— highly passionate
© thestrangerinurbed ꒱ 2026.
dean winchester x fem!reader
summary: dean accidentally finds your vibrator and decides an official witness interview is the perfect time to test your self-control. good luck pretending to be a professional federal agent.
content warnings: ( 18+ ) mdni. sexual content. vibrator play. public stimulation/overstimulation. mild risk of getting caught. teasing & denial. established relationship. dean being a cocky bastard. no use of yn. pet names.
word count: 3.1k
Dean was practically tearing the small motel room apart, flipping over stained couch cushions, checking under the cracked coffee table, and grumbling under his breath.
"Babe, do you know where Baby's keys are? I can't find them anywhere!" he shouted toward the bathroom, his voice cutting through the sound of the rushing water.
"Check my bag! The black duffel near the closet!" you yelled back, completely forgetting what else was tucked away in the bottom compartment under your spare jeans and blouses.
Minutes later, when you finally stepped out of the bathroom with your skin glistening and your wet hair dripping onto your shoulders, you found Dean lounging across the mattress, propped up on one elbow.
"So, did you find them?" you asked, wiping a stray drop of water from your collarbone.
The words practically choked in your throat. Dean wasn't holding his car keys. Instead, dangling between his thumb and forefinger, was the tiny, unmistakably pink bullet vibrator. He was twirling it by its little cord, a massive, wicked grin spreading across his face.
"Found the keys," Dean chuckled, his green eyes flashing with pure mischief. "But I also found a little bonus. I figured you for a classic black or maybe a fierce red, but pink? Really, sweetheart?"
"Give that back." Your face instantly caught fire, a wave of intense defensiveness taking over. "Why are you digging through my bag anyway? That's a total invasion of privacy, Winchester!"
Dean didn't even look guilty. Instead, he let out a low, rough chuckle and twirled the device by its cord. "If you want it back so badly, you're gonna have to come over here and take it from me." he winked.
That did the trick. You lunged forward, literally climbing into his lap to snatch it back. You were entirely aware—and yet completely disregarding—the fact that you were only wearing a damp towel. Dean, anticipating your move, easily used his size and strength to cage you against his chest, locking one massive arm around your waist while holding the toy high out of your reach.
"Whoa, easy there, tiger," Dean teased, his chest vibrating against your bare front as you squirmed. "I was just looking for the keys, I swear. Didn't know you were hoarding contraband."
Your brief, breathless tussle ended the moment his grip shifted, his free hand cupping the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp hair to pull you down into a deep, dizzying kiss. The sheer warmth of his lips instantly melted away all your frantic protests, leaving you sighing into his mouth as your hands came to rest on his broad shoulders.
When he finally pulled back, his breath hitting your lips in short puffs, his smirk had softened into something a little more complex. He looked down at the pink device in his hand, then back up at you, a tiny line forming between his brows.
"What do you even need this for anyway?" Dean asked. His tone was light, but there was a distinct, vulnerable flicker in his eyes that completely gave away his bruised ego. "Am I really slacking off that badly lately? Because I thought last night was pretty damn good."
"What? No, Dean," you softened immediately, your heart melting at how ridiculously insecure he could get over the strangest things. Reaching up, you framed his face with both hands, forcing him to look right into your eyes. "Baby, no. You know it's not like that at all. You're incredible, okay?"
To prove it, you leaned down and kissed him again—sweet, lingering, and reassuring. Dean instantly melted into it, his arm tightening around your waist like a vise.
As you parted, he murmured, still a bit stubborn, "Then why do you have it?"
"It was from before we started dating, you know," you mumbled, your cheeks burning hotter by the second. "It was just... for those long solo hunts when you and Sam were halfway across the country."
Dean’s grin turned insufferably smug as he processed the timeline. "So… you've been thinking about me while using this?"
You swatted his shoulder playfully, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck. "Oh, shut up."
"No, no, I am flattered. Extremely," he laughed, his deep voice rumbling against your collarbone. His hand slowly began to wander, his large, calloused palm sliding beneath the damp edge of your towel, tracing the sensitive curve of your hip and moving down toward your thigh. He brought his lips back to yours, whispering a downright scandalous proposition against your mouth. "Although… since we're a team now, I think I should test the machinery myself. Make sure it's up to standard."
You rolled your eyes, thinking he was just talking dirty to rile you up. "Haha, very funny."
But when his gaze remained locked on yours, intense, dark, and unwavering, reality set in. He wasn't joking.
"Absolutely not," you said firmly, trying to slide off his lap.
"Absolutely yes."
"Dean, no."
"Why not?" he pouted, his hand gently squeezing your hip to keep you anchored.
"Because we have a serious case to solve tomorrow," you countered, trying to sound convincing as possible. "You'll get distracted."
"Oh, c'mon, sweetheart," Dean purred, his thumb caressing your skin beneath the fabric. "Where's your sense of adventure? We can just keep it on low. A little background music just between us two."
Defying his charm, you gave a firm push against his chest and successfully slid out of his lap, tightly clutching the top of your towel.
"Where are you going now? The fun was just starting," he groaned, throwing himself backward onto the pillows with an exaggeratedly miserable face.
"I'm gonna get dressed, and you're gonna forget you ever saw that thing," you threw over your shoulder, walking toward your duffel.
Even as you pulled your clothes from the bag, Dean tried his luck one more time, propping himself up and giving you his best puppy-dog eyes. "Pretty please? Just a trial run?"
You turned around, shutting him down with one final, utterly definitive, "I said no, Dean."
The next morning, you were sitting in a booth inside a local, dimly lit diner with squeaky vinyl seats, posing as Federal Agents. You and Dean were crammed tightly side-by-side on one side of the table, while Sam and the elderly woman who owned the diner sat directly across from you. A man had been found brutally murdered in the alleyway next door, and you were supposed to be conducting a solemn, professional interview for a hunt.
Then, you felt it. A low, sudden, agonizingly sharp buzz right between your thighs.
Your head snapped toward Dean so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. He didn't even blink. His face was a flawless mask of professional, federal gravity as he stared at Mrs. Gable, but his right hand was buried deep inside his suit jacket pocket. You glared at him, your eyes screaming a desperate, furious not now, but you had no idea how twisted his plan actually was.
"So, Mrs. Gable," you began, swallowing hard and trying to keep your voice steady as you forced yourself to lean forward. "Did you notice any unusual activity outside the back alley around—"
Dean's thumb moved inside his pocket.
"—NIGHTTIME?!" you suddenly shouted, the question bursting out of you in a strained, high-pitched gasp as your hips involuntarily twitched against the sticky vinyl.
Mrs. Gable jumped back in her seat, clutching her pearl necklace. Sam's eyebrows shot straight up to his hairline, his green eyes instantly focusing on you in complete confusion. He didn't say anything, but his face practically screamed, what the hell is wrong with you?
Dean didn't miss a single beat. He leaned forward smoothly, flashing a sympathetic, overwhelmingly charming smile at the elderly woman. "Please forgive my partner, ma'am. She has always been… highly passionate about dead bodies. Hardcore criminologist, you know."
You shot Dean a look that should have incinerated him and his bloodline on the spot. Clenching your jaw so hard your teeth ached, your legs clamped together so tightly they were practically trembling, you squeezed out a strained smile. "Excuse me, yes. I just… I really want justice for the victim. Terribly sorry for the outburst, Mrs. Gable. Please continue."
For the rest of it, you stayed dead silent, terrified of what embarrassing sound might escape your lips if you opened your mouth. Mrs. Gable kept talking about some strange noises and other unexplainable things, but you didn't hear a word. Your eyes kept darting helplessly to Dean's jacket pocket.
Under the table, completely out of Mrs. Gable and Sam's line of sight, you reached over and dug your fingernails right into the upper part of Dean's thigh, dangerously close to his lap. You squeezed his flesh with a vicious, white-knuckled grip, twisting the fabric of his suit pants.
Dean's jaw clenched for a fraction of a second, his knuckles also whitening on the tabletop as he took the pain, but he refused to back down. While Mrs. Gable turned her head to answer a question from Sam, you aggressively and silently mouthed the words, I'm gonna fucking kill you, right at Dean. He just offered a barely perceptible, victorious twitch of his lips and tapped his fingers rhythmically on the table—coordinating with the pulses now wrecking your sanity.
"Well, thank you for your time, Mrs. Gable." Sam finally said, sliding his notepad into his breast pocket and sliding out of the booth. Dean stood up immediately after him, smoothing down his jacket with an insufferable air of satisfaction.
You, however, remained frozen on your seat. Your mind was racing, and the heavy vibrations were continuing to hum ruthlessly against your core. You had no idea how you were going to stand up without your knees buckling.
Sam looked down at you, genuinely trying to figure out your bizarre, stiff behavior. "Are you coming?"
Dean looked at your flushed, sweating face and gave you a look that made you want to punch him. "Yeah, Agent. Let's go. You look a little... stuck."
Summoning every single ounce of willpower you possessed, you gripped the edge of the table and forced yourself to your feet. Your knees wobbled instantly, a quiet gasp catching in your throat. Fearing you'd collapse right there, you bypassed Dean entirely, shooting him one last murderous glare, and threw your arm tightly through Sam's, leaning heavily against his side.
Sam blinked, utterly startled by the sudden, intense physical dependency, but he let you lean on him as the three of you nodded to Mrs. Gable and walked out of the diner.
As the glass door of the restaurant swung shut behind you, cutting off the warmth of the diner, Sam slightly bent his tall frame down, looking at you out of the corner of his eye.
"You okay?" he asked quietly, his brow furrowing with genuine concern.
"Yes! Perfect!" you shot back, the answer bursting out of you way too quickly, your voice hitting a weird, slightly breathless pitch. You frantically nodded your head, forcing a tense, incredibly tight smile that looked more like a grimace, trying so hard to not look back at Dean—who you were sure was watching you with the most annoying smirk on his face.
"Right... okay," Sam mumbled, slow and skeptical, though he still kept essentially anchoring your entire weight as the three of you walked toward the gleaming black Impala.
But when you got within a few feet of the car, Dean, walking just a step or two behind you, casually pressed the button again, flipping it to a chaotic, pulsing setting.
Your body betrayed you instantly. Your fingers tightening into Sam's arm with a sudden, crushing grip as your entire body locked up from a violent shiver. You froze dead in your tracks, your back arching slightly as you fought the overwhelming wave of friction. "Oh my god," you gasped out, your voice completely cracking as you arched your back slightly.
Sam stopped dead in his tracks, turning around with deep, genuine concern etched across his face. "Hey, seriously, what is it? You're definitely not okay."
"I think... I think it's just my stomach—maybe the diner coffee—"
Before you could finish the clumsy lie, Dean cranked the remote to its absolute, unforgiving maximum.
"—DEAN!" you wailed.
The name tore from your throat, but it wasn't an angry shout; it was a breathless, helpless, completely undone whine that vibrated with pure, raw pleasure. Your knees instantly buckled, completely giving out beneath you.
"Whoa! Hey!" Sam quickly caught you securely by the waist before your knees could slam into the pavement.
Completely overwhelmed, your hand flew to Sam's shoulder, gripping his suit jacket violently. Your fingers dug deep into the fabric, clutching him like a lifeline as you buried your face against his chest, panting heavily with your eyes tightly shut.
Dean stepped up beside you both, completely shameless, hands casually tucked into his pockets. He looked down at your trembling form with a slow, wicked grin.
"Damn, sweetheart," Dean chuckled smoothly, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "A little dramatic, don't you think? If you wanted a hug from Sammy, you could have just asked."
Hearing his voice so close, and feeling the relentless hum still torturing you, you let out another pathetic, shaky whine, squeezing Sam's shoulder even harder.
Sam looked down at your flushed face, heard the distinctly un-sick sound you had just made, and then looked up at Dean's insufferable, smug, victorious face. Sam's eyes drifted down to Dean's right hand, which was still subtly twitching inside his jacket pocket.
A look of horrific, sudden realization slowly dawned on Sam's face. His jaw literally dropped as he pieced it all together—the shouting in the diner, the under-the-table warfare, your complete inability to walk, and the fact that you had just screamed Dean's name in a voice that belonged strictly behind closed doors.
Sam closed his eyes tightly, pinching the bridge of his nose as a massive wave of pure, unadulterated exhaustion and disgust washed over him.
"You know what?" Sam muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, utterly defeated tone as he let go of you, taking a massive step back as if you were radioactive. "I really, really don't wanna know. Keep me out of it. Keep me a hundred miles away from whatever sick, twisted federal offense you two are committing."
Sam turned on his heel, practically sprinting the last two feet to the passenger side of the Impala. He yanked the door open, slammed it shut behind him, and immediately stared straight ahead out the windshield, refusing to look at either of you.
The moment the car door slammed, the agonizing vibration inside you suddenly died down to a complete, blissful stop.
You slumped against the side of the Impala, drawing in deep, ragged breaths as your racing heart slowly tried to find its rhythm again. Your hair was a bit messy, your chest was heaving, and your thighs were still tingling from the sudden loss of stimulation.
But the relief didn't last long. The second the fog cleared from your brain, pure anger took its place. You looked at Dean, who was standing there looking like the cat that ate the canary.
You snapped and pushed yourself off the car. Lunging two steps forward and bringing your fist down against his chest hard enough to make a dull thud—but not enough to make him take even a single step back.
"You son of a bitch!" you hissed.
He raised his hands in mock surrender, though the amused twitch of his lips told you he wasn't taking your wrath seriously at all. "Hey—whoa, take it easy—"
"Don't tell me to take it easy, Dean," you huffed, though the lethal edge in your voice was already softening into a breathless, exhausted pout. You leaned back against the warm hood of the Impala, crossing your arms tightly over your chest just to keep yourself steady. Your cheeks were still burning a bright crimson. "You are completely out of your mind. Do you have any idea how close I was to completely losing it in front of Mrs. Gable? And Sam! Did you see his face? How deeply traumatized he looked?"
Dean's smirk softened into something a bit warmer, though the heavy, dark heat in his green eyes didn't fade for a second. He closed the small distance between you, stepping right into your personal space. His large body effectively blocked you from the view of the diner's windows—and, more importantly, from Sam's rearview mirror.
"I'm sure Sammy will get over it," Dean murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerously low and rough as he leaned in close, his breath brushing against your ear. He reached out, his fingers gently wrapping around your wrists to pull your crossed arms apart. "Besides, you handled that beautifully, agent. Very professional under pressure."
"I was shouting at an elderly woman, Dean," you whispered, a reluctant, tiny smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite your best efforts to look annoyed. You let him pull you a step closer, your hands coming to rest against his lapels. "And I'm pretty sure I bruised your thigh under that table. Which, by the way, you completely deserved."
"Yeah, you've got a vicious grip, baby. I might have a mark tomorrow," he chuckled, his hands sliding up from your wrists to rest firmly on your waist, anchoring you against him. He leaned down, his breath brushing warm against your flushed cheek. "But it was worth it. You were adorable when you were trying so hard to stay quiet."
"I hate you," you breathed, deflating completely against his chest. The last of your fake anger evaporated as you tilted your head up, your eyes locking onto his.
"No, you don't," Dean smiled, his infamous cocky grin returning to his lips.
He didn't give you a chance to reply, leaning down to press a hard, lingering, possessive kiss against your mouth. It was deep enough to make your knees feel a little wobbly all over again, a soft sigh escaping you into the kiss as your fingers tangled into the fabric of his jacket.
When he finally pulled back, his thumb slowly brushed over your wet lower lip, his gaze dark and full of a very specific promise.
"Now let's get back to the motel," Dean whispered, a wicked grin flashing on his face as he tapped his jacket pocket, where the remote was safely tucked away. "We're done with the training wheels. When we get back, I'm taking total control. For real this time."
Your heart skipped a beat, a sudden, thrilling heat shooting straight down to your core. Before you could even process a snappy comeback, Dean gave your ass a playful squeeze, turned around, and opened the driver's side door, sliding into the car with that insufferable, beautiful smile still plastered on his face.
a/n: bro poor sammy 😭 he's so done.
dean's such an asshole in this one, but i honestly love it and hope you did too. pls feel free to share ur opinions with me 🙏