Tainted – Chapter 10: Rain On My Parade
SUMMARY: During their heartfelt reunion, Dean has a lot of things to smooth over — both things from the past, and in advance.
SHIP: MoC!Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader GENRE: Smut (MDNI), Angst TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Makeup Sex, Oral Sex (Fem Receiving), Dirty Talk, Unprotected P in V (wrap it before you tap it), Vaginal Sex, Emotional Sex, Gentle Sex, Canon Level Violence, Action Scenes, Minor Character Death WORD COUNT: 4.7k A/N: I highly encourage everyone to listen to the playlist — specifically to BMTH’s Doomed — while reading this chapter! I’ve been listening to it non-stop while writing. We’re close to the showdown 😱 And what a journey it’s been so far, let me know what you think. Half of this story wouldn’t be what it is without my amazing beta reader @justwhisperingfantasies ❤️ Thank you, Bets! CREDIT & LINKS: Header by myself ──〃★ dividers by myself ──〃★ Series Masterlist ──〃★ Ao3 ──〃★
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The whiskey coating both of their tongues was the same, but they preferred the way it tasted on the other’s lips more than on their own.
Dean’s hands involuntarily squeezed her sides, just as afraid of letting go as of asking for too much. He could not get enough of her, savoring everything she had to give. Her soft gasps, the tremble of her fingers against his jaw, the way her body shook in his arms. All of her, every dip and curve.
While she was pliable in his hands, it was she who was undoing him at the seams and rearranging his very core. Her touch molded him, tinkered with his heart, tugged at strings he thought were long decayed.
It was a dangerous edge to teeter on — a liminal space between madness and destruction. Both abysses were dark, one searing hot, the other ice cold.
He shouldn’t crave the warmth, shouldn’t chase the heat of her skin against his tongue, but nothing else satiated this hunger inside like she did.
She held him close with such reverence and breathed his name with even more of it. Like it meant something. Like he meant something. She tugged at his shirt, clean hands against stained fabric, innocence toying with blood.
Dean hissed softly, pulling back slightly with the last bit of restraint he had. However, with her forehead pressed against his, he knew he was losing the battle. He allowed her to nudge him backwards, let her push him towards the bathroom.
Once inside, their hands were all over each other. They were peeling layer by layer, taking their sweet time undoing buttons, gently tugging off shirts, and slowly unbuckling belts. Their clothes pooled at their feet, a discarded pile of regret soaked in blood — the evidence of his mistakes was no longer important, not right now anyway. She always had her ways of stripping away his sorrows just as easily.
Her hand found his, taking it like it had always belonged to her, which he knew it did. She brushed her nose against his, her glistening eyes giving him a questioning look. To answer, he squeezed her hand and gave a small nod.
She stepped into the shower and pulled him along.
Warm water came raining down on them, the cascade washing away the grime and the tension alike. Even warmer than that was her touch, which set his body ablaze.
Her lips connected with his again, kissing away the cruelty, before they trailed lower, nipping at his jaw, caressing the slope of his neck. Her free hand splayed over his chest, her palm finding his heartbeat instantly, and she gently pushed him back against the shower wall. The back of his head slumped against the tiles with a soft thud, his breathing coming in short little inhales and exhales.
Both of them were slick with water, bodies pressed together tightly.
Only when her hands danced lower, and her mouth followed behind, fingers tickling his abdomen and tongue licking a path over his chest, did he capture both of her wrists. She, in the middle of dropping to her knees for him, blinked up warily.
God, did she look beautiful. And God, did he feel awful for staring.
“Wait,” he rasped, breathless.
“Something wrong?” she mumbled, that cute crease she always showed whenever she was concerned between her brows.
All Dean could do was shake his head. He pulled her impossibly closer, turning around with her to lean her back against the wall instead. His frame shielded her from most of the water, some droplets running down her damp hair. He took in every detail, his own hands tracing her sides carefully.
“No,” he whispered, placing both her hands on his shoulders. “Nothing wrong at all,” he added.
She blinked again, the crease one of confusion this time. Every one of her expressions, all catalogued by him and committed to memory. He watched her mouth fall open, knew she would ask another question — just to make sure he was okay, when really, it was his turn to look after her.
“Tonight’s about you,” he muttered, interrupting her concerns before she could voice them. “Let me take care of you.”
Despite her flushing, she wasn’t granted the time to respond. His lips met hers, the kiss deep but slow.
“Let me make it up to you,” he added, feeding his indirect apology directly to her tongue. He was more than selfish last time, which was only one of the things he had to smooth over. “Make you feel good.”
She melted in his arms right away, relying on him seizing her by the waist and on the tiles behind her. Her fingers curled at his shoulders, especially when he kissed down her collarbone and instructed her to hold on tight.
While his calloused hands squeezed her hips and one of them ran down her thigh, his mouth closed around one of her nipples. He circled his tongue around it, bit down ever so gently until her breath hitched. Satisfied with the shudder of her body, he sank to his knees and repeated the teasing process at the lower half of her body, brushing his lips up her inner thighs.
“Dean— fuck,” she whimpered, one of her hands flying to the glass, the other to his head.
“Shh, I’ve got you,” he cooed gently. “‘s your footing secure?”
She shifted her weight slightly, testing the waters, but with Dean’s iron grip on her, she knew he’d never let her slip and fall. Biting her lower lip, she nodded, looking at him through heavy, wet lashes. His thumbs swiped reassuring circles over her hips, while he gave her a “Good, wouldn’t wanna let my girl get hurt, right?” and a smile.
His girl.
Her heart fluttered at the sound of that, the world suddenly feeling a little more okay. If she thought about the pet name long enough, it would probably bring her to tears. Alas, she had better things to focus on.
Dean started slow, placing a chaste kiss directly to her center. A shiver went down her spine, heat blooming between her legs. Her shaky fingers fisted his hair, careful not to tug at it too much. Not yet, anyway. Knowing Dean, he’d make sure she’d forget and abandon that self-restraint soon enough.
“So wet, ‘n I barely touched you,” he teased playfully, more admiration dripping from his words than anything. “All f’me?”
Despite the heat that rose to her cheeks, her face feeling warm and red, she nodded eagerly. “Always for you.”
Dean rewarded her with another kiss, to her clit this time, drawing a soft yelp from her. When he finally dove in, tongue lapping at her glistening folds, she almost went slack. As predicted, her grip on him tightened, earning her a low hum from Dean, the vibrations of which ran straight through her core.
He made out with her pussy until she was lightheaded and clenching around nothing. While she instinctively bucked her hips against his face, her vision became blurry, the steam of the warm water fogging up the glass entirely. Her knees would’ve almost buckled, were it not for Dean’s firm hands holding her body up and her cunt flat against him.
She gasped out his name, the single syllable like a heads-up, which only spurred him on further. Adding his thumb, he circled her clit in slow, tight succession.
“Atta girl,” he praised, voice muffled against her weeping hole. “Gushing all over my tongue. Tastes so good. So sweet.”
His words barely reached her, but she whined in response, squeezing her eyes shut.
“No, no, no,” he chided softly, gently tapping at her inner thigh to draw her attention back to him. “Look at me, hm? Wanna see that pretty face when you cum for me.”
His words pushed her over the edge at last.
She willed her eyes open, meeting the raw awe in his as he flicked his tongue over her repeatedly. With another press of his thumb against her sensitive bundle of nerves, she fell apart. Writhing slightly, she rocked her hips against his face, coming on his tongue with a loud, echoing moan.
Dean eagerly cleaned up her juices, chin glistening even as he slowly rose back to his feet. His hands still at her waist, he held her close, watching her catch her breath. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her temple, his hands tucking wet strands of hair behind her ears. “You okay?”
She only gave a hum, snaking her arms around his neck and pulling him closer.
“More,” she pleaded, pressing her body against his.
He made a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a gasp. “More?” he echoed bemusedly, the low rumble fluttering against her chest. There was a teasing edge to his tone, one she saw right through, especially considering the fact that his lips were already peppering her neck in kisses.
She felt him pressed against her lower stomach, half hard, and twitching when she wrapped her fingers around him. His forehead slumped against the crook of her shoulder, face nuzzled into her throat as she stroked him to life.
A quiet grunt fell from his lips as he leaked precum, his body tensing under her motion. His breath was hot and heavy against her damp skin, his fingers twitching at her waist. “You sure you want more, sweetheart?”
“Need more,” she repeated with a nod. “Need you, Dean. Missed you.”
Dean cursed under his breath, carefully lifting her right leg and lining up. He raised his head only to look deep into her eyes. Cupping her face, he leaned his forehead against hers and slowly pushed in.
Both their breaths got caught in their throats, and for a second, the world around them came to a halt.
“I missed you too,” he rasped, as though she’d knocked the air from his lungs. “Missed you so much. Missed this. All of you.”
She clung to him as tightly as she could, tilting her face to lean into his palm and to claim his lips in yet another kiss. When he sheathed himself up to the hilt, her small gasp was swallowed by him immediately.
He started with slow thrusts, carefully rolling his hips against hers, whilst deepening the kiss.
With the water still running down their bodies, he nearly lost his footing, the floor more slippery than anticipated. He just about managed to grasp the shower rack, balancing his stance again. At first, she yelped, then broke into a wide smile, stabilizing her own posture by holding onto his biceps.
“This thing’s a damn death trap. Good thing I wanted to take my time with you anyway,” he grumbled, to which she erupted into laughter. “Keep on giggling, sweetheart,” he grinned. “‘s one of my favorite sounds anyway.”
“Better than Jimmy Page’s solos?”
Dean pretended to think about it, giving her a contemplative hum and earning himself a light smack to his shoulder for it. “Ouch!” he wailed over-dramatically. “And here I was, thinking your giggles are almost better than Robert Plant’s angelic voice.”
She rolled her eyes, though the grin on her lips never faded. “Could you hold back on the fangirl thing until you’re no longer rock hard inside of me?”
“Their rock is indeed hard,” he muttered, receiving yet another light slap to the arm. “Okay, okay! You started this, you know?”
“Shut up and kiss me, Winchester,” she giggled — making his heart flutter all the more — and pulled him down for another kiss.
Making sure none of them would slip again, he adjusted their position, his thrusts now more confident. With the new angle, he brushed against that sweet spot in her that made her sing. The stretch of his thick cock was welcome, filling her just right. Thanks to her clenching around him, the coil in her core tightened more with each stroke, his hips nearly stuttered.
“Christ, babe, y’feel s’good,” Dean rambled, voice muffled by their kiss. They broke it just so they could catch their breath, gazes locked together and relishing each other’s glittering eyes. She was so pretty it should be a crime. “Love you too, by the way. I love you so much.”
Her eyes became glassy and her vision blurry with the tears filling their corners. She combed her fingers through his damp hair, exhaling slowly. Her lower lip wobbled for a moment before her mouth fell open into a perfect O-shape, his name falling from it in a moan.
She reached her second orgasm, her walls fluttering around Dean’s length. He joined her just two thrusts after, stilling himself inside of her as deep as possible and coating her insides white.
Aside from the running water and their exerted breathing, nothing could be heard for a while. They held each other in a tight embrace, heartbeats and lungs aligned. She buried her face in Dean’s chest, while Dean tucked her head under his chin.
Once somewhat recovered, they lathered their hands in soap and shampoo, gently scrubbing at each other’s scalps and backs in silence. After rinsing the soap from their skin, they turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Dean’s hands were always on her body in some way — either on the small of her back as she walked out of the cabin, or busy with drying her off with a towel, or holding her hand as he led her to the bed.
Even under the sheets, his hand was rubbing soothing circles over her back. Their legs were tangled together, two puzzle pieces locked together. He pressed his lips to her hairline, inhaling the fresh scent of shampoo and something distinctly her. She closed her eyes, cuddling up against him like he was her personal blanket.
“Missed you,” she whispered drowsily, almost inaudible.
Dean listened to the rhythm of her breath getting calmer and calmer by the second, until it was so deep he was sure she was fast asleep. “I miss you too, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Colette.”
Lifting his gaze, Dean set the frame back onto the shelf. He recognized the anguish in Cain’s eyes, the sombre smile, so subtle it might get mistaken for a frown.
The knight of Hell regarded the picture woefully — not a photograph, but a portrait that was sketched an eternity ago. He wished he had more to remember her face by, but this was all that was left of her. The paper has since become yellow, the black coal now washed into a faded grey — even if it had been drawn yesterday, it couldn’t replicate the real thing.
He wouldn’t even know what the real thing looked like anymore. Even the color of her eyes had faded from his memory, his lover’s features a long forgotten, blurry fog. All he could remember clearly was the aftermath, her lids closed, her corpse limp in his arms. The weight of her lifeless bones in his grasp would be etched into his brain forever.
Cain has roamed this godforsaken earth for far too long, and despite the ever-present pain of his past, that is exactly what it is. His past. Bodies buried centuries ago, if not millennia.
“Her name was Colette,” Cain repeated, approaching Dean. He reached for the frame, adjusting its angle and tracing the edge slowly. “Killed by Abaddon.”
Dean felt it immediately, the guilt laced into the demon’s voice, the familiarity it offered. The knowledge that history was doomed to repeat itself one way or another. His imagination had been running wild on this particular fate for months — ever since he got the Mark. Maybe even before that.
Her. Dead. In his arms. Either at his hands or because of them. What difference would it make?
“Is there someone you love, Dean?”
The hunter swallowed, grip tightening around the First Blade.
“Oh, I know,” Cain continued. “Of course, there is your brother. The Mark will have you murder Samuel eventually, as it is written. You’ll think it’s the end of the world, then you’ll come to terms with what you’ve done. Your feathered friend is next, and killing him won’t be easy. But you’ll do it.”
His knuckles were starting to turn white, his fingers trembling around the boar’s teethed jaw.
Cain eyed him up and down, and he found the connection between the twitch of Dean’s brow and his own grief. The demon’s mouth fell into a perceptive “Ah, I see.” — not that it was a sympathetic one.
Through gritted teeth, Dean asked a simple question, to which he knew there was no easy answer: “How do I get rid of it?”
Cain circled him, watched who was both the product of violence and its harborer.
All Dean wanted was for this cycle to stop. Tackling the problem by its root seemed so logical, but standing in the eye of the tornado didn’t help half as much as he had hoped. When no demon, no spells, no prayers would help, what else was there to do but find the source itself?
“What’s her name?” Cain inquired.
Dean’s voice was hoarse, the rasp of his breath rattling his tired, aching bones. “How do I stop it?” he whispered, desperate, grasping at straws, clawing at the mirage of hope. “Please.”
“No matter, she will end up dying, too. Now, that one… that one will hurt quite a bit,” Cain chided, nodding along to his own lecture like he could see the premonition unfold before his very eyes. He knew how it would play out, simply because he’s been there before. “You’re going to drive that knife through her heart and watch her bleed, and it will feel like your own life is being drained.”
This, at last, had Dean raise his voice. It was no longer shaky, his fury echoing through the room with a boom: “How do I remove the Mark, Cain?”
Cain stopped his steps right in front of him. Standing toe to toe with one of the oldest demons should terrify Dean, but this world — his life — harbored scarier dangers. Dangers such as himself and his lack of self-control.
“You can’t,” Cain gave for a dry answer, plain and simple.
His verdict shifted the world’s axis. It was nothing Dean didn’t already know, but hearing it from Cain himself set the final nail of despair into the coffin.
For a split second, Dean felt childish for thinking there was a solution, let alone one he could find here. If Cain had a cure, he would’ve gotten rid of this curse himself ages ago. Nobody, not even Lucifer’s handpicked soldiers, could want this. At the very least, not for this long.
Cain’s trained eyes landed on the weapon again, a glimmer flashing across his face.
He craved the original tool of murder, the comfortable weight in his palm, the power that came along with it. Dean knew it all too well, the addiction to its energy. Just holding it, even in this moment, provided his veins with a pleasant buzz.
“How does it feel to carry it, Dean?”
Green eyes met steel ones. Without replying to Cain, they both knew the demon knew the answer.
It was a feeling like no other. A rush no drug could replicate. Chaos and logic combined into one, molten into a most valuable coin.
Cain so much as lifted his hand, and Dean realized he was a fool for coming here. The demon sent him flying across the room, where his back collided with the wall, and the blade clattered to the ground. Unable to move an inch, Dean was forced to watch the first murderer walk towards the blade and pick it up.
The demon closed his eyes, taking one deep breath, relishing the sweet humming that emitted from the weapon.
“Welcome home,” he mumbled to himself, tilting the bone in his hands, and turned back to the hunter.
Dean thought then, if only for a moment, that this wasn’t so bad. It certainly was one way of getting rid of the Mark of Cain, wasn’t it? The solution to their problems, the cure for this curse.
If Cain killed him on the spot, maybe he could atone for his mistakes. At the very least, he couldn’t make any more of them, wouldn’t have to fulfill that abhorrent prophecy. Who knows? Maybe Sammy could quit hunting, Cas wouldn’t have to pick a side anymore, and she… She could just live. Breathe. Be safe.
Yeah, there were definitely worse ways to go out.
Cain grabbed him by the collar, throwing him down — right against that shelf, the contents of which scattered across the floor, the frame included. As the demon hovered over him, weapon raised, Dean waited for an impact that never came.
Instead of lust for blood, defeat was written over Cain’s features.
His eyes, stormy yet cloudy, lingered on the faded picture among the shattered glass. He was old, he was tired, he was a shadow of himself, and the love he once held and lost. Like sand flowing through his fingers. He would forever be his past. Would he be Dean’s future, too?
What happened next unfolded in a hectic blur of mere moments — Dean seizing the first blade, Dean striking hard and fast, Cain collapsing. Dean staring at the body, at the picture, at broken shards, and at the absence of life and hope.
He vaguely remembered ditching the place in a frenzy and hitting the next gas station. Whiskey wouldn’t fix his problems, but it would soothe his nerves — or so he hoped. He remembered the cashier’s tattoo, remembered seeing it somewhere before, remembered the Stynes.
It was what he came to this state for anyway. How could he get so sidetracked, hunting after Cain in a senseless change of heart? No, he knew that was not it. It hadn’t been him that was after Cain. Cain had been the one to chase after him. Or after the blade, anyway.
Before Dean could pull his weapon on the Styne behind the register, he was knocked out from behind.
The Stynes kidnapped him, tying up his unconscious body, only to blubber out empty threats. “The First Blade, nice souvenir,” this and “Priceless with the Mark of Cain” that. They had not the slightest idea what they were up against. Dean couldn’t die, as much as he wished for it. The sweet release of death was not meant for him, not at their hands anyway.
“You flatline me, and I’ll come back,” he warned. “But I’ll come back with black eyes.”
They’d all end up dead either way, whether he was a demon or not.
He remembered taking them down, all of them, until none were left. He remembered spending the next day tracking down the rest of the Stynes and eliminating those, too. He remembered killing Charlie’s murderer and putting a bullet in that kid’s brain despite his pleading. He remembered Cas trying to stop him, trying to reason with him, which only triggered more fury. He remembered the crunch of Castiel’s nose against his knuckles, and he definitely remembered the shade of red staining his skin — as much as he wished not to.
The car ride that followed after was torture. Dean was more than antsy, driving recklessly to the city Sam told him about. He mentioned something about locating her phone there, how it hadn’t moved for a while. Despite claiming not to care, he couldn’t help but worry.
It took him several hours to get there, another hour of him battling with himself — he shouldn’t visit her, she probably didn’t even want to see him after the things he said. After the things he’s done.
When he went to another motel and couldn’t find peace there, he came rushing to her place after all.
Upon waking up, she stretched her aching muscles. A blush crept up her face upon remembering the source of her soreness, along with a bashful smile.
“Good morning,” she hummed gently, turning to her side.
Her hand reached for Dean and landed on a cold, empty spot instead.
Blinking her tired eyes open, she took in the sight of an abandoned bedside. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes and glancing towards the bathroom. There was no light under the door, no sound of water indicating his presence.
“Dean?”
No response.
The sheets were wrinkled, the faint smell of shampoo the only evidence he was ever even there. The pillow was smushed slightly, too. But there was no warmth lingering in the fabric. No Dean lying next to her, snoring peacefully.
Barbed wire tightened around her throat, prickling her airways. As anxiety turned to panic, rising within her rapidly, she scrambled to her feet. Rushing to the bathroom, she threw the door open.
Nobody.
“Dean?” she tried again, louder this time.
Was he outside? She threw on some underwear and a robe, almost tripping on her way to the door. Ripping it open, she was only met with crispy air, the cracking of dawn, and a parking lot that was definitely missing Baby.
Did he even drive here, or did he walk?
Did he even come here at all, or was she going insane?
She ran back inside, looking around frantically. The whiskey bottle still sat on the coffee table — she hadn’t been so drunk she’d imagine all of that, had she?
Her phone. Right, she just needed to grab her phone. Surely there was an explanation for this. Staggering to the nightstand, she reached for her phone and stopped mid-movement. Her eyes landed on a piece of paper instead. It was folded once, a pen on top keeping it closed.
He wouldn’t.
He wouldn’t do this to her. Not again. Not like this.
Sinking onto the edge of the bed, she gingerly took the note, holding her breath as she unfolded it.
Sweetheart, I hate to do this to you again, but it’ll be the last time. Know that I never wanted to leave you behind. I never wanted any of this for you. None of it is your fault. Not the Mark, not Charlie, nothing. I promise all will be okay soon. You’ll be okay without me, I know you will. I’m I am I’m sorry. I love you. — Dean PS: For what it’s worth, you’re better than Jimmy Page and Robert Plant combined. You’re the whole Led Zep discography.
Given the tremble of her hand and the tears blurring her vision, she was barely able to read the familiar handwriting. As much as she willed the tears away, they spilled over anyway, two of them splotching right over the angrily scratched out parts of the letter. The paper soaked up the droplets, mixing with the ink.
Damn him.
Damn him and whatever suicidal train of thought he was onto this time!
Snatching her phone from the nightstand, she dialed his number. “Hey,” said the familiar voice on the other line. “You’ve reached Dean. For emergencies —”
She tried a second time, but to no avail — it went straight to voicemail again.
The third time she called him, she did it just to hear his voice. Her hand covered her mouth, stifling her sniffles while she listened to the entirety of Dean’s little speech.
“You’ve reached Dean. For emergencies, you might wanna call Sammy. Don’t bother my girlfriend, she’s off limits.” She was pretty sure Sam was protesting in the background, and if she listened close enough, she could hear herself laughing there, too. She remembered them all sitting in the Impala as he was recording it. Simpler days.
“Anyway, if you need a ghost ganked, leave a message. For other business, call Sammy, number’s… hey, Sammy! What was your number again? No, why the heck would I have that memorized already, didn’t you get a new one?”
More giggling. Some shuffling. She heard herself reaching for the phone, dictating Sam’s number into the speaker.
“Thanks, sweetheart. Bye.”
There was only static noise after, recording the silence of the lonely motel room. She held her breath, but she was pretty sure some quiet sobbing could be picked up by the phone anyway. After a couple of seconds, she hung up. By then, Dean’s letter was but a crumpled piece of paper in her fist.
She tried Sam’s number next, her heart thrumming in tandem with the toot… toot… too—
“Y/N?”
“Is Dean with you?”
“I— No, he— Where are you?”
The dam broke right there, along with her.
Dean Winchester Taglist (Pt. 1)
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