𐙚⋆ THE FANDOM ONCELER. @the-fandoms-onceler - Tumblr Blog

May 4, 2025

detention hearts and bubblegum lies ⋆˚࿔

teen! dean winchester x mean girl! reader

ʚɞ summary: you flirt like it’s a blood sport. he plays dirty right back. rumors swirl, tempers flare, and suddenly, the line between hate and want starts to blur.

ꕤ warnings: mdni! explicit content, porn with plot, unprotected sex, p in v, dirty talk, oral sex (both receiving), a touch of roughness, slight after care, rumors, light bullying if you flinch, soft moments, some comments might catch you off guard, super camp, loads of swearing.

MINISERIES MASTERLIST. NAVIGATION. PREVIOUS PART.

Mornings never feel soft when your brain’s been chewing itself alive all night.

The light creeps in through your blinds, pastel and warm, but you’re already awake, wide-eyed and wired from tossing and turning in your tangled sheets. Your body’s still heavy with leftover heat and guilt, the kind that makes your skin feel too tight and your thoughts too loud. You hate mornings like this. The kind where your stomach knots before your feet even hit the floor.

You bury your face into the pillow, trying to scream without making a sound. Why the fuck did you do that? Why did you let your mind go there—again and again—until you were breathless and ruined and whispering his name like a prayer?

You sigh, dragging yourself out of bed, ignoring the ache between your thighs and the ache in your chest that feels worse. It’s not just the guilt. It’s the fact that he’s in your head like he belongs there. Like he’s earned the right to haunt you. And that? That pisses you off more than anything.

The mirror doesn’t help. Your reflection stares back, a little too wild-eyed, a little too flushed. You swipe gloss across your lips, brush out your hair, throw on your jacket like armor. But none of it makes you feel any less exposed.

You were supposed to be untouchable. The mean girl. The girl who chewed boys up and spit them out. The girl who never got wrecked by a look, a voice, a fucking smirk. And now? You can barely look at yourself without remembering the way your body begged for someone who doesn’t even know your name.

You slam your locker shut in your head. No. Today, you’re getting your shit together.

Amber texts you three times in a row,

You ignore them.

You don’t want company this morning. Not Amber. Not anyone. You need a walk. You need the cold air in your lungs and your boots on the pavement. So you throw on your headphones, Christina Aguilera echoing in your ears, and start the long walk to school. Alone.

The neighborhood is quiet, soft pink skies stretching overhead like cotton candy and sin. Everything looks so peaceful it makes you sick. Because inside, your head is a fucking storm. You keep picturing him—how he leaned back in that classroom chair like he owned the world, how he bit his lip when you started yelling at him, like he liked it. Like he wanted more.

You shiver at the memory, heat and shame crashing over you like a wave. You feel disgusting. Desperate. But you can’t stop. You want him to ruin you, and that’s the part that’s killing you. You’ve always been the one in control.

But with Dean, you’re slipping. Fast.

Your shoes click against the sidewalk as you get closer to school, every step feeling heavier than the last. You’re walking into that building like a girl possessed, a girl who knows that once she sees him again, all her walls might fucking collapse.

And part of you wants them to.

The second you step into the school building, you feel it.

That shift in the air. That low hum under your skin. Like the universe just clocked in for another round of messing with your head. You don’t even get five steps past the front doors before you see him—leaning against the lockers like some goddamn Calvin Klein ad, all denim and leather and that stupid crooked smile that has no right to look that good this early in the morning.

Dean Winchester. Right there. Smirking like he knows.

Your stomach flips, and it pisses you off. Because you’re not some dumb girl who gets flustered over a boy. Not anymore. Not ever. Except… apparently now you are.

You slow your walk, like you’re not even acknowledging him, like your whole body didn’t clench at the sight of him. But of course, the second your eyes drift—just a peek—he catches you. His gaze locks with yours like a fucking magnet, and it’s hot. Not warm, not cute. Hot. Like burn-your-skin, melt-your-insides, take-me-to-hell-and-leave-me-there hot.

“Morning, Princess,” he says, that voice of his deep and dripping with sarcasm. Like he’s got a secret. Like he is your secret.

You stop walking. You stare. He has the audacity to look you up and down like you’re some toy he’s already half-unwrapped.

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t call me that.”

He grins. “Didn’t hear you complain yesterday when you were all over me.”

You blink. Hard. Excuse me?! Your jaw drops a little, because who the fuck does he think he is?

“I was not all over you,” you snap, already hearing the bitchy tone in your voice but unable to stop it. “If anything, I was seconds away from shoving your head through a fucking desk.”

Dean shrugs, like that only proves his point. “Yeah. Thought you might be into that.”

You swear the hallway tilts a little, your brain doing somersaults trying to keep up with the filth that just came out of his mouth. You don’t even have a comeback. You’re too busy imagining that goddamn smirk between your thighs.

You storm off without another word, but you feel his eyes on you. Burning into the back of your legs like he’s undressing you with his mind. And the worst part? You like it.

Class is a blur. You’re at your desk, pen in your hand, but your brain? MIA. Gone. Checked out the second Dean opened his mouth. Everything the teacher says sounds like white noise. Your eyes keep drifting to the side of the room where he sits, sprawled out, lazy and smug, spinning his pen between his fingers like he’s got nothing better to do.

Your thighs clench under the desk.

This is bad. This is so, so bad. You’re supposed to be thinking about, like, Shakespeare or whatever the fuck this lesson is. Instead, you’re mentally cataloguing all the things his hands could be doing to you under the desk.

You squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe. You’re going insane. He’s just a guy. A hot one. With pretty eyes. And a dirty mouth. And arms that look way too good in that jacket—

“Miss Y/L/N?” the teacher calls.

You snap back to reality like someone dumped cold water on your head. “What?” you say way too loud, flushing instantly as a few students snicker.

The teacher frowns. “I asked what the author meant by dramatic irony.”

You’re already on edge, already vibrating with tension from Dean fucking Winchester being a walking wet dream three desks away—and she’s really gonna try you today?

“Miss Y/L/N,” she says again, voice sharp like she’s been waiting to catch you slipping. “Maybe if you spent less time daydreaming and more time listening, you’d understand the material.”

Oh no. No, no, no. Not today.

You slam your pen down on the desk, the snap echoing through the room. “Or maybe if you taught something worth listening to, I wouldn’t be mentally planning my own funeral just to get out of here.”

The room goes dead silent.

Dean lets out this low whistle under his breath, like he’s impressed. A little too impressed. And the way you can feel his grin without even looking at him?

You’re gonna combust.

The teacher’s jaw clenches. “That’s it. Detention. After school. You can explain your attitude to the principal then.”

You smile—smirk, really—as you sit back in your chair like the smug little menace you are. “Looking forward to it.”

Dean hums from his seat, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Well, shit, if I knew detention came with front row seats to that mouth, I would’ve signed up earlier.”

The class collectively gasps. You turn, eyes wide, mouth half-open. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Excuse me, Mr. Winchester?” the teacher snaps.

Dean just grins. “What? I was agreeing. She makes a compelling argument.”

“That’s detention for you, too,” she barks.

He throws his arms up like, whoops, but he’s smiling like the devil. “Guess I’ll keep her company.” You want to strangle him. You also want to straddle him. It’s a confusing time.

The rest of class drags like hell. You don’t dare look at him again. But you feel it; every time he glances over, every time his leg shifts, every goddamn second he’s not saying something, he’s still thinking it. You’re both in trouble now. Literally and metaphorically.

You can already see it: the dusty little classroom at the end of the hall, two desks shoved together, and way too many unspoken things hanging in the air.

He wants to push your buttons. You want to push him against a wall.

And you’ve still got five periods left before the storm hits.

You don’t even make it halfway down the hallway before you hear it.

The whispers. The not-so-subtle glances. The giggles behind hands, the raised brows, the way some sophomore you don’t even know smirks when you walk past like he’s in on something you’re not.

It hits like a slap. Sudden, sharp, and ugly.

“Did you hear? Apparently she and the new guy were screaming at each other in class and now they’re in detention together. Like, full-on lovers’ quarrel vibes.”

“She probably fucked him behind the bleachers already. Classic Y/N.”

“She wants his dick so bad it’s embarrassing.”

You don’t even stop walking. You don’t blink. You just keep going, chin high, lips pressed tight, because if you stop now, you’ll lose it. And you are not letting this stupid fucking school see you break. Not over him. Not over this.

But then, you see him.

Right by the vending machines, calm as ever, leaning against the wall like he’s got no idea the world is spiraling because of him. And next to him? Some lanky kid in a hoodie, awkward posture, floppy hair.

Dean says something. The kid laughs.

You stop. Stare.

It clicks in your head in the wrong way, and without even thinking, you march right up, voice like venom laced with lip gloss. “Well. This makes sense. You’re gay and a pedophile. Real two-for-one special, huh?”

The hallway goes silent. Dean turns his head. Slowly. Like he knows he’s about to devour you alive.

He blinks. Then lets out a bark of laughter, genuine and loud and full of disbelief. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart—”

You cut him off, finger in his face. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. You’ve been here for, what, a week? And suddenly I’m the punchline of the whole fucking school because you can’t keep your mouth shut?”

Dean raises an eyebrow, pushing off the wall, full height now, and it’s fucking intimidating the way he towers but still looks amused. “Right. Because I totally begged everyone to spread rumors about how much you want me.”

You flush. “I don’t—”

“Oh, you do,” he says, voice low, biting, laced with cocky heat. “You want me so bad it’s turning into a goddamn public service announcement.”

“Who’s this?” you ask, motioning to the poor kid still standing there like a deer in headlights.

Dean steps back, throws an arm casually around the boy’s shoulders. “This is Sam. My brother. He’s a freshman. Calm the fuck down, Cruella.”

Oh.

You look at Sam again, properly this time, and yeah— now that you’re not blinded by rage and pettiness, the resemblance is obvious. The eyes. The mouth. Same dimples, just more baby-faced.

Fuck.

Sam gives a tiny wave, unsure. “Hi…”

You exhale through your nose. “Hi.”

Dean leans in, low voice near your ear. “You done making an ass outta yourself? Or do you wanna accuse me of banging the janitor next?”

You glare up at him. “Only if you stop grinding your jaw like that every time you talk to me. You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You think I don’t know your type?”

Dean smiles. Not nice. Not kind. Just hungry. “Sweetheart, I am your type.”

You spin on your heel and walk away like your knees aren’t seconds from giving out.

And if you hear Sam whisper, “Is she okay?” behind you, you pretend you didn’t. You don’t look back.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you’ll see him still watching you. Still smirking. Still winning. And you’re not ready to admit how badly you want him to win.

You barely make it two feet out of the science wing before a sharp tug yanks you off course and into a side hallway with the subtlety of a car crash. You’re still mid-whiplash when you hear her.

“There you are, slut!”

Amber is standing in front of you, arms crossed over her pink cropped hoodie, one eyebrow raised so high it practically touches her hairline. Her ponytail is swinging like it’s got its own attitude, and she looks like she’s about five seconds from flipping a desk over for dramatic effect.

“I know, Amber, I—”

“I’ve been looking for you since second period, bitch,” she says, marching right up to you like you owe her rent. “What the fuck is going on? The entire school is lit up like a goddamn wildfire and you’re out here doing your best sad indie movie walk in slow motion like you’re not the reason half the school wants to know if Dean Winchester is circumcised.”

You blink. “What?”

Amber throws her hands up. “Okay, first of all—don’t play dumb. Second of all, what the hell was that today? You vanished after third period, and then I hear from Rachel Fucking Tran that you and New Boy had a public screaming match in class, got detention, and now people are betting money on whether you’re gonna bang in the janitor’s closet or the art room.”

You open your mouth, and nothing comes out.

She narrows her eyes. “Y/N. Don’t tell me you actually like him.”

“I don’t,” you lie, instantly and badly.

Amber snorts. “You do. Oh my God, you do. I knew it. I knew it the second you got all glassy-eyed at the vending machine when he said ‘fuck’ under his breath. You looked like you were about to combust.”

“I’m combusting now,” you snap, cheeks on fire. “The entire school thinks I’m on his dick already and I haven’t even looked at it. Except for that one time in class when he stretched and his shirt lifted and I saw—”

“Saw what?” she hisses, eyes wide with excitement.

“Nothing,” you say, walking faster.

Amber follows, clutching her iced coffee like it’s holy water. “No no no. Don’t you dare blueball me like that, bestie. We’re in this shit together now. First of all, what the fuck was that just now?”

You groan. “I thought his freshman brother was a boyfriend.”

Amber stops walking. Just stops. Then shrieks—literally shrieks—before bursting into the loudest, most chaotic laugh you’ve ever heard. People look. You don’t care. “Oh my God, you’re the dumbest hot person I’ve ever met,” she gasps between wheezes. “Like, genuinely, there should be a plaque.”

“I was upset! And I panicked! And I’m already spiraling, and he’s always smirking at me, and I can’t even think straight when he’s around, and now I look like a complete psycho—”

Amber claps her hand over your mouth. “First of all, you’ve always looked like a psycho. Second, that boy? That boy is definitely into it.”

You blink at her.

“He likes you, Y/N. I’ve been watching him. He looks at you like you’re a dare. Like he wants to lose. And if he’s still flirting after you publicly accused him of being a sex criminal? He’s down bad. Like, bend-over-the-sink bad.”

Your face is burning. You want to die. You want to scream. Instead, you just mutter, “I hate you so much.”

Amber loops her arm through yours. “You’re welcome, bitch.”

And together, you strut down the hallway, heels clicking in sync, the whole world watching.

Let them talk.

You’re about to give them something worth talking about.

Rest of your classes went normal to be fair. The bell rings and the halls clear out like someone yelled fire. You don’t move.

You stay standing in the shadow of your locker, eyes fixed on the dusty tile floor while your fingers tug at the hem of your miniskirt. Everyone else is racing out the doors, grabbing snacks, heading to cheer practice or straight to Sonic with their boyfriends, and you? You’re stuck in a goddamn after school detention with the one boy on Earth who manages to short-circuit your entire frontal lobe just by existing. Just by smirking. Just by breathing too confidently.

You finally drag yourself toward Room 117, the “detention zone” where they dump all the high school’s most dramatic delinquents and expect them not to set the place on fire. You walk in, and instantly want to walk back out.

It smells like pencil shavings, BO, and stale Cheetos.

The desks are all that ugly ‘70s beige, metal legs crooked and squeaky. There’s a group of football players in the back already doing that annoying half-laugh that boys with low GPAs think is hot. Some girl with bright red hair is chewing gum so loud it could be classified as a hate crime. And sitting dead center, legs sprawled out like he owns the place?

Dean. Fucking. Winchester.

Black leather jacket still on. Boots kicked up on the chair in front of him. His arms are crossed behind his head like he’s reclining on a goddamn beach towel instead of sitting in detention. His hair’s messy like he ran his hands through it a hundred times. His mouth quirks up the second his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, Princess,” he says.

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly exit your body.

You pick the desk furthest from him, near the window. You’re not gonna give him the satisfaction of sitting close, of looking desperate, of caring. You don’t even know him. You’ve known him, what, two days? Not even a full school week. You’ve never had a real conversation that didn’t end in you both insulting each other or him saying something gross and cocky that makes your legs weak.

So why the hell do you feel like he’s been living in your head since the minute he showed up?

You bite your lip, pissed at yourself. This is stupid. You don’t do this. You don’t spiral over boys. You’re the one who leaves boys spiraling.

The door swings open and Principal Cartwright walks in, clipboard in hand, glasses low on his nose like he’s already had enough of everyone’s shit. Which, honestly? Fair.

“Alright, miscreants,” he sighs, standing at the front of the room. “You know why you’re here. You’ve either mouthed off, skipped class, or, in some cases—” he looks dead at you and Dean “completely disrupted the entire learning process for everyone else. Congrats.”

You blink innocently. Dean doesn’t even pretend.

Cartwright continues, droning on. “You’ll be here for three hours. No phones, no talking, no sleeping. Do homework, read something, reflect on your life choices, whatever makes you less of a problem. If I hear a peep, you’ll be here again tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that. Clear?”

Someone coughs.

“Good,” he snaps, then slams the door shut behind him. Silence falls. The worst kind, awkward and loud and suffocating. You cross your legs. You smooth your skirt. You try so hard not to look at Dean. You fail.

He’s already looking at you. Of course he is.

He tilts his head. Mouth twitching like he’s dying to say something. You shoot him a look so sharp it could cut glass. “Something on your mind, Pretty Girl?” he mutters, voice just low enough for you to hear.

You glare. “Yeah. Wondering how a guy I’ve known for two damn days is already ruining my entire mental state.”

Dean grins, slow and cocky. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Shut up.”

He shrugs. “Just saying. You’ve been looking at me like you wanna kill me or kiss me since first period yesterday.”

You’re gonna scream. Or combust. Or both.

You turn away, digging your nails into the desk. The window’s reflecting the afternoon sun and the entire world looks like it’s mocking you. Outside, there’s freedom. Inside, there’s Dean. And the worst part? A tiny, evil little piece of you would rather be trapped in here with him than anywhere else.

God. You’re so fucked.

You’re ten minutes into detention and already fantasizing about murder. Not just murder, creative murder. Like stabbing someone with a sharpened eyeliner pencil. Or bludgeoning Dean Winchester with your Lisa Frank binder.

The room is quiet, except for the tap-tap-tap of a pencil and the occasional chair squeak. You hate it. You hate this room. You hate the air. You hate the way Dean keeps looking at you, like he’s trying to undress you with his brain, and you’re pissed because.. it’s working.

You turn to him sharply. “What are we doing about that stupid-ass English project, by the way?”

Dean doesn’t even glance up. “Nothing.”

Your jaw drops. “Nothing?”

He shrugs. “I don’t give a fuck. You can fail me. Won’t be the first time.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, throwing your head back dramatically. “I’m not gonna do this. I’m not gonna tank my grade because you’re a lazy piece of shit with a nice face.”

Dean finally looks up, smirking. “You think my face is nice?”

You blink. “I said what I said. Doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Didn’t say you did,” he replies casually. “But it is fun hearing you compliment me between insults. Gives me whiplash.”

You slam your folder shut. “Nope. I’m done. I’m bullying some freshman into doing this for me.”

Dean snorts. “What, you gonna threaten them with your gloss budget?”

You lean in close, eyes sharp. “No, I’m gonna stand over their desk in a tiny skirt and say please.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. His eyes flick down, then back up. You see it. You feel it. He wants to say something dirty, something that’d get both of you kicked out and straight into the counselor’s office. And god, you kinda want him to.

But before either of you can open your mouths, the back of the room erupts in chaos.

“Dude, that’s MY charger!”

“No it’s not, I brought this from home!”

“Swear to God if you touch my backpack again I’ll shove your face into a locker!”

You whip around just in time to see two guys, one of the football players and some artsy-looking kid with smudged eyeliner—jump to their feet. They’re nose to nose, arms flailing, both red in the face and yelling like toddlers who missed nap time.

Dean whistles low under his breath. “Didn’t think I’d get dinner and a show today.”

You fold your arms, amused. “Boys are so dramatic.”

He leans toward you, real low, voice like warm sin. “Only when they’re not getting what they want.”

You inhale sharply. He’s close. Too close. His mouth is right there. And for a second—just a split second—you picture dropping your pen, leaning in, licking the taste of rebellion right off his tongue.

Instead, you scoff. “Save the flirting for someone who doesn’t fantasize about punching you in the dick.”

Dean chuckles, low and dangerous. “Might like that.”

You throw a pencil at him. He catches it mid-air. God. You hate him. You hate him, you hate that stupid project, you hate the tension that’s turning your thighs to jello every time he breathes.

You pull your lip between your teeth and look away before you do something stupid. Like kiss him. Or scream. Or both. The yelling in the back gets louder. Someone knocks over a desk.

Cartwright storms back in five seconds later, yelling something about suspensions and “absolute clowns” and how he’s “one caffeine crash away from quitting this job.” You lean your cheek on your hand and sigh.

The clock on the wall hasn’t moved in eight years. Or maybe it has, but that’s how it feels. The air in the detention room is stale, like all the drama sucked the oxygen right out of it. Someone in the back is whispering too loud, someone else is texting under the desk like the teacher can’t see, and you? You’re sitting there with your cheek in your hand, nails tapping your bottom lip, trying so hard not to look at Dean Winchester.

Which, unfortunately, makes you think about him more. The way he leans back in his chair like it’s a damn throne. The stupid little curve in his smile like he’s always two seconds from ruining your life. You catch yourself wondering what his hoodie smells like and immediately want to slap yourself.

You’re deep in that spiral when he leans toward you, voice low, like he’s offering you a cigarette behind a church. “Wanna run away from here?”

You blink. “What?”

“Like—right now,” he says, nodding toward the door like it’s a portal to freedom. “We sneak out the back, ditch this whole detention hellscape, and just… disappear for a while.”

You raise a brow. “Disappear where? The cafeteria?”

Dean shrugs, that half-smile on his face again. “Anywhere’s better than this. We could hop a fence. Steal a car.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but you’re bored. I can see it in your face.”

You open your mouth to shoot something back, but pause. Because he’s not wrong. You’re so bored. And frustrated. And tired of pretending to care about school rules and seating charts and “appropriate behavior.” You’re tired of the mean-girl mask you’ve got glued to your face 24/7. Tired of carrying the weight of being untouchable, unbothered, unbreakable.

You tilt your head and look at him. Really look at him. “What’s your deal, anyway?”

Dean blinks. “My deal?”

“Yeah,” you say, chewing your pen cap. “You’re the new guy, but you act like you own the place. You’re charming, but in a punchable way. You don’t care about anything, but I’ve seen you actually listen in class.”

He looks amused. “You been watching me?”

You scoff, heat rising in your chest. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But you have. And now he knows it.

Dean shrugs like he’s peeling himself open just a crack. “We move around a lot. It’s easier not to care.”

You go quiet for a second. There’s a moment—brief, but heavy—where you both just sit in it. The reality. The weird ache of not belonging. Of feeling like you’re always performing, always one misstep from falling off your little throne.

You sigh, glancing back toward the door. “If I get caught sneaking out of detention, I’ll get suspended. My mom will kill me.”

He grins. “Then we better not get caught.”

You bite your lip to stop the smile threatening to break through. You hate that he’s getting under your skin like this. Hate how much you want to say yes.

Instead, you whisper, “You’re really bad news.”

Dean leans closer, eyes dancing. “And you really like bad news.”

You shake your head, but the way your heart’s hammering? Yeah. He might be right. And when the teacher leaves the room again for “five minutes only,” you don’t even pretend not to look at the door.

You’re pacing in your chair like your body’s buzzing with static electricity, legs bouncing, lip bitten raw. You don’t sneak out of detention. You don’t sneak out of anything. You’re a queen bee—watched, judged, talked about. If someone saw you crawling out the window with a delinquent boy you’ve known for two days? That’s your entire empire down in flames.

So why are you standing now?

Why is Dean whispering, “Come on, come on,” as he slips behind a row of dusty lockers like he’s done this a million times? Why is your heart pounding like you’re about to commit an actual felony?

You follow him. Of course you do. You tiptoe after his broad, smug silhouette, heels soft against the linoleum, breath caught in your throat like it’s terrified to be exhaled. Your hands are shaking a little. Not because you’re scared.

Because you’ve never felt this alive in your life.

You’re halfway down the back hallway, eyes darting like you’re in a damn spy movie, when a door swings open—slam. You both freeze, ducking so fast you nearly eat shit on the floor. Dean catches your wrist and pulls you down behind a vending machine just in time, your breath hot and fast against his hoodie.

You’re pressed so close to him it’s dizzying. His hand’s still wrapped around your wrist. His chest rises and falls like he’s winded from a sprint. You feel his eyes on you before you even dare to look up.

“Fuck,” you whisper, the word barely air. “We’re so getting expelled.”

Dean leans in, smirking. “Worth it.”

You glare at him, but your stomach does flips. Like actual cheer stunts. Full toss. Pom-poms and glitter included.

Once the footsteps fade, he tugs you along again, down one more hallway, then through a door that creaks like a horror movie. You both flinch, bolt through it, and boom—you’re outside. Sunlight hits your face like a slap. Fresh air rushes your lungs.

You stand there, stunned. Dean slams the door shut behind you. You both just stare at each other for a second.

Then you start laughing. That uncontrollable, I-can’t-breathe, adrenaline-laced kind of laugh. Your hand clutches your stomach, head thrown back, joy pouring out of you like a shaken soda can finally opened.

Dean laughs too—deeper, louder. And the sound of it? It’s unfairly hot.

“Holy shit,” you gasp, catching your breath. “We actually did it.”

He grins like it’s the best thing he’s heard all day. “Told you I was a bad influence.”

You glance over at him, really look this time. His hair’s all messy from the wind, his cheeks flushed from running. His smile is wide, real, soft. For a second, the cocky smirk is gone—and in its place is someone… almost boyish.

And just like that, something in your chest shifts.

You don’t just wanna kiss him to shut him up anymore.

You kinda wanna know what songs he listens to when he’s sad. What his bedroom looks like. If he’s ever had his heart broken. If he’d look at you the same way with no one around.

The realization slams into you like a truck—and you blink it away fast, swallowing hard. Dean nudges you with his elbow. “What now, princess?”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. “I have no idea.”

But you do.

You wanna keep running.

As long as it’s with him.

It doesn’t take long to decide where to go. He jangles his keys in that smug, I’m-too-cool-for-this-school way, and of course he’s got a car. Of course it’s not just a car, it’s a classic. Sleek black, shining even under the clouds, with leather seats that creak when you slide into the passenger side.

“You serious?” you blink at it. “You drive a whole-ass movie car.”

Dean just grins, starts the engine, and the rumble of it vibrates through the seat and up your spine. “She’s my baby,” he says, patting the wheel. “Name’s Baby.”

You snort. “You named your car?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not impressed.”

You are, but you’re not about to say it out loud.

He drives a few blocks away, parks under a huge oak tree by the edge of an empty park, and just… leaves the engine running. You both sit there, the air thick and still, the radio playing something low and classic that doesn’t match the heat building between you.

And for a second, there’s silence.

Until you blurt it out— because you’re you, and you’d rather burn the world down than let feelings sneak up on you. “So…” you start, legs crossed, arms folded. “Do you just wanna fuck me or what?”

Dean’s head jerks toward you so fast it’s comical.

You raise a brow. “I mean, be honest. That’s what this is, right? You flirt, I roll my eyes, we argue in class, and then eventually you’re trying to hook up with me behind the gym or whatever. Just say it.”

He leans back in his seat, face unreadable now. The smirk’s gone. The game’s paused.

“Wow,” he says quietly. “Is that really what you think?”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “Isn’t it?”

Dean rubs a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the dashboard. “Look, I’m not gonna lie. I do think about you. Like, a lot. I’ve thought about your mouth more times than I should admit out loud.”

Your face heats instantly, but he’s not done.

“But I also noticed how you bite your lip when you’re bored. And how you let your friends talk over you even when you’ve got something better to say. And how you look around the hallway like you’re always waiting for someone to prove you don’t have it all figured out.”

You stare at him. Heart hammering.

“I don’t just wanna fuck you,” Dean says, finally turning to face you. “I wanna know you.”

“No one really tries with me,” you admit, voice low, barely there. “They just see the bitchy popular girl and decide I’m not worth the time. Or they try to use me for status. Or sex.”

He shakes his head slowly. “I see a girl who’s always surrounded but somehow still alone.”

That silence after? It’s deafening.

You look away fast, blinking out the sting in your eyes, and he doesn’t push. He just lets it sit there in the space between you. Real. Heavy. Gentle.

You laugh a little to break it. “That was way too deep for a parked car convo.”

Dean smirks. “Hey. We’re both hot, but we’ve got layers. Like sexy onions.”

You burst out laughing despite yourself, hand to your mouth. “You’re such a dumbass.”

“Guilty,” he grins. “But now you’re smiling, so…”

You shift in your seat, suddenly all too aware of how close he is. Your thighs are crossed tightly, fingers playing with the hem of your skirt like it’s gonna give you answers. But it doesn’t. He does.

And for some reason, that makes it scarier.

“I wanna get to know you too,” you say, quieter than intended. It slips out before you can dress it up in sarcasm or a joke. Raw. Unfiltered.

Dean blinks. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying to decide whether to grin or feel something.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods slowly—like that meant more to him than you even realize. You look down at your lap. “I don’t really… do that. The whole let people in thing.”

He shrugs, resting his hand near yours on the center console, close enough to feel the heat. “Me either. Every time I do, it fucks me over.”

You glance sideways. “Someone hurt you?”

His jaw clenches for a second. “Yeah. Bunch of someones, actually. Mom died when I was a kid. Dad’s a ghost half the time. And Sam… well, he’s the only one who gets me, but even he’s got his own shit.”

You tilt your head. “Sam? That kid from earlier?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah. He’s my little brother. Not my secret lover, despite what you seem to think.”

You burst out laughing, head thrown back against the seat. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I actually said that.”

“It was bold,” he smirks, watching you with that glint in his eye again. “Kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

You roll your eyes but your cheeks are warm, your stomach flipping like crazy. “I thought I had you all figured out,” you admit. “New guy. Hot. Cocky. Full of himself. Probably has a graveyard of exes.”

He leans back, casual as hell. “You weren’t totally wrong.”

You scoff. “But you’re also… different. You’re not scared to see through people.”

He nods, suddenly serious again. “Yeah. And I see through you.”

His voice is soft but it cuts deep,

“I see a girl who acts like nothing gets to her, but the second people stop looking, she falls apart. I see someone who craves love but doesn’t trust it. Someone who would rather be feared than hurt again.”

You blink fast, your throat tight. No one’s ever said that to you. No one’s ever looked at you like this. Not like a trophy. Not like an enemy. Just… like a girl.

“Why me?” you whisper. “Why do you even care?”

Dean shrugs, leaning a little closer now. “Because when you looked at me in that classroom, when you talked all that shit—you didn’t back down. And not because you wanted attention. Because you wanted control. And I get that. I live that.”

You look at him. Really look at him. The green eyes. The calloused hands. The mouth that’s been smirking since day one but isn’t now. Not anymore.

He’s being honest. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just being.

“You scare the shit out of me,” you say softly.

“Good,” he smirks again, but there’s no venom in it. “You scare the shit out of me too.”

For a second, all you hear is your breathing, the engine’s low hum, and some old rock song humming in the background. And then, before the moment can spiral into something too real, he nudges your knee with his.

“So,” he says, “how do you feel about skipping detention again tomorrow?”

You laugh, head tilting back. “Oh, you’re terrible.”

“I’m fun,” he corrects, grinning.

You end up at this little roadside diner with flickering neon lights and a menu that hasn’t changed since 1983. Dean swears by the burgers, and you’re starving enough to trust him. You both sit in the Impala, legs pulled up onto the seats, sharing fries from the same paper tray like you’ve done this a hundred times.

“You eat like this all the time?” you ask, chewing a bite of grilled cheese like it’s gourmet.

“Hell yeah,” he says, licking ketchup off his thumb. “No offense to fine dining, but you can’t beat fries at 10PM in a parking lot with a girl in a mini skirt.”

You smirk, raising an eyebrow. “So I’m just a vibe to you?”

He grins. “No, you’re the vibe.”

Your eyes roll but your lips tug upward anyway. There’s something so easy about this. Sitting there, messy hair and faded headlights, no cliques or whispers or expectations pressing on your chest. Just air. Just you and Dean and a half-eaten cheeseburger.

He cranks down the windows, and the night breeze rolls in like something cinematic. Crickets chirping. Distant hum of cars. The sky stretching wide and dark overhead.

“C’mon,” he says suddenly, grabbing the brown paper bag and hopping out. “You trust me?”

You hesitate. “That’s a loaded question.”

He smirks, tossing his keys in the air. “Live a little, princess.”

You groan but follow, climbing onto the hood of the Impala. The metal’s warm beneath your thighs, and Dean flops down beside you like he belongs there. Which he kinda does.

“You ever just stare at the stars?” he asks.

You look up. “Not really. Too busy looking down at people.”

He laughs. “Of course you’d say that.”

You nudge his arm with your shoulder. “What about you? You stargaze often or just when you’re trying to get laid?”

He turns his head, looking at you instead of the sky. “I like to think they’re the only thing that doesn’t lie. You look up and it’s always real. Nobody pretending.”

You blink. “Damn. That was deep for a guy who moaned over chili cheese fries five minutes ago.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m full of surprises.”

There’s a silence that falls between you, not awkward—just quiet. Safe. So you break it.

“I meant what i said when i told you i never let anyone see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“Unfiltered. Unbothered. Without the fake smile and the ‘you wish you were me’ attitude.”

Dean turns toward you again. “I like this version.”

You snort. “You like the version that’s tired and full of grilled cheese?”

“I like the version that’s real.”

Your stomach twists. In a good way. In a fuck, don’t fall for him way.

“So,” he says after a moment, “what’s your deal? Why all the attitude? Why rule the school like it’s Mean Girls?”

You shrug, staring up at the stars again. “People don’t mess with you when you’re on top. They don’t ask questions. They don’t get close enough to break anything.”

Dean nods. “Yeah. That sounds familiar.”

You glance over. “Now, elaborate more on what’s your deal?”

He sighs. “Like i said, moved a lot. Dad’s a mess. Raised Sammy like he was mine. Learned early on that charming people was easier than trusting them.”

You whisper, “Same.”

He looks at you—really looks. “And now we’re two fucked-up kids staring at the stars in a nowhere town.”

You smile. “Kinda poetic.”

Dean reaches into the bag and pulls out the last fry, holds it out to you. You take it.

“It’s weird,” you murmur. “I’ve known you for two days, and you already know me better than most of my friends.”

“Maybe that says something about your friends.”

You pause, then nod. “Yeah. Maybe it does.” The wind blows your hair across your face and he reaches out to tuck it behind your ear. His fingers graze your cheek.

Neither of you says anything.

You’re not kissing yet, but the air’s heavy with it. Like the next move could change everything. “Wanna stay out here a little longer?” he asks, voice lower now.

You look at him, and you don’t have to fake the smile this time. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

You stay on the hood of the Impala for a while, legs stretched, heads tilted toward the stars, the kind of silence that doesn’t demand anything from you. No clever lines. No performance. Just breathing in sync like you’ve known each other longer than a few days.

Eventually, he shifts. “Wanna go for a drive?”

You nod, smiling. “Only if you let me pick the music.”

Dean gives you a scandalized look as he hops down. “This is a classic car, sweetheart. There are rules.”

But five minutes later, you’re in the passenger seat, feet tucked under you, windows down, and the tape you snuck from your purse is sliding into the deck. You smirk as the crackle of Led Zeppelin fills the car.

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” you say.

Dean looks at you sideways, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You better know the words.”

And you do.

Oh, you do.

By the second verse of Going to California, you’re singing along—quiet at first, like you don’t want to ruin it—but then the windows are open and you’re yelling the lyrics into the wind like you’re the main character of a movie nobody’s seen yet. Your voice is soft and a little scratchy from the cold air, and Dean’s hands tighten on the wheel every time you hit the notes just right.

He glances over and for a second he’s completely thrown.

Who are you?

All pink gloss and sharp edges at school, but now? You’re barefoot, hair whipping around your face, eyes closed, singing a song that most girls your age probably haven’t even heard. And you mean it. You feel it. It’s like you were born in a different decade, one where road trips fixed things and love was written in mixtapes and motel rooms.

Dean’s heart lurches and it pisses him off a little. She’s trouble, he thinks. And not the kind you walk away from.

You open your eyes mid-verse and catch him looking, and you grin, real slow. “Don’t fall in love with me, Winchester.”

He snorts, looking back at the road, jaw clenched.

Too late.

He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he turns the volume up and lets you sing the rest, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel while pretending not to memorize the way your lips move.

When the song fades out, you lean back in your seat and sigh like your heart’s full. “You’ve got good taste,” Dean mutters.

You smirk. “You’re welcome.”

He glances at you again. “So… what else don’t I know about you?”

And just like that, the night stretches out again, full of questions, soft laughter, and neon-lit nothingness. No school, no rumors, no rules. Just a boy and a girl in a car that feels like the only place in the world that matters right now.

And neither of you says it, but you’re both thinking the same thing,

Shit. I’m screwed.

The ride back to your place is quiet, but not awkward quiet. It’s the kind of silence that feels heavy in your chest, like the car is filled with all the things neither of you are saying. His hand’s on the wheel, your cheek’s against the cool window glass, and your heart’s doing that stupid fluttery thing that it never does for anyone.

You roll your eyes at yourself. God, you hate this. You hate feelings.

When he pulls up outside your house, the porch light is off like always, and you don’t even hesitate before saying it. “Hey.” Your voice comes out softer than you expect. “You wanna… stay over?”

Dean shifts in his seat, one eyebrow cocking. “Stay over, huh?”

You shrug, trying to act casual. “My mom works nights. She’s a nurse or whatever. I just… I hate being alone in this house. It’s weirdly quiet.”

Dean smirks, that cocky little tilt to his lips already forming. “So you do wanna have sex with me.”

Your head snaps toward him, eyes wide. “No! I mean—not that—well, not just that—” You choke on your own words, and Dean full-on laughs, head thrown back against the seat like this is the best thing he’s heard all week.

You punch his arm. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Ow.” He grins at you, smug as hell. “Okay, okay. I’ll stay over. No sex. Cross my heart.”

You scoff. “Please. Like you’d survive a night in my bed without trying something.”

He leans a little closer, eyes gleaming in the dark. “Sweetheart, I’m flattered you think I’m that disciplined.”

Your breath catches—and he knows it. He sees the way your throat bobs when you swallow, the way your fingers fidget in your lap. But he doesn’t push. Not really.

“Come on,” you say, hopping out of the car and slamming the door shut before he can say anything else that makes your face warm.

He follows you inside, boots thudding against the wood floors, and you swear the air feels thicker with him in your space. More alive. You toss your keys on the kitchen counter, flip the hallway light on, and motion toward your room.

“It’s small. Don’t get excited.”

He takes it all in, the pink, the perfume in the air, the chaos of pillows and discarded clothes—and just smiles. Like it’s the best room he’s ever seen.

You sit on the edge of your bed, suddenly unsure. He’s standing there like he’s waiting, like you’re gonna change your mind or ask him to leave.

But you don’t.

Instead, you say, “You can take the left side. I don’t sleep on that side.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You got a side of the bed?”

You nod. “Yeah. It’s a whole thing. I can’t sleep unless I’m facing the wall.”

He doesn’t laugh at you this time. He just moves, real slow, pulling off his jacket and tossing it over your desk chair like he’s done this before. Like he’s done it here before.

He crawls onto the left side, settling in with his arms behind his head, and he looks so at home it makes your chest ache.

You click off the lamp and slip under the covers next to him, the mattress dipping slightly from his weight. The silence stretches again. Safe, warm, not scary at all.

After a few minutes, you whisper, “Thanks for staying.”

Dean turns his head just enough for your eyes to meet in the dark. “Anytime, trouble.”

You don’t know how long you’ve been laying there, backs turned to each other, both way too aware of the other person breathing just inches away.

The room is dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlight bleeding through your curtains. It dances across the ceiling, the shadows flickering softly with every passing car. You can hear Dean shifting, just a little, like he’s restless too.

You let out a soft sigh. “You awake?”

Silence. Then, “Yeah.”

A beat passes.

“I can’t sleep,” you murmur, fingers toying with the edge of your pillow.

Dean chuckles low in his throat. “Figured. You’ve been flopping like a damn fish over there.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Shut up.”

A long pause again. Then his voice. Quieter, softer, “Is this weird for you?”

Your heart skips, then thuds a little too loudly in your chest. “Yeah,” you admit. “Kind of. But like… not bad weird.”

Dean turns toward you, the mattress dipping slightly. You feel it. Feel him. And then there’s his voice again, low and rough and way too close to your mouth.

“What kind of weird, then?”

You hesitate, chewing your lip. “Like the ‘I wanna kiss you but I’m scared if I do, I’ll never stop’ kind of weird.”

The silence after that is thick.

And then?

Dean moves. Slow. Careful.

His hand brushes your cheek, thumb sweeping against your jaw, and suddenly his breath is on your lips. “You sure about that?” he whispers. “Because if I kiss you right now, it’s not gonna be sweet.”

You feel your pulse spike. You whisper back, “Who said I wanted sweet?”

And just like that, his mouth is on yours.

It’s hot, messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation. His hand slides into your hair, tugging a little, and you gasp into him—his chest pressing against yours like he wants to devour you. You’re not used to this. You’re not used to feeling like this. Like your whole body’s on fire and all he’s done is kiss you.

You roll on top of him without thinking, straddling his waist. He groans against your mouth, hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying to ground himself.

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he mutters, lips trailing to your neck, your collarbone, your chest. You tilt your head back, giving him more space.

“Promise?” you breathe.

Clothes start coming off, slower than you’d expect from the two of you, like every inch matters. Like you both want to remember this. Every little look. Every little sigh. You grind against him, and he hisses through his teeth, sitting up to bite your bottom lip.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re so goddamn pretty.”

You’re losing your mind, your balance, your entire personality under his hands, his mouth, the look in his eyes like he’s never wanted anything more.

Your legs are shaking, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

Dean’s hand is gripping your thigh like he owns it, spreading you open on his bed, and the look on his face? Dark. Hungry. Borderline feral.

He’s rock hard in his jeans, and when he grinds down against your bare core, dragging against your soaked panties? You actually whimper.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice rough and deep, lips ghosting over your jaw. “So fuckin’ wet for me already. You been thinkin’ about this all day, huh?”

You nod, breathless. “Dean, I swear to god—”

“Swear to me later,” he growls, yanking your underwear down your thighs and tossing them across the room. “Right now? I wanna hear how pretty you sound when you beg.”

He drops to his knees between your legs, dragging his mouth down your stomach like he’s worshipping you—teeth grazing just enough to make your whole body twitch.

“You gonna be good for me, baby?” he murmurs against your inner thigh, biting down lightly. “Let me eat this sweet fuckin’ pussy till you cry?”

You choke on your own breath. You’re soaked. You’re throbbing.

Then his tongue is on you.

Flat, wet, slow. One long lick up your center before he does it again, faster, rougher, messier. And then he’s moaning against you like he’s the one getting off.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, locking you in place, and you can’t even close your legs—you’re trembling, hands fisting in his hair while your hips stutter up into his mouth.

“Shit—Dean, I—fuck, fuck—”

You swear you’re seeing stars when he sucks on your clit, his tongue fucking into you so good, so deep, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. You’re already so close it hurts.

When you cum—because of course you do—it’s not soft or sweet. It’s loud, feral, messy. Your whole body arches off the bed, and he doesn’t stop. Keeps going, licking you through it until you’re pushing at his head, oversensitive and gasping.

And he just grins, face glistening, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he just finished his favorite meal.

“Thought you were gonna break the damn bed,” he jokes, climbing over you again, his cock hard and pressed right where you need it.

You drag his jeans down like you’re gonna die if he doesn’t fuck you in the next ten seconds.

When he finally pushes in? It’s deep. All the way. One long, slow thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. You’re clawing at his back, gasping his name like it’s a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Dean, please.”

“Yeah?” he groans into your neck, hips moving slow, deep, mean. “You want it harder, baby? Gonna give it to you just how you need it.”

He picks up the pace, fucking into you so hard the headboard hits the wall, and you swear you see white.

He’s moaning now too, close, head buried in your neck while his fingers dig into your hip.

“Can’t believe I’m inside this perfect fuckin’ pussy,” he pants. “So tight. So good. Fuck—gonna cum just from the way you feel.”

You’re babbling at this point—his name, please, don’t stop, more more more— And when you both hit your highs, it’s fucking chaos. Sweaty. Loud. Hands everywhere.

When he finally collapses on top of you, both of you gasping, skin sticking, bodies trembling, He looks at you like he’s never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes. “We’re doin’ that again. Like. A lot.”

You’re still shaking.

Not from the orgasm—okay, also from the orgasm—but mostly from the way he’s looking at you right now. Face inches from yours, cheek pressed against the pillow, his hand resting low on your stomach like he’s claiming you, guarding you, soothing you.

Your legs are tangled with his. Skin against skin, still hot and damp and kinda sticky, but neither of you seems to care.

You’ve never been this close to someone before. Not like this. Not after letting them touch every inch of you, ruin you, whisper filth in your ear like it was a love song.

He’s just watching you. Silent. Studying your face like it’s got all the answers in the world.

“…What?” you finally whisper, heart still beating way too fast.

Dean shrugs a little. “You’re just… not what I expected.”

You narrow your eyes. “That sounds like an insult.”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “I mean—you’re mean as fuck. But you’re also…” His voice trails off, softening. “There’s somethin’ else. Underneath all that lip gloss and attitude.”

You roll your eyes, trying to bury the heat in your cheeks. “Don’t go soft on me now, Winchester.”

“I already am soft,” he smirks, glancing down between you two. “Unfortunately.”

You choke on your laugh and swat his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

“And you like it,” he grins, then sighs and shifts closer, pulling you flush against him. “You’re real warm, y’know that?”

You hum quietly, staring at the little constellation of freckles across his shoulder. “You’re not sleeping here.”

“I’m literally already here.”

“I mean tonight. Like, you’re not staying forever, Winchester. Don’t get ideas.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Would it be so bad if I did?”

You don’t say anything.

Because you don’t know how to explain that something’s been shifting since you met him. Since he crashed into your life with his stupid leather jacket and that smug smirk and those green eyes that saw through you so fast it scared you.

And you definitely don’t know how to say that when he’s touching you like this—gentle, sweet, skin on skin like a promise—you feel like you could actually breathe.

You blink at the ceiling. “I don’t do soft,” you mutter. “I’m not some sweet girl that cuddles boys after sex.”

Dean leans in, presses a kiss to your temple so soft it makes your stomach flip.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Could’ve fooled me, baby.”

You freeze. Because no one’s ever called you that before. And it’s stupid how much it makes your chest ache. You bury your face in his shoulder and mutter, “Don’t call me baby.”

He grins into your hair. “Okay, princess.”

You fall asleep like that. Naked, vulnerable, arms wrapped around each other in a tangle of limbs and blankets and unspoken things.

And Dean? He stays the whole night.

The sun’s barely peeking through your blinds, golden and warm and way too romantic for how filthy you feel. Your thighs still ache. Your neck’s a minefield of bruises. And the sheets? Yeah, they reek of sex and Dean and sin.

But when you turn your head and see him—hair a mess, chest bare, lips parted while he blinks up at the ceiling like the devil he is—you can’t even pretend to feel guilty.

You just feel… hungry.

You shift, slow and quiet, the way you always do when you’re about to do something bad. And you don’t say a word when you disappear under the covers, your fingers grazing over his stomach, lazy and light.

Dean stirs. “S’too early for you to start with that,” he mutters, voice still rough from sleep. But he doesn’t stop you. Of course he fucking doesn’t.

You smirk against his skin. “Shh. Let me do something nice for once.”

He groans. “That’s the last thing this is, sweetheart.”

But then you’ve got him in your hand, hardening fast, already hot and heavy in your palm like he was waiting for this. Like he knew. You swirl your tongue once—just once—around the head and he jerks under you, fists clenching in the sheets.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “You’re—Jesus, you’re really—shit.”

You take your time with it.

Lick him slow. Deep. Let your nails scratch gently at his thigh, just to make him twitch. You hollow your cheeks, tease him with your tongue, suck him down so deep he forgets how to breathe.

Dean’s moaning now. Head thrown back. Mouth open. One hand gripping the sheets, the other tangled in your hair like he doesn’t know whether to pull you off or shove you deeper.

“Holy fuckin’—you’re gonna kill me,” he groans. “You’re—fuck. You’re not a real person. There’s no way.”

You hum around him, sending vibrations down his spine. His whole body jolts. “You’re so fucking filthy,” he pants. “Woke up and just needed my dick in your mouth, huh? Couldn’t even wait?”

You glance up at him through your lashes, lips wrapped around him, spit dribbling down your chin.

And Dean loses it.

He grabs the back of your head, thrusts into your throat, and you take it like a good girl—tears prickling your eyes, nose buried against his stomach. You gag once, but you don’t stop. You don’t want to.

He’s a mess when he comes. Loud. Breathless. Cursing like a sailor while his hips stutter and his hand tightens in your hair like he’s afraid he’ll float away without you there to anchor him.

You crawl back up once he’s done, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand, and plop down beside him like nothing happened.

Dean’s still panting. Still staring at the ceiling.

“Morning,” you say sweetly.

He blinks at you. “I’m gonna marry you.”

You laugh, but you don’t say no.

You’re lying there in Dean’s arms, body still humming from the blowjob that could’ve sent him to the afterlife, all warm and sleepy and smug in your post-fuck glow. You’re tangled under the sheets in his T-shirt, giggling against his chest while he kisses the top of your head like he’s a boyfriend or something.

And then,

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“Y/N. Seriously? Stop locking the damn door. We’ve talked about this.”

Your blood runs cold. Dean’s eyes go wide.

“Shit.” You bolt upright. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Who’s that?” Dean whispers like a dumbass, like he doesn’t already know.

You scramble off the bed and hiss, “It’s my mom, you idiot!”

Dean launches out from the covers like he’s just been drafted into war. “Well fuck, babe, what do I do?!”

You’re both standing there like two deer in headlights—shirtless, sweaty, sinning—while your mom jangles the door handle like she’s about to call the Pope.

“Y/N. Open the door right now. I swear to God—”

“GET DRESSED!” you whisper-scream, throwing Dean’s jeans at him like they’re a grenade.

“I’m not even wearing underwear,” he huffs, trying to shove his leg into the wrong pant hole. “Why didn’t you warn me she gets home this early?!”

“She doesn’t! She’s still supposed to be on the night shift!”

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

“I swear, if you’re smoking in there again—!”

You panic. Full panic. You’re both half-dressed, and there is no way you’re letting your mom open that door to the sight of Dean Fucking Winchester standing in your room, shirtless and sinful with your lip gloss on his jaw.

“THE WINDOW.”

Dean blinks. “You want me to—what—the fuckin’ window?! Babe, that’s a second story drop!”

“I DON’T CARE.”

And you’re shoving it open like it’s your God-given mission, and Dean—still zipping up his fly—is climbing out barefoot while muttering, “This is so fucked. This is so incredibly fucked.”

“GO. NOW. I’LL TEXT YOU.”

“You owe me so much sex for this—”

SLAM.

He jumps.

Hits the ground with a thud.

Rolls once. Groans. And gives you a salute from the backyard like he just escaped a CIA sting operation.

You spin around, whip off your T-shirt, and throw on a hoodie just in time to—

CLICK.

Your mom opens the door. You’re sitting on your bed. Innocent. Alone. Breathless.

She squints. “Why are you so red?”

You blink. “Yoga.”

She eyes you. “Yoga.”

“Yup.”

Beat.

“Smells weird in here.”

“Lavender candle,” you lie. “Mindfulness. You wouldn’t understand.”

She walks off. Grumbling.

You don’t even breathe until you hear her go back downstairs. And even then, you just fall flat on your back and stare at the ceiling like,

Holy. Shit.

You grab your phone and text him,

You stare at your phone, fingers frozen over the screen, the text you just sent still lingering like a brand on your mind. “You owe me a handjob under the bleachers.” God, was that real? Was that actually real? You fucking did it. You fucked Dean Winchester, like, the Dean Winchester. You were so cocky, so in control last night, but now, with the post-sex fog lifting, you can feel the heaviness setting in.

You step into the shower, the hot water cascading down your skin, hoping it will wash away the constant whirlwind of thoughts in your head. The steam fills the bathroom, but it doesn’t clear your mind. If anything, the silence only makes it louder. You try to focus on the warmth, on the feeling of the water rushing over you, but no matter how many times you scrub away the tension, the thoughts won’t leave. They swirl around you like ghosts, relentless and heavy, refusing to give you any peace.

You take a deep breath, staring at the ceiling, your heart thumping in your chest. You let it all crash over you. The realness of what just happened. You had sex with him. You let him in. Not just physically, but—fuck, emotionally too? Because, goddamn, he actually kissed you after, like he gave a shit. He actually held you. He didn’t pull away like all the assholes you’ve been with before. This isn’t some casual hookup. It felt too intimate, too real.

The sound of your mom calling your name almost makes you flinch. You freeze. “Y/N, Amber’s here!” She calls from downstairs.

You snap your eyes open. Shit. Amber.

You finish up as fast as you can, nerves kicking in again. You need to act normal. You need to act like you didn’t just have sex with a boy who practically had you wrapped around his finger. You need to be cool about it. Right?

Quickly, you dry off, throw on a cute black mini skirt and a matching, fitted shirt. You check yourself out in the mirror—nothing too revealing, but just enough to make you look put together, fresh-faced, and unbothered.

You take a deep breath, pull your hair into a messy ponytail, and head downstairs.

Amber’s there, chatting with your mom about something you barely register as you walk into the room. She shoots you a smile when you walk in. “Hey, you’re late. You okay?”

“Yeah, just… tired,” you mumble, your voice tight. You’re doing your best to sound casual, but Amber’s always been able to tell when something’s off.

Your mom gives you an exaggerated ‘be careful’ look as she waves you out the door. “And don’t forget your jacket! It’s gonna be cold.”

Amber waits by the car with a smirk, already knowing you’re gonna be late. You get in, slam the door behind you, and settle into the passenger seat. You’ve barely settled in when Amber shoots you a look—her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

“So,” she starts, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, “something’s been up with you lately. You’ve been kinda… weird? Is everything okay?”

You bite your lip, trying to hide your thoughts. Amber’s not dumb. She can tell when something’s on your mind, and she’s not one to drop it easily. She’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to figuring things out.

“What do you mean ‘weird’?” you ask, trying to sound more neutral than you feel.

Amber raises an eyebrow at you. “I mean… you’re usually a little more on top of shit. And you’re way more… I don’t know… yourself, you know? But lately, you’ve been all distracted, kind of… off. Is it about Dean? Is something going on?”

Your heart drops. The last thing you want is for Amber to know what happened between you and Dean. She’s always been super protective of you, sometimes a little too protective, and if she knew what went down… she’d have a field day with it.

You roll your eyes, trying to play it cool, but she’s not buying it.

“Look, I don’t care if you’re playing hard to get or whatever with him. He’s cute, you’ve been eyeing him since he walked in, and I know you like the bad boys, but if something happened… I’ll keep my mouth shut. You know I will.”

You groan inwardly, hating the way Amber’s so damn perceptive. But maybe you need to get it off your chest, even if just a little. You can’t hold all this in, especially when she’s practically demanding to know.

“Okay,” you start slowly, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt. “Fine, I’ll tell you what happened, but don’t judge me, alright?”

Amber’s expression softens, and she leans in a little closer, eager to hear what you’re about to spill. “I’m not gonna judge you, I swear. Just tell me.”

You take a deep breath, then let it all spill out. The running from detention. The flirting. The kiss. The way you ended up in his bed, tangled up in sheets, him saying things that had your brain fuzzy. You tell her everything, even the part where you didn’t realize how much he affected you until after it was over.

And when you finish, Amber’s face is unreadable for a second. Then she grins like she’s been waiting for this moment. “Holy shit, girl,” she says, shaking her head in disbelief. “You and Dean… you did it. And you liked it.” She wiggles her eyebrows playfully, clearly excited.

You roll your eyes, half embarrassed but also kinda relieved. At least she’s not freaking out.

“You’re lucky I’m not making a big deal about it,” she adds, giving you a teasing side-eye. “But honestly, if you want to talk about it more later, we can. You can always talk to me, you know?”

You sigh, feeling the weight lift off your shoulders, at least for now. “Thanks, Amber. I needed to tell someone.”

She pats your knee affectionately as she pulls into the school parking lot. “Anytime, babe. But seriously… if you want to get back to that Dean… I’m all for it. But don’t get too wrapped up in the bad boy act. You know how that usually goes.”

You give her a small smile as you get out of the car. “Thanks for the warning, but I think I got this.”

Amber grins. “Sure you do. Just don’t make any dumb decisions.”

When you walk into the school, you walk like you own it—because you do. The heels? Clicking. The skirt? Skimming just high enough to break hearts and start rumors. Lip gloss? On. Eyes? Deadly. The halls are vibrating with tension and you’re soaking in every second like it’s a slow-mo music video and you’re the star. Amber’s by your side, chewing gum like it’s someone’s soul.

“Girl,” she murmurs, her eyes scanning every look thrown your way. “The way they’re staring at you like you just descended from Mount Drama with two stone tablets and a bad bitch complex.”

You smirk. “Let ’em look. Maybe they’ll learn something.”

You’re two steps from your locker when you hear it. The wrong voice at the wrong time.

“Damn, Y/N,” some crusty, overconfident linebacker-looking freak calls out. “You and Winchester have fun last night? Heard he had you moaning like the school bell.”

The hallway goes dead silent. Dead. You turn your head slow, like a horror movie villain, heels pivoting, hair swinging.

Amber gasps, “Oh no, he did not—”

You hold up a manicured hand to silence her. You don’t need backup. This one’s personal.

You saunter up to him, that fake sweet smile on your face—the one that means someone’s about to get verbally demolished. “Remind me,” you purr, “what’s your name again? Oh right. I don’t care.”

He opens his mouth but you’re already talking. “I think it’s cute that you’re so obsessed with my sex life when your dick’s so small it’s legally considered a choking hazard for toddlers.”

Amber chokes.

You lean in, dropping your voice so it slices. “Three girls, Chad. Three. And every single one of them told me you cum quicker than their Uber Eats.”

A soft ohhhh ripples through the hallway.

You’re not done. “I don’t need to fake moan for a real man, but keep projecting your fantasies, baby. Maybe if you’re lucky, Dean’ll give you some tips… or a real orgasm to study off.”

His face is bright red. His friends are backing away like his social life is contagious.

You smile— sweet, poisonous. “Now fuck off before I file a harassment report and a Yelp review about your microdick.”

The hallway erupts. Whispers, snickers, and one very loud “Damn” from someone you don’t even know.

Amber grabs your arm and drags you down the hall, giggling like it’s Christmas morning. “You are a savage, girl,” she gasps, “I think you just ended a bloodline.”

You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t just verbally castrate a football player at 8:03 AM.

“Just doing my civic duty.”

But the second you turn a corner and the chaos fades? Your mind drifts. Back to last night. Back to Dean. His hands. His voice. The way he looked at you like you were something worth ruining everything for.

Yeah. You shut the locker. Toss your hair. Walk down the hall like you weren’t just fantasizing about climbing that boy like a jungle gym.

High school’s never seen a queen like you.

Amber and you share a quick, almost too sweet hug—her laugh in your ear as she pulls away, and you’re reminded once again why she’s always your number one partner in crime. You both are probably the most vicious duo to ever walk this school, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Catch you at lunch, bitch,” she says, giving you a final wink before strutting down the hallway, leaving you to your next adventure. You watch her go for a second, a smile playing at the corner of your lips.

After a second, you shake off the moment, eyes darting to the clock above the hallway door. Time’s running out. You’re waiting for your class to start, so you lean against the lockers, mind wandering to everything that’s happened over the past few days, Dean, the whole mess that was last night… A familiar feeling still swirling in your chest, that mix of excitement and what the hell am I doing, but you’ll deal with that later.

Suddenly, you hear voices, the low murmur of someone being picked on. You roll your eyes, already over it before you even look up, but when you do, you freeze. There, standing just a few feet away, is Sam Winchester—the younger brother of your late-night regret and satisfaction.

And there’s some freshman jock—little shit—standing there, poking fun at Sam, his voice dripping with something like self-righteousness. You can’t help but overhear some of the taunts.

“You’re really just a nobody, huh? Just like your family. That’s all you’ll ever be. Too bad your brother is too busy banging all the girls to care about you.”

Your blood boils at the mention of Dean—seriously? They were talking about Dean, about Sam’s family… and they think they can get away with it?

The pieces fall together quickly. You already know what’s going on, these idiots have been targeting Sam over family stuff, probably using his brother as some kind of twisted “joke.” You’ve seen enough of this bullshit to know exactly how to handle it.

You stand up straighter, pushing off the lockers and walking toward them, your heels clicking against the floor. You know the jock doesn’t see you coming until you’re practically right on him, your eyes sharp, face cold.

“Didn’t think a freshman had the balls to act like that,” you say, cutting through their petty conversation like a hot knife. The guy turns toward you, his cocky smirk fading when he sees the look you’re giving him. “You think picking on a kid is cute?” You raise an eyebrow, leaning in a little closer, watching his bravado crack. “You’re pathetic.”

You glance at Sam quickly, he’s standing there awkwardly, his face flushed with embarrassment, but you see that flicker of gratitude in his eyes. He’s not exactly saying it, but you know he’s relieved someone’s stepping up for him.

“What, you think it’s cool to talk shit about people’s families when you’ve probably got nothing going for you?” You turn back to the jock, whose face is now slowly turning red. “Oh, and you’re just so clever, huh? Hiding behind the fact that you know his brother, and that’s your whole angle?”

The jock opens his mouth to argue, but he doesn’t have the nerve. You can practically see him shrinking in front of you as you stand there, holding your ground with that same sharp look. You can feel how much this is rattling him, how his stupid self-confidence is quickly slipping away.

“You better get your head out of your ass, because you’re embarrassing yourself. Don’t talk about family shit unless you’ve got your life together, which clearly you don’t.”

With that, you give him one last look of disgust. He stammers something, but you cut him off before he can make himself any dumber.

“Get lost, freshman.”

You wait a second, just watching him skitter off in a hurry. When he’s finally gone, you turn your focus back to Sam. His eyes are wide with a mix of shock and something else—appreciation, maybe.

“You alright?” you ask, though you already know the answer. The kid’s shaking a little, but his posture’s already a bit straighter. He’ll get there.

“Yeah, I—I didn’t expect you to… stand up for me like that,” Sam admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You shrug, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “That’s what I do. People like that don’t get to mess with anyone I care about.”

He gives you a small, almost shy smile. “Thanks… you didn’t have to do that.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s not about ‘having to’, it’s about making sure they know who’s in charge here,” you reply, tone dripping with confidence.

You can’t resist one last jab before leaving him. “And maybe next time, don’t let these little idiots run their mouths. You’ve got potential, Sam—just don’t let it get wasted, got it?”

Sam nods, his face more serious now, but with a grateful edge to it. As you walk away, you can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at the way you handled it. You might’ve just met him, but you could tell Sam didn’t deserve to be anyone’s punching bag.

You’re still cooling down from your little hallway mic-drop moment, high heels clicking confidently as you walk away from Sam, your hand brushing through your hair like nothing just happened. But your heart’s still racing just a bit. You weren’t doing it for clout or attention—you did it because you meant it. Because the thought of someone dragging Dean’s little brother through the dirt made something mean and protective awaken in you. And honestly? It felt kinda good to scare the life outta that punk.

You’re halfway to class when you sense someone walking up beside you, closer than a stranger, familiar in the way your body already knows. You don’t even have to look. The leather jacket. The smell. The heat. It’s Dean.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just kind of walks beside you for a beat, his hand brushing against yours like he’s asking without words if he’s allowed to be here.

Then, finally, in that low voice of his—quiet, almost stunned—he says, “You care about Sammy?”

You pause, turning your head just slightly, eyes glancing up at him with that casual little smirk you know he can’t stand. “You say that like it’s surprising.”

Dean laughs, barely under his breath, shaking his head like he’s trying not to show how hard it hit him. “Yeah. I mean, you’re this… glitter-covered menace who threatened to light the school on fire yesterday, and now you’re out here defending freshmen. Just—I dunno. I think I might already love you.”

You snort, rolling your eyes at the way he says it like it’s a joke but you know it’s not. You can feel it, how serious it is behind his voice. How his gaze lingers on you like you’re some kind of miracle. And you can’t help it—your stomach flutters and your lips tug into a smile. But you play it cool. Always.

“I’m late to class,” you murmur, but your voice is softer now. Sweeter.

Dean shrugs, walking a little slower like he doesn’t care. “So am I.”

You glance at him again, a little more serious this time. “You don’t care about the rumors?”

He raises a brow. “What, that we snuck outta detention, that I’m screwing the hottest girl in school, or that I’ve got a criminal record?”

Dean’s voice drops low; almost a growl, but still sweet somehow.

“Fuck ‘em. They don’t know shit.”

And before you can say anything else, he grabs your waist gently, pulling you back against the lockers like something out of a movie. Your breath catches, but you don’t pull away. Not even close. His lips crash into yours, slow but deep, and the world just blinks out for a second. No rumors, no people, no classes or chaos— just his mouth on yours, warm and sure, like he’s been waiting all day to do this.

The kiss is over way too soon, but he doesn’t let you go right away. His forehead leans against yours and you both just breathe for a second.

“Go to class,” he mutters finally, lips brushing yours.

“Gonna miss me?” you tease, already turning on your heel.

He watches you go with a grin that practically glows. “Every damn second.”

And you walk into that classroom like you didn’t just get kissed breathless in the hallway by the boy who might just break your heart—or save it.

The weeks blur together in the best kind of way. School becomes background noise. The lockers and the bells and the classrooms; they’re all just placeholders for where he’ll touch you next, where he’ll say something that knocks the wind out of your chest, or where you’ll roll your eyes and pretend he doesn’t already have you wrapped around his stupid calloused finger.

It starts with hook-ups that are messy and wild. Behind the bleachers after practice. In his car when the windows fog up, and your skirt’s rucked up to your waist while he groans into your neck. His hand gripping your thigh like he owns it. And maybe he does. You never meant for it to be more than physical, but he kisses you like he’s asking a question you can’t quite answer. And you keep letting him.

But then it shifts. Subtle, soft, dangerous. You’ll be in his room with the lights off, sharing a bag of chips and half-laughing at some dumb movie while he traces lazy shapes on your bare hip. And then he’ll ask something like, “Do you ever wonder who you’d be if none of this shit happened?” And you’ll freeze, because no one ever asks you that. Not seriously.

So you answer him. And he listens.

Then there’s the nights when he sneaks in your window like some walking cliché, but it still makes your heart race. And he’s not there to fuck, he’s there to stay. He lays down next to you, both of you still in your clothes, and you talk about everything and nothing. Your dreams. Your fears. His dad. Your stress. That time he stole a pack of gum when he was seven. That time you thought you’d never make it to senior year. He always touches you softly in those moments. Like you’re delicate and untouchable, even though you’ve proved a million times you’re anything but.

There’s laughter too. God, so much laughter. Like when he heard you singing Beyoncé under your breath and nearly crashed the Impala. Or when you made him try pink glitter lip balm and he wore it proudly the rest of the day just to piss people off. You make fun of him constantly, and he takes it. Because he knows you don’t do that with just anyone.

Sometimes he shows up late to class with a new bruise and you don’t ask, you just press your thumb over it gently and give him that look. And he kisses your hand like a promise.

Other days you fight. Over stupid shit. You’re mean, and he’s cocky, and your chemistry is nuclear. But the makeup sex? Yeah. Legendary.

And through it all—this whirlwind of chaos and craving—there’s this quiet, growing thing that neither of you name yet. Something that looks a lot like love, but feels way too scary to say out loud.

Yet.

It’s not like there was some big talk. No dramatic declaration, no “will you be my girlfriend” scribbled in Sharpie across your locker. Dean Winchester doesn’t do clichés.

He just shows up.

He’s waiting outside your last class, leaned up against the wall like a scene out of a movie. That stupid leather jacket, that smug half-smile. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be there, for you.

“You’re gonna make me late,” you mutter, trying to sound annoyed, but your lips betray you with a smile before you can stop them.

Dean shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “Figured if I’m gonna be seen with you, might as well be at peak visibility.”

Cocky bastard.

“You’re such an ass,” you say, but there’s no heat behind it. Not anymore.

Then he does it—holds out his hand. No big speech. No dramatic gesture. Just… waiting. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

Your heart’s a goddamn mess in your chest. You feel the eyes, the whispers, the way the hallway quiets like everyone’s holding their breath. But when you look at him, all you see is him. And something in your chest softens.

So you take it.

Your fingers slip into his and his grip tightens around yours like he’s been waiting his whole life to hold your hand in public.

You walk together like that, past open classrooms and stunned stares, and you swear you hear someone gasp. Dean doesn’t flinch. He just keeps walking, swinging your hands a little, like none of it touches him.

You’re not sure how something this small feels so loud. But it does. It’s loud and real and terrifyingly sweet. And it doesn’t matter that just last month you swore you’d never fall for a boy like him.

He glances at you, and the look in his eyes isn’t smug—it’s soft. And that softness slices through you in the worst and best way.

Because you didn’t want this.

You didn’t want him.

And yet here you are, hand in hand with Dean fucking Winchester. Laughing at nothing. Blushing at everything.

You catch your reflection in the glass as you pass; your fingers laced with his, your whole body tilted just slightly toward him like gravity has decided to betray you.

A few weeks ago, you hated him.

Now?

Now you’re scared of how much you don’t.

Which is probably the worst possible time for him to disappear.

ꕤ notes: omg hi. chapter two is hereee finallyyy. tumblr glitched and didn’t let me color this part pink (crying real tears rn) but whatever she’s still cute. thank u sm for reading and loving this series it means the world to me fr. i’m obsessed w these characters and i love how messy and dramatic it all is. more chaos soon. love uuuu.

SPECIAL THANKS TO @rosemichael12 ‪‪❤︎‬

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @littlesoulshine @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @tinas111 @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @cupidzbunny @lunaleah @amsliajskxkxkx @anxiety-prime-max ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

the-fandoms-onceler

love this so sp much but i just KNEW it wqs coming when he said "yeah we move around a lot"😭

AGHH IM SCARED, LIKE ACTUALLY.

#¡¡ 000 ' 003 ' 107 #not queued #🪵 04 : 05 : 2025 🪵#———————————————————#holy fuck #i love this series already AGHH.

the-fandoms-onceler

May 3, 2025

mizutsugi

cowgirl ☆ (dean winchester x reader

↳ synopsis: you ride the mechanical bull at some texas dive bar, and dean really can't keep his mind out of the gutter...

↳word count: 2,052

↳cw: nsfw (MINORS DNI!!), smut, fem/afab reader, oral sex (f recieving), p in v (wrap it up!!!), cowgirl (duh..), a bit of sub dean if you squint, not proof read!

You were about five shots in at a little dive bar in Texas, slamming the shot glass down onto the sticky dark oak counter as Dean followed behind you. The place was crowded- it was a Friday night, after all. The room smelled like booze and old leather, and the walls were a deep red, littered with little photos and mementos… an old acoustic guitar, a framed picture of a longhorn, an old Budweiser sign- the works. Whatever shyness you had was left at the door, and with all the booze starting to hit your system, you felt like you could do anything. That’s when your eyes landed on a faux bull in the middle of the dimly lit room, surrounded by blue padded foam and a ring. You smiled and pointed at it, trying to get Dean to follow.

“I wanna ride it.” You said.

“Are you sure about that, sweetheart? You’ve had a few.” Dean chuckled, currently sipping on a whiskey.

“Mhm.” You nodded before hopping off the barstool, dotting your way around the crowded bar before you made it to the bullpen. Dean was frankly shocked you went for it so quickly, and tried to follow you, pushing through a few people in the process.

You threw a leg clumsily over the elastic cord separating the bullpen and the hardwood floor, stumbling over the soft foam before grasping onto the robotic bull. Suddenly a man appeared behind you- hell, maybe he was there the whole time- and tapped your shoulder.

“You sober enough to be doing this, missus?” He asked with a southern drawl. He had a jean jacket on and a cowboy hat, and you gave him the kindest smile you could summon.

“Yes sir, promise!” You grinned, swinging your leg over the bull and mounting it. You playfully grabbed his cowboy hat and put it on your head. The man just laughed and shook his head, too spent to fight it. You looked around for Dean, who was now leaning on the cord with his arms folded over the strong material, smirking at you. In his head, he was making a bet with himself that you’d last 10 seconds tops.

“Alrighty, just hang tight…” The man ducked out of the ring and grabbed what you assumed to be the controller. He pressed a button and the bull, big and black, started moving.

You laughed and gripped onto the saddle mount, trying to remember everything from those old western flicks Dean loved to watch back home. You lifted your hips, back arching as you tried to remain as steady as possible while the bull lurched forward. Your thighs squeezed tightly around the machinery, your hold on the peg in front of you steady. You kept giggling to yourself, looking back at Dean with a wild grin on your face. He smiled back, nodding his head in approval. If he was being honest, all he could focus on was the way your hips rolled and your hair bounced on your collarbone, done up into two cute braided pigtails. You were wearing his flannel and a lacy white tank top underneath, that showed just enough.

A crowd slowly emerged around the pen, with people holding drinks and cheering you on as you passed the thirty second mark. The bull started moving more rapidly, and your thighs gripped the beast tighter, while the upper half of your torso moved freely as to dodge the sharp movements. You whooped and hollered, freeing one arm from the mount to grab on to your (stolen) cowboy hat and tip it to the crowd before waving it frantically in the air. You could hear Dean clapping for you, cheering your name as you made it past a minute. You looked over to him as he watched you, both enamored and proud, and you smiled back. You put the hat back on your head and watched as a few of the patrons of the bar joined in on the cheering. The bull was getting quicker and more frantic, bucking you around all over the place. You tried your best, but your grip loosened and your thighs started spazzing out, losing their hold around the animal. You let out one last cheer before getting thrown off the bull, landing with a gentle thud on the plush padding beneath you. You laughed as the people around you clapped, including the operator. He retrieved his hat, which had fallen off your head when you fell, and gave you a firm handshake and a “well done” after you pulled yourself back up. You felt a bit dizzy, and looked around for Dean, who was now ducking below the cord and offering you a sturdy hand to pull yourself up by.

You smiled warmly at him before taking it, allowing him to pull you out of the ring. He dropped your hand but quickly went in for a kiss, pecking you on the lips before giving your shoulder an approving pat.

“You’re a damn professional, babe.” He said.

“Aw, shucks…” You smiled sheepishly, dusting your knees off before taking his hand as the two of you walked out of the bar and out the door, feeling the humid night air hit your faces as you stepped out into the warm darkness. You both headed for the Impala before driving back to the motel you were holed up in during the hunt.

The second you made it through the door, Dean was all over you. He was holding you tight, pulling in before kissing you. You laughed, pulling away after his third kiss.

“Someone’s ancy, huh?” You cocked a brow, noting how his green eyes scanned all over your body while he held you close.

“Can’t help it. It was hot.” He mumbled lowly, placing a hand on the small of your back.

“What, how good I was on the bull?” You asked.

“M-hm…” He hummed, the hand on your lower back inching lower and lower until it fell over the curve of your ass.

“You’re such a horndog…” You smirked and rolled your eyes, but leaned into his touch. He slowly walked you backward until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed. You fell backward, allowing him to climb over you until he was hovering above your face, his eyes obsessively roaming over you. He lowered his face down to yours and kissed you again, this time hungrier and more desperate. He slowly moved across your jaw, then down to your exposed neck and collarbone. You moaned softly as he sucked on your neck, his hands wandering down to the flannel around you and pulling at the fabric until it came off, taking his lips off you momentarily so he could pull your arms out of the sleeves. While you were still lifted a bit off the bed, he pulled the white tank off carefully over your head, leaving you in a white silky bra and low rise blue jeans. He also took that time to throw off his own shirt, and you had about two seconds to admire his built chest before he was back on your neck. He kissed and sucked and bit, making you whimper and reach up to clutch his short hair. He snaked his hands underneath your back and fiddled with the clasps of your bra until he successfully undid them, pulling the straps down and revealing your breasts.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful…” He murmured from your neck, slowly tracing his lips down the valley of your chest between your tits. His hands reached up to feel the soft, supple skin, calloused fingers occasionally pinching your nipples and rolling over the sensitive buds. You let out small whimpers that made him harden beneath you, bucking his hips into the mattress as he worked his way down your stomach. His occupied hands left your chest and wandered down to the waistline of your jeans, gently pushing them down your thighs and, with one swift tug, off your legs. He threw them to the side, focusing on the lace panties you had on. He practically groaned at the site of a wet spot in the middle, where you were worked up. He looked up to your yearning eyes for permission before you feverishly nodded your head in approval. You watched him pull at the thin fabric until you were left completely bare.

He wasted no time connecting himself to your core, tongue lapping at your clip. You moaned, hands practically flying to his short locks to stabilize yourself. He had to admit, you pulling on his hair and moaning so sweetly shortened his patience a bit. He was skillfully working your body, sucking and licking in all the right spots between your folds, hands moving to grasp your hips, keeping you pinned in one spot. You couldn’t help but roll them, though, pleasure coming in waves as he hit your sensitive bud over and over again.

“D-Dean…” You moaned, eyes squeezing shut as you felt yourself nearing the edge. Without you finishing your sentence, he knew, and his unrelenting tongue carried you to your (quick) release. You shuttered, feeling your body tremble and thighs quiver as you came down, his face pulling away from you to reveal his stubble covered in slick. He smiled in a way that was downright devious, so smug that he knew how quickly he could make you come undone. Giving you time to recover, he pulled his pants off, allowing the denim to pool at his ankles before kicking them off, then releasing himself from his boxers. Your mouth all but watered at the sight of his cock, already pink and slightly glazed with precum. He pumped himself a few times before positing himself at your entrance, emerald eyes locking with yours with eager, but gentle, anticipation.

“Breathe in for me, pretty girl.” He said, giving you time to collect your breath before pushing in. You whined, feeling him slowly fill you as to let you get used to the feeling. As his hips slowly pulled in and out, each movement turning pain into pleasure, you reached to grip his strong arms. He groaned lowly, feeling you tighten around him, his thrusts beginning to pick up the pace.

“D…Dean..” You moaned, shakily tapping your finger against his arm.

His thrusts slowed slightly as he cautiously responded, “Yeah, baby?”

“Switch w’me.” You requested, an idea forming. He gave you a bit of a skeptical look, before pulling out and lying down beside you, a bit frustrated from the sudden separation.

You climbed over him, and his eyes suddenly lit up as realization hit him all at once. You straddled his bare lap, hovering over his cock. Your hands felt up his toned chest, nails dragging across it slightly as you admired how handsome he looked under you. He fucking whimpered, which drove you crazy and reminded you why exactly you decided to take the lead. Your hands wandered back down to his dick, lining it up with your entrance before you slowly lowered yourself down on him. You and him both moaned at the feeling of being inside each other again, your hips rolling. Your eyelids fluttered shut, allowing yourself to focus on movement rather than giving in to the urge to collapse his broad chest. You slowly lifted your hips up, then down, then up, until you were in a steady rhythm of bouncing on his cock. He moaned, hands gripping your waist softly and helping guide you up and down. You whimpered and whined at the feeling of his length pumping in and out of you, your core strength starting to falter as you felt yourself getting closer.

“I’m… fuck…” You could barely get a word out, breaths getting shallower and shallower as you focused on chasing your release.

“Cum for me, babe…” He mumbled slowly, feeling himself also getting close as your walls tightened around him. You did, almost immediately collapsing on top of him, head falling to his collar as you faltered around him. Feeling you squeeze around his length, he came, hands grasping around your back as you laid on top of him. You smiled, feeling his rough palms slowly start to rub soothing circles on your back as you both recovered.

“My pretty cowgirl…”

↳a/n: my writers block is SO BAD :( i promise i will try to get to all my requests asap! this was in fact not a request but like... something possessed me and i needed to finish this draft. thinking so much about dean rn... ughhhh

#¡¡ 000 ' 003 ' 097 #queued

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs

𐙚⋆ THE FANDOM ONCELER.