the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.
the weird thing about supernatural is that it's such a better show than most of its fans make you believe. I thought this was a queerbaitish romcom about heaven and hell with some sad moments but instead it's SUCH.A.GOOD.SHOW!
How about this prompt with Dean Winchester x reader?
In my defense, the moon was full and I was left unsupervised.
Thanks!
Cry Wolf
Supernatural Fanfiction
Rating: Explicit
WARNINGS: This story will contain but it’ll not be limited to explicit 18+ content including Werewolf Dean, Possessive Behavior, Some Angst, Fluff and Smut, Non-con Elements if you squint, Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot, Porn Without Plot, Smut, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Blood Kink, Knotting, Alpha/Beta/Omega Undertones
Category: F/M
Pairings: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader
Summary: Dean gets bit by a werewolf during a hunt, forcing Sam on a quest to find the sire lycanthrope and cure his brother. Suffering the effects of the transformation, Dean is quarantined in the bunker all by himself. It really is bad timing when you come a-knocking, utterly oblivious, and with a bleeding gash on your upper thigh. Did I mention it was a full moon?
This is a one-shot. Here's the masterlist of my other fics: Masterlist
Chapter One
Bad Moon Rising
"Don't come around tonight, well it's bound to take your life. There's a bad moon on the rise."
You were limping, the cut on your leg sending a shooting pang through you every time you took a wobbly step forward. Getting in your car had been difficult, driving had been terrible, but leaving the vehicle and trudging down the asphalt road to the uneven terrain along the entrance of the bunker was the real bitch.
You banged on the side of the door, the metal continuing to vibrate long after your knock.
“Guys, it’s me.” You announced. A dark, heavy cloud loomed over your head, covering the big full moon that shone in the sky. Soon little beads of water were beginning to fall on top of you. “Come on, it’s starting to rain!” Still, there was no response.
You cursed under your breath and took your phone from your pocket, calling Sam one more time. As it had happened in your previous attempts, his voicemail was all you reached.
“Shit.” Your thumb hovered over Dean’s name, about to press the call button yet again, but a gearing sound stopped you in your tracks.
The bunker’s door was cracked open by an inch, wide hazel eyes meeting yours through the gap.
“Dean?” You could only see a sliver of his face, but his pupils were incredibly dilated, almost obscuring his irises entirely. His mouth was agape, and he panted for air as if he had just run for miles.
“Hey, kiddo.” You cringed, not only at the condescending nickname that he had forced on you years ago, but also at the rasp in his voice. It was gruffer than usual, deep, and full-bodied. “Whatcha doing here? Is Sam with you?” He looked over your shoulder, eyes darting around to inspect your surroundings.
“Uh, no. I’ve been trying to call you guys, is this a bad time?” You placed one of your hands on the side of your wound, wincing at the ache. With the other hand, you held onto the wall in front of you, uncomfortably shifting your weight.
Dean noticed the rip in your pants, a dark red spot tingeing the fabric of your jeans, and instantly his expression changed. The furrow in his brow disappeared and his face lit up, a glint you had never seen before flashed in his eyes, making them appear greener for a second.
The door of the bunker swung open, revealing the disheveled image of the older Winchester.
His hair was messy, as if he had tossed and turned in bed. His lips were split and swollen, as if he had bitten on them till the skin broke. And the navy blue shirt he wore was drenched in sweat, the light material stretching under his biceps and his heaving pectoral muscles. You didn’t remember him being that ripped.
“What happened?” He asked, focus unwavering from the gash on your thigh, tongue poking out to wet his parched lips.
“I had a run-in with some demons. Those sons of bitches did a number on my leg.” You explained, not liking the way he didn’t look up at you, appearing to be entranced by the seeping blood coming from your damaged skin.
Dean refused to say anything in return, or maybe he simply wasn’t capable of doing so. He just stared at your injury with a kind of sinister awe.
“I don’t wanna impose or anything, I was just kinda hoping Sam could patch me up.” You added at last, those words seeming to snap him out of his stupor.
“I can do it.” He blurted out, not giving you any time to think before he wrapped his hand around your wrist and tugged you inside.
You cried in pain when you stumbled into the bunker, not prepared to move your thigh so abruptly, his grip too tight where he held you without letting go.
“Sorry.” He murmured, noticing your discomfort but not loosening his clasp.
The wet sole of your boots squelched on the vinyl floor and you felt a rush of relief to be sheltered from the increasing rain, if only that feeling could’ve lasted for longer.
Dean slammed the door behind the two of you, the click that reverberated in your ears signaling that it locked as it closed.
“It’s fine.” You said, in regards to his apology, and offered him a weak smile while you pried his closed fist from your wrist with some difficulty. For some reason, he didn’t seem to want to let go.
You took a few shaky steps towards the foyer’s balcony, resting your arms on the railing of the staircase and looking down at the antechamber of the bunker, all the blinking lights from the old control panels catching your attention.
“Where is Sam, anyway? He’s not answering his phone.” You question, with your back to Dean, but no reply comes your way.
You shrug it off, assuming that he merely didn’t want to disclose his brother’s whereabouts. It was none of your business, after all. Like most things the Winchesters get involved in, it’s probably highly dangerous and way above your pay grade.
You can’t even begin to remember how many times you tried to participate in their world-saving crusades, be useful somehow, only to be flat-out prohibited by Dean. He’d say you weren’t ready, that it wasn’t safe, that you were too young, and so on until you stopped showing interest altogether.
Now, you hunt on your own, only seeing them from time to time. But you like it that way, you like having no one to bark orders at you, you like proving that you’re good at your job without anyone’s help. Unless, of course, you screw up and get hurt, in which case you do need someone’s help.
“Do you even know how to do it? ‘Cause I think it’s gonna need stitches.” You inquire about your wound, the abused tissue throbbing even as you stand still.
You sense movement behind you and Dean’s hand appears at your side on the railing, his torso touching your back and his nose tickling your nape. You hear him inhale deeply and then let out a sigh of pure satisfaction, the hot air landing on your neck and sending a tingle of goosebumps up your arms.
“What the hell was that?” You turn to face him, forcing some distance between the both of you, absolutely shocked at the quick turn of events. “Did you just sniff me?”
“No, of course not.” He shakes his head, almost as confused as you are. He scans you up and down, licking his lips again, and his eyes glaze over before he puffs out a breath and fights to recompose himself. “I mean, yeah, a little bit.”
“Why?” You elongate the syllable, thinking that maybe, if you really enunciate your words you might be able to get some sensible answers from him.
“It’s just that-” He advances on you and you back away from him, your ribs hitting the railing when you have nowhere else to go. He stops in front of you, invading your personal space and caging you with his big arms. “You smell so fucking good.”
He hunches over you, bending his spine till the tip of his nose touches your temple and his lips graze the high point of your cheek.
“Dean.” You call to him, but he fails to acknowledge you in any way. “What are you doing?” You try again, more forcefully this time, and he ignores you just the same. There’s a continuous vibration coming from his chest that sounds awfully similar to a purring animal, almost like he wants to soothe you into submission.
His left hand grabs the fat of your hip, bunching up the hem of your shirt and squeezing under the fabric, abnormally long nails nipping at your skin. His right hand, however, entangles itself on the hair at the base of your scalp, pulling unceremoniously so as to expose your neck to his exploration.
He mouthes on your pulse point, huffing as he pants and nuzzles against you. He doesn’t exactly kiss the sensitive skin as much as he runs the plump pillows of his lips up and down the span of your bared throat, drawing invisible shapes of his choosing.
He then finds a particular spot he likes best, right behind your ear, and fixates on it. Completely lost to the world when he lolls out his tongue, longer than what is humanly possible, and licks where the taste of your natural scent is the strongest.
The moment you feel the wetness of his saliva laving at your flesh, you jolt jarringly, pushing at his chest with all your will, and it’s like trying to move a mountain with the way he doesn’t even budge.
“Stop!” You yell, mustering as much assertiveness as you can into your tone before you give him a final shove, sending him three to four steps backwards.
Dean seems to awake from a daydream, eyes flashing to a fluorescent green and back to his normal hazel. He stares at you with a frown, unable to catch his breath, attempting to take a step in your direction but you raise a finger at him and he halts.
“Stop it.” You order and his frown deepens, looking wounded and unhappy, but he obliges.
You spear a glance at the stairs to the side of you, your only escape route since he was currently blocking the door from where you came in. You could race down the steps and lock yourself inside of the many rooms in the bunker, but with your leg the way it is, you wouldn’t make it past a single step before he caught up to you.
With your index finger still raised at him, you support your weight on the railing and move to make your descent down the stairs, planning on taking it one slow step at a time.
“You’re hurt.” He states after you swallow a lament while on the second step, visibly itching to come closer. “Let me help you, I can carry you.”
“No. You’re gonna stay right there.” You command, doing your best to not let the pain show in your features as you drag yourself to the floor below.
His feet inch towards you while he eyes you like a disobedient puppy, knowing full well that there’s nothing you can really do to stop him.
“You’re gonna stay right where you are, and we’re gonna wait till your brother comes home, and then we’re gonna sort this out.” He’s at you before you finish your sentence.
You yelp when he snatches you suddenly, pulling you below your shoulder blades and lifting you up, your only option being to wrap your calves around his hips and brace yourself onto the back of his neck to keep from falling.
He carries you down the rest of the stairs, short-winded and with droplets of sweat rolling down his forehead. He burns you, not only with the heat of his unblinking gaze, but also with his unnaturally high body temperature. You had never felt someone’s skin this hot in your life. You didn’t understand how he could be standing, let alone holding you like you weigh nothing.
“Ok, you can put me down now.” You say when you get to the antechamber, but Dean’s grip tightens on you and he continues to walk into the war room.
“Everything’s gonna be fine.” He’s mumbling, and you’re not even sure he’s talking to you or to himself. “I just need to-” He drops you on top of the light-up map table in the middle of the room, with surprising care and delicateness. “I just need to scent you.”
“What?!” You exclaim in disbelief, trying to move away but he restrains you, sinking his claw-like fingernails into your nape as a clear display of dominance. You whimper at the sting and he leans over you, purring louder than before.
“Dean, listen to me.” You can’t shake the feeling that you’re attempting to reason with a crazy person, but you have to try. He’s much stronger than you, bigger and faster, even more so with one of your limbs impaired. Talking him out of this is your only chance of preventing whatever he has in store for you. “You’re sick, you must be delirious from a very high fever.”
“Love your taste.” He’s clinging to you, head tucked into the crook of your neck as he laps at you with his tongue. The moist, flexible muscle undulates across your collarbone when he goes further down, pouty lips closing in to suck at the juncture of your shoulder, right above your artery. “Wanna bite you so bad.”
“You’re not making any sense.” He’s completely disregarding your words, though he smiles at your breathy tone.
You press your mouth shut and close your eyes when he rakes the pointy edges of his teeth over your veins, not wanting him to hear or see how his ministrations are beginning to affect you. You hadn’t realized until that moment just how sharp his canines were, closer to fangs than anything else.
He tugs at the collar of your shirt, ripping the cloth with outstanding ease and exposing your bra. By that point, your own breathing was labored, the mounds of your breasts bouncing up and down in their tight confinement as you heaved.
Dean’s irises are radioactive green when he feasts his eyes at you and proceeds to stick his face in your cleavage. He groans like a madman and pulls at one of the cups of your brassiere, your right tit spilling out and being clutched by him almost immediately.
He traps your nipple between his index and middle fingers, teasing it to a stiff peak and you shake at the burst of pleasure. You grab at his forearms to steady yourself, swallowing down a moan that threatens to escape you.
“Let me hear you.” He yanks your head back from where he holds you by your scruff, as a dog would do to another, and you let out a whine at the bestial way he handles you. “That’s right, don’t hold back on me, give me everything.” He takes your puffy nipple into his mouth, suckling and biting, and a fire spreads through your lower abdomen at the sinful sensation.
Once he ceases his assault on your boob, the tumid bud is covered in his spit, the chilling air from the ventilation system making it that much more sensitive.
His hands fly to unbutton your pants, and you’re so dazed from his heady presence all around that you allow it for a minute, only moving to intercept him when he has both of his hands hooked at the waistband of your jeans and is already tugging them down.
“Dean, we gotta stop this.” You beg him, a considerable amount of your restraint lost as you fail to convince him, his hands too strong for you to swat away while he peels off your jeans. The material sticks to the dry blood around your cut, making you flinch, but he continues till the garment hits the ground, cooing an apology for your discomfort. “There’s something wrong with you, you’re not yourself.”
He pays you no mind, transfixed by the image of you laid in front of him only in your underwear. He looks even bigger than when you first arrived, thick neck bulging with raised veins and rippling muscles straining under his shirt.
“You smell ripe.” His voice is hoarse and booming, a feral edge emanating from him when he kneels before you. He brings his head close to the gash on your upper thigh, hypnotized by the blood that oozed from it, filling his lungs with the scent of your arousal mixed with your blood. “You’re good enough to eat.”
The ends of his white teeth sparkle in the artificial light coming from the lamp in the ceiling, appearing to be razor-sharp. It gives him an ominous aura that causes you to shiver under his unrelenting glare, and he smirks at you, wrapping his hand around your legs to prevent you from moving.
His lips graze the inflamed skin around your wound and you squirm at the contact, fearful of what he might do next. The talons at the ends of his fingers scratch at you as a warning to stay still, and you do, gasping when you feel the scrape of his tongue on your tore flesh.
“This can’t be happening.” You say to yourself as you watch him hunched over you, smacking his lips at the taste of your blood, as if you were a rare delicacy and he was hungry.
His first couple of licks stung, causing the muscles of your thigh to contract involuntarily, a torrent of purrs coming your way in an effort to alleviate your distress. But as his saliva coated your broken skin, the soreness subsided and the pain was numbed. All you could feel then was the strange but far from unpleasant sensation of his continuous lapping, a spark of neediness shooting up from where he was laving his tongue at you, making your middle throb and pulsate.
He grunted, looking up at you as if he could sense your craving, as if he could smell it. His left hand travels up your leg, stopping by the fabric of your panties, pushing it to the side, and uncovering your glistening cunny.
You feel his licking on your cut becoming sloppy as he salivates and his fingers move to caress the top of your pussy. He presses gently on the hood of your clit, revealing the swollen bundle of nerves to his eyes that shine with a desperate desire.
“Look at how wet you are.” He mutters, mouth colored with a slick shade of crimson. The pads of his fingers rub up and down your slit, gathering the moisture seeping from your clenching hole to massage your flushed bead of pleasure. “You’re so precious.”
The praise goes straight to your pulsing center, molten lava settling in the pit of your stomach, and you mewl shamefully when the back and forth of his fingers makes your pussy gush.
You never thought Dean would do something like this to you. He had always treated you like a baby sister, while he was the overbearing, overly protective older brother.
He’d comment on the length of your skirts and on the tightness of your blouses, going so far as to deny you rides to places if you didn’t change into something he thought of as appropriate.
He’d hang around you at bars, hovering too close, keeping any and all interested guys from interacting with you.
He had always seen you as a kid, and now there he is, sucking on the lacerated flesh of your thigh like it was his last meal and fingering the sopping place between your legs.
“Please!” You cry out, no longer sure if you’re pleading for him to stop or to keep going.
“You want more?” You answer your own internal question by nodding enthusiastically to his, and Dean groans and drools on your open cut as he inserts two of his long, thick fingers into your scorching hot cunt. “You need more to cum, princess?”
Your lips form a perfect o when he breaches your tight, gummy walls, stirring your insides until he finds the spongy, tender spot he was searching for and fucks it with come-hither motions, over and over, again and again.
“Oh, my God, Dean!” You wail, high-pitched and wanton, losing all your inhibitions and bucking your hips in time with the flicks of his wrist as he drills his callused digits inside you, roughly and repeatedly, without giving you time to adjust to his incursion.
“That’s right, squeeze my fingers.” His voice was low and heavy, laced with untamed ferociousness, akin to the rumbling of a snarling wolf. But even with his lips gleaming with the ruby substance from your wound that he insisted on licking, speaking between the obscene slurps, Dean managed to rein in his most primal instincts to encourage your free-fall into bliss. “You can let go whenever you want, sweetheart, I’m right here.”
You revel under his coaxing, under his reassuring words. You didn’t know how much his approval would affect you, embarrassingly loud wet noises coming from your soaking folds while he hits that place inside of you that makes your eyes roll back and your tongue loll out.
All your life you dreamed of having Dean’s validation, and now he was showering you in it, your cunny fluttering at his constant moans and grunts of elation, even though you haven't touched him once. His satisfaction came from giving you pleasure.
That burning euphoria mounts up and up till it snaps and you fall down the precipice. A rush of pure, untainted ecstasy overtakes you and you scream, the drive of his fingers scissoring your spasming walls prolonging your orgasm.
As you lay there, atop the light-up table, a panting and heaving mess, Dean slowly withdraws his fingers from you, making you squirm and whine at the absence.
There's some movement happening around you, the rustling sound of clothes hitting the floor along with the metallic clank of a buckle. You barely register the lack of his mouth on your injured leg, any ounce of pain that you once felt coming from it having been entirely erased.
You sense him grabbing the sides of your panties and ripping the fine cloth with quick, firm hands, and you still can't find it in yourself to react while the flimsy pieces of fabric are rendered into useless scraps that fall off of your body.
But the blunt end of his dick searing into you is what brings you back to reality, the feel of his girth stretching you in ways you didn't even know were possible being too much to ignore.
The whole thing was too much. The position that you were in, with your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips yet again just so they don't dangle off the table. The noises coming from both of you, broken sobs that begged for more of that violent jolt of adrenaline. And, of course, the incomparable sensation of being split open by the biggest cock you've ever taken.
“You're doing so good, kiddo.” You make grabby hands at him when you hear him call you that, whimpering pathetically, and he leans over you to plant a sloppy kiss on your lips.
Some sick part of your brain brings forth all the times he hugged you when you were still a teen. The way his huge hands would squeeze the small of your back and your tits would rub up on him as you stood on your tippy-toes to receive his embrace. The way he would linger a little too long and bend his neck to steal a whiff of your hair.
He pinches the side of your belly and you gasp, his tongue seizing the opportunity to force its entrance into the warm cavern of your mouth. You scratch the skin of his nape and pull on the short hairs on the back of his head, moaning at the slick, pornographic kiss.
His lips close around your tongue and he sucks on it, slurping noises filling the room as he pounds into you, his heavy balls hitting your dripping pussy and squelching over and over.
“Keep taking all of it.” He breaks the kiss to whisper in your ear, filthy words in that baritone voice littering you with goosebumps. “Be a big girl and take all of this dick.”
You let out a puff of hot air and nod at him, promising to do your best as he spears the fat head of his shaft in and out of you with abandon.
His sweat begins to blend in with yours and you tug at the hem of his shirt, wholeheartedly annoyed at the fact that he was still wearing it at all. Dean chuckles, all sharp and pointy teeth that could rip into you and take out a chunk of your flesh, but instead, he spoils you and removes the offending garment, putting his hands over his head and pulling the shirt from behind till it is off, tossing it aside without a second thought.
You grope the span of his torso, from his broad shoulders to his barrel chest, and then his defined abdomen. There was definitely something unusual going on below the surface, an unlimited potential he kept trying to contain. As if he could grow bigger, become somehow larger, change right before your eyes.
You feel your way through the taut muscles under his skin, running your palms down his powerful arms and back up to his wide neck. He gulps under your scrutiny, your hands catching the way his throat bobs and his pupils shrink then dilate again, seemingly as mesmerized by you as you are by him.
He takes your right hand and brings it to his face, mouthing the pulse point, scenting you as he fucks you, the hammering of his length into your cunny growing erratic. He licks and sucks and scrapes his fangs on your wrist, almost to the point of breaking the fragile skin, groaning as you whine desperately.
The more he rams into you, molding you to the shape of his absurdly hard member, the more you come to terms with the fact that he has ruined you to any other man. Because why would you seek someone else's touch when you know only Dean Winchester and his monster dick have the power to obliterate your pussy?
With his free hand, he applies pressure to your clit, swiping the rigid pearl up and down and side to side, ignoring your pleas for mercy as you find yourself on the verge of overstimulation.
“Come on, kiddo, give me another one.” He commands, tone silky and honeyed, but still imposing and domineering in a way that if he were to tell you to jump, all you could do would be to ask how high. “I know you can give me another one.” He keeps going, thumb relentlessly playing with your pleasure point. “Cum again for me.”
You yell, honest to God yell, unsure if you can survive the wave of heat that burns in your loins when your cunt compresses around him, all the nerve endings in your body vibrating simultaneously while you cum.
Because he fucked you so good, because he rubbed you just right, because he said so.
As the dam breaks, a sudden spurt of hot, slippery fluids pours forth from your slit. A copious outflow of liquid cascades from you and lands on Dean's pelvis and his lower stomach.
“Fuck!” You elongate the word, sobbing due to the unmatched delight you experience like you never experienced before. The feeling boarding on too much and not enough at the same time, Dean's fingers continuing to grind against your center even as you squirt all over him.
“What a messy girl.” He grins, iridescently green eyes sparkling atypically, fingers finally quitting their assault on your raw clit, your cunt contracting around his veiny cock from the aftershocks of your mind-blowing release. “Spraying your juices everywhere.” He tuts and pulls out from you, inch by inch, agonizingly slow.
You give out a pitiful lament at the loss and at his taunting words, the noise that comes from your throat utterly unbecoming of a grown woman, but you can't seem to care at this point.
“I'm sorry, I didn't know I-” Dean interrupts your expression of regret with the full weight of his dominant hand landing between your legs, slapping your puffy folds, and making you writhe on top of the table.
“Don't fucking apologize.” He snarls, leaning over to bury his nose in the crook of your neck and swipe his tongue on your feverish skin. “You did so good, I'm covered in your scent and everyone's gonna know.”
You mewl like a bitch in heat when he starts to jerk the span of his shaft on top of you, the mushroom head catching on your entrance from time to time while he strokes himself from base to glans. Precum weeps from the bulbous end and mixes with your own wetness.
“Gotta mark you now.” He tells you like it's the most normal thing in the world, like it's obvious. His hot breath tickles your neck, the tips of his sharp teeth almost piercing your soft flesh and you shiver at the idea that he still might just lose control and do it.
You crane your head down and do your best to steal a glance at the steady rhythm he's building, managing to stare in awe as he pumps the meat of his member.
The tender tissue is flushed and throbbing in his firm grasp, his balls tensing up, full of pent-up energy. You can't believe how big it is, beautifully cut and well groomed. Painfully hard and thick, so thick you don’t even understand how it had entered you.
He grunts and squeezes the round edge before picking up his pace, not knowing where to look as his eyes roam from your swollen lips to your pert nipples, and then your quivering pussy.
“Gonna make you smell like me.” He mumbles, muscles straining and veins bulging, steaming ropes of white bursting from his urethra and landing on your face, on your boobs, and on your belly.
Dean roars as he covers you in his spent, dense and sticky and endless shots of cum painting you. You whine in surprise, licking off some of the substance that got on your lips. He tastes rich and tangy, full of a power unknown to you but still palpable, making your tongue tingle and your throat burn when you swallow.
He's out of breath and so are you, but he doesn't allow you time to recompose yourself since he's already rubbing his release over your belly, taking a glob of it and smearing it on your slit. You thrash about because the feeling is too overwhelming, but he holds you in place and pushes his seed into your welcoming hole.
“You look gorgeous like this.” He says, reverence in his tone while he bites your earlobe and stuffs you with his essence. “Absolutely gorgeous.”
You don't know what to say, you don't know how to act. You hadn't expected to be categorically ravished by the man you had always seen as an older brother today.
In the back of your mind, you knew he wasn't that Dean, the Dean you knew your whole life, at least not fully.
Something inhuman drummed beneath his emerald eyes, the familiar hazel long gone by now. And any shadow of doubt that you might have had about his feral state is pulverized when you feel his length harden again against your inner thigh.
There’s no refractory period and you scream as he bullies that fat dick inside you once more, feeding it into you more carefully this time.
“Holy shit!” You're hoarse, sinking your nails into his shoulders and drawing blood.
How can he be hard? How is that even possible?
He hisses when he bottoms out, filling you to the brim. His rough hands find leverage on the meat of your hips, clasping each side firmly before he begins to pound into you. He uses you as a cock sleeve, lusciously scraping the ridges of his hard-on against your clammy walls.
You can't find your voice, the room spins around you, and your head bangs on the hard surface of the table in time with his thrusts.
You can feel everything. Every nook and cranny that he reaches in you. The twitch of his shaft every time he hits your cervix. The furniture that supports you creaking below.
“Mine.” He proclaims, the smacking of his sweaty skin on yours upping in tempo, the dirty noises the two of you make bordering on offensive. “Say it, say you're mine.” It's an order and you want to comply, but your brain has turned into a scrambled, useless thing so all that comes out of you is a prolonged whimper.
Dean isn't able to handle your unresponsiveness, growling loudly and inflicting another slap where you are most sensitive, a broken sob erupting from you at the contact.
“Tell me who the fuck you belong to, kiddo.” His voice is so velvety it makes your eyes roll.
He’s everywhere all at once, you can’t see or hear or smell anything else but him. Somehow he’s still growing inside you and your lungs burn because you keep forgetting to breathe. You forget your own name in favor of being the center of his world in this moment.
“I- I'm yours.” You croak out, tears getting caught by your lashes, convinced that the speed in which he pumps in and out of you should be criminal. “I'm yours, Dean."
He pulls violently on your hair and howls, guttural and wild, the base of his member expanding impossibly larger still and stretching your opening when he begins to cum inside you. You try to pull away, but you physically can’t, not with the way he pins you down and plugs your cunt with his knot.
How did that happen? How did you end up here?
“This isn’t real.” You think you say it out loud, but maybe you didn’t and there’s no way of knowing for sure.
You can still feel him pulsating and ejecting spurt after spurt of his milk into you, purring so loudly you can’t even hear your own thoughts.
He rests his head on your chest, the both of you stuck to each other until you don’t know when, but he seems content with that. His fingertips draw irregular shapes up and down the expanse of your arm as he regains his wind much quicker than you do.
You stay like this with him, and at some point, he senses something you don’t and tenses up, straightening his back to look to the right of him, careful not to tug where he’s joined to you.
“Dean!” You faintly catch Sam’s voice when he shouts, but it’s muffled by the ringing in your ears.
The younger Winchester is standing by the end of the staircase, features overtaken by shock, a syringe filled with blood in his hand as he stares bug-eyed at the scene before him.
His brother on top of you while you lay naked on the table in the middle of the bunker, covered in cum and trapped on his dick, eyes dazed and blissed out, panting through parted lips.
Dean looks at Sam, then at you, then back at Sam. The supernatural glow in his irises dies down and he seems like his true self for the first time since you got there, brows furrowing while he clicks his tongue and considers the situation.
“Listen.” He raises his index finger at the furious brunet, a sheepish grin on the corners of his mouth. “In my defense, the moon was full and I was left unsupervised.”
@ambergoddess444 that's one of the most beautiful compliments I've ever received in a fic and it really makes me wanna keep writing, even though sometimes I feel so unmotivated, thank you for your kind words 💕
@ilovetaquitosmmmm Thank you for the interest, it's always great when you write a oneshot and people would like to read more 🤗 but I'm not really sure there'll be a second part cause I wouldn't even know where to begin lol 😅 but maybe if inspiration strikes I can end up doing a second instalment!
the spn episode where sam makes christmas for dean in the motel room… the fact that they’re so excited about watching the game together… the way they get so happy about presents not because they’re special or expensive, but just because they bought them for each other and both picked out what they knew the other would love or think is funny… the soft glow of the lights that match how they feel
The fact that Sam's eggnog had so much whiskey even Dean was like 'man this shit is strong', but Sam doesn't even like alcohol, he put it there for Dean cause he knows his brother is a *functioning alcoholic* and wanted to make Christmas extra especial for him. That's love.
