallest roll of your fingers around his delicate skin. You begin to explore him, your finger-pads playfully rubbing the spot in the back, where the stretchy skin connects with his groin.
The action has him buck his hips and utter a husky groan. His lips moving against the skin of your neck without producing any coherent words. His brain turned to mush.
"You're doing so well… just let go for me."
Skimming a nail of yours down his delicate skin – he whimpers your name. You feel his length hard and heavy - though never giving in to touch it. He fists the sheets with a death-grip – taut enough for you to feel the tension in the fabrics beneath your head.
Dean's completely at your command.
You lick your lips – grimace at the dusty taste of smoke – a gross reminder of that fact. Your fingers on the back of his head gently scratch his scalp to get his attention. A confident smirk spreading across your face.
"Don't you wanna say sorry for something?"
This time, though, Dean doesn't miss a beat – a spark of his cockiness flaring up – when he scoffs a raspy chuckle, the sound of it awfully close to a "Mmh - Nope."
The tone of it would've been haughty.
Would have.
If you wouldn't, coincidentally, have tugged him by the misters at the very same time and the words would've actually left his mouth instead of getting knocked back down his vocal chords by a sound between a gasp and a reverse sneeze.
"You wanna try that again?" you smirk.
You hear him struggle to find his voice – his mouth too dry to lick his lips when he audibly swallows.
He hesitates. You increase the smooth rolling movements, letting the balls glide along your tender fingers.
It's all it takes to break him.
What jumbles off his quivering lips is a shaky, drawn out "Ahh" followed by a row of suppressed whimpers, and finally, a muttered "...sorry."
"Now that wasn't so hard, was it? Attaboy," you praise him. He lets out a sigh of relief but his body practically buzzes with need by now. You coax his head out of his burrow, shift a little beneath him so you can lock eyes.
Dean looks down at you, a little cross-eyed with those blown emerald eyes. Just like a puppy waiting for its treat – God, that look always manages to melt your heart.
You lean in to press your lips to his temple, smearing some of the soot with your wet lips. His head perks; The words he's been eagerly waiting for curling into his ear-shell.
"Now you're allowed to make a mess. And then we'll take a shower."
⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES In celebration of the 20th anniversary of Supernatural (and because I'd like to start my week with a grin), I expect you all to add your favorite gif of Sam or Dean, if you reblog!! Them be the rules! 🙂↕️
(Yes, VC, you get a green card for the old man 😉)
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