he hates it. he loathes it. what, you think he's not good enough to satisfy you?
arriving at your door, he can hear small whirs and moans coming from the other side. at first, he thinks you're cheating on him but it's much worse.
the door opens rapidly, the sound startling you badly. then, he sees the obscene sight before him.
you're using a fucking toy? over asking him?
he doesn't know what kind of conundrum you're in, but he doesn't like this situation one bit. honestly, it's a bit traitorous to trust a stupid silicone toy that vibrates over your own man that's literally fucked you into oblivion a million times before this.
"really? a bloody toy?" he asks, accent heavy.
you stare at him dumbfounded and the vibrations of the device inside you seemed to have stopped, when it really didn't. but, all you could do was watch in shock as he walks over towards you, shutting the door behind him, both offended and angry.
your legs are spread, hand right against your folds that are filled with the thing he hates so much. there's a tinge of humiliation that makes your cheeks turn pink.
then, without warning, he presses against your clit with the pad of his thumb, sending a huge wave of pleasure over you.
"i-i thought you were busy..." you mutter, back arching in heavenly pleasure.
"me? not if it was for you," he replies.
he pulls the toy out, tossing it across the room, sending your slick pretty much flying everywhere. he doesn't think twice before putting his hand back between your legs, applying just enough pressure to make you mewl.
"ngh— i'm sorry!" you yelp.
"and i'm sure ya' are," he says. "now, do you want me or the stupid toy?"
you're quick to answer: "you,"
it doesn't take long for him to fill you up with his huge fingers, one already stretching you out more than the sex object you used previously. you let out a loud moan when he enters another finger, adding more to the burn.
you squirm, feeling him start to move, the friction helping you continue approaching the orgasm. he's so mean. he doesn't let you adjust before finger-fucking you to the next world, digits pushed in and out of you rapidly, pace consistent.
the room is echoing to your moans endlessly, the lewd sound of his fingers squelching accompanying it. your noises grow louder, more desperate.
"you wanna cum?" he asks, watching as your facial expressions change from one of fear to overstimulation.
you nod frantically, drool travelling down your chin.
"use your words, baby," he says.
"y-yes!" you yell.
and he quickens, faster than you think was possible, the tips of his fingers hitting all the right spots exactly. you can feel the roughness and warmth of his hand, feel it moving in and out. then, you feel it.
you release, letting evidence of your orgasm coat his fingers fully, watching as he pulled it out and held it right in front of your eyes to see before licking it off in one go.
"next time, just call me," he says, leaving the room.
Bad Performances and Bending Light - Chapter 11: Good Direction
✦Read on aO3! - Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Chapter Ten✦
✦summary: dean makes you do things✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, modern!au, roommate!dean, canon divergence, angst, fluff, pining, drama, no use of y/n or reader description✦
✦author's note: i hope somewhere out there, a man is reading my fanfics to try and figure out how to be a good boyfriend.✦
The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s ten minute to get through the brush fields and small woods to anything else.
You’ve been hoping you wouldn’t have to leave the property. It was plenty big, with a poll that you could hide in the shallow end of, combating the heat. Really, you’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’ve gotten away with it all, just lounging around and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out of orbit.
“You good?” He asks every hour or so, even just poking his head into the room without grabbing anything else.
“Mhm.” You mumble, tucked under the covers.
He frowns. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“
“No, thank you.” You pull the blankets tighter, and he sighs. Stares at you for another moment.
Then Sam calls his name, and he shuffles away. Neither of you have spoken about last night. You have no desire to. It’s a conversation that will only leading to shouting and strange looks and—worst of all—endings.
This isn’t supposed to be an ending. It’s supposed to be a needlessly complicated vacation. Dean promised you there would be nothing to do but lie about being his girlfriend, and eat good food.
He hadn’t mentioned cornering you in bed like a living wet dream, either.
If you bring up that lapse in proper discloser, though, it becomes that bigger conversation. The one you really don’t want to have.
And you’d think Dean didn’t even remember, if he wasn’t acting so weird. Whenever he sees you, his shoulders square and his ears turn oddly red. He drags you to lunch with Sam and Jess—just in the lobby, which is acceptable—and one of his uncles corners him about the shop.
“We’ve got a Thunderbird comin’ in.” Dean tells the older man, grinning proudly.
You love when he’s proud. He gets so stupidly adorable—puffing out his chest and swaggering around—and it makes you want to bite him or punch him, then wrap him up like a baby and kiss his dumb, pretty face.
“You workin’ on it yourself?” The uncle adjusts his baseball cap, and you glare at it.
There aren’t that many uncles. Most are on Mary’s side, and this man looks too… not crazy. Which leaves Dean’s favorite, according to your flashcards and quick lessons.
Dean’s favorite, who’s name you can’t remember. They’re still droning on about tires or whatever—Dean’s tried to explain cars to you many, many time, but you always stop paying attention because of how handsome he is, which is really his fault—and you’re glaring at the uncle, trying to place the name.
It’s something boring. Mike. John. Can’t be John. Frank. Gabe. Fred. Fabian. Fork. Fork isn’t a name. Fred. You already thought of Fred. Enrique. Dean. That’s Dean. Cal. Bonny.
“Bobby!”
You shout too loud, and they both fall silent, staring at you with curious expressions.
“You’re, um- You- Dean-“
He raises his brows, looking far too amused. You’re going to shove him off the balcony later.
“The- The flashcards-“
“Flashcards?” Bobby gives Dean an odd look, he shrugs, and you’re starting to babble.
“Dean, he- He made- Well, I made, but I made him help me, and he said it was stupid but I needed them, and-“ They’re both looking at you like you’re crazy. You’re not crazy. “I have to pee!”
You turn on your heels, and run. Behind you, Bobby chuckles and mutters something to Dean that you don’t want to hear.
If he wants to find you for the rest of the day, he better be ready to find you. You’d lock yourself in the room, but that’s too easy. He’ll suspect you.
You get changed, and slip down to the pool. He’s expecting you in the shallow end. You got to the deep end, cling to the wall, and submerge yourself almost entirely to wash the embarrassment away. It’s not quite as cleansing as you want. Mostly, everything just smells like chlorine.
For the rest of the afternoon, you repeat the cycle. Submerge, clean, hide against the wall and watch the birds and butterflies flit around the gardens. You see a few hummingbirds. It’s rather peaceful.
This hotel would fail a health and safety check, though. Not one lifeguard has appeared, and you’ve been here an hour. You could’ve drowned.
You shriek, when someone finally pokes your head. You recognize the laugh before you turn, and splash water up onto Dean’s legs.
The dick is wearing shorts. And sunglasses, and a tank top with a towel slung over his shoulder. You don’t appreciate being outsmarted, or how hot he looks. It makes your brain uselessly fuzzy.
“Dean, what the hell-“
“Sorry.” He’s still laughing. He doesn’t sound very sorry. “We gotta go, dinner is starting soon.”
You wrinkle your nose. “Do I have to?”
“Yeah. Part of the deal.”
He gives you a pointed look, and you sigh, sinking back into the water.
“Ah- Hold on-“
You made an undignified sound, as Dean reaches into the water, hook his hands under your arms, and pulls you right out.
“Let you spend an extra twenty minutes.” He mutters, wrapping the towel tight around your body.
His jaw is rather clenched. When he brushes against your bare stomach, you watch his nostrils flare.
“Come on, little mermaid. Dinner time.”
Dean picks you up bridal style. For a second, you’re too dazed to remember that you’re supposed to be mad at him.
“You knew where I was?”
“Of course I knew. What-“ He frowns. “Were you trying to hide from me?”
You shake your head. It feels too nice to be carried by him. There’s that familiar heat pooling between your thighs, and it’s not really fair that Dean would do what he did last night, then not move his hand a few inches down and touch you.
Fake. It’s supposed to be fake. He’s not your actual boyfriend. He owes you nothing.
And you try to stick to that rule for the rest of the night. For your own, poor sake.
You both get dressed, and you don’t let yourself think about how good Dean looks in his button down. It’s all white, with his sleeves rolled up and a single button undone, giving you a peek of his chest, and-
No. You spray yourself mentally, like you’re a cat eating human food. Bad.
It’s tragic, though. Dean really looks like he’d taste so good.
“You look good.” He mumbles, offering you his arm.
You take it, and stare straight ahead.
“Thanks. You too.”
He grunts. Neither of you speak too much after that.
It’s not a small crowd. There are family and friends that demand Dean’s attention, and you just keep hanging off his arm. You’re a decoration right now. Someone he can’t point to, and say this is my girlfriend. His hand rests over where you’re holding him, and you try not to think about it.
“Where’d you catch her?” Some asshole with a smirk asks him.
Dean shrugs loosely, tugging you further into his side.
“You don’t catch women, Gordan.” He says, almost lazy and smug. “You lie down, and beg for her to pay attention. Then,” he winks at you. “You get lucky, and she does.”
You blink, your heart doing that annoying little fumble where it demands things. Where it wants you to sink your teeth into him, and never let up. It would like it a lot, if he’d stop talking to these people and just talk to you.
It’s loud. Everything is very warm, and Dean is both the most steady and unstable thing around.
Your nails must be digging into his arm, because he says your name softly, and you find a glass being pressed to your lips.
“Relax.” His voice is all deep, and his lips brush against your ear.
It’s not helping.
“I am relaxed-“
“You looked like you wanted to kill my cousin.”
You grunt. “That’s just my face.”
“No,” Dean snorts. “I know your face, sweetheart, but nice shot.”
“Well, I-“
“Drink.” He sighs, giving you those annoying, puppy eyes. “Please? I tried it, I think you’re gonna like it.”
You can’t say no to him. That’s how you got here in the first place. You take the drink with a sigh, and annoyingly, Dean’s right. You do like it.
It gets you through a lot more family members. You even build up the confidence to adjust Dean’s tie, while he’s talking to his grandparents.
“Aw.” His grandmother—Deanna, you’d been practicing after the Bobby incident—beams between you. “Look at you two. All young and in love. You know,” she leans forward, smirking. “Don’t tell Gramps, but I dream of a young love like that.”
Dean coughs, and you’d be mortified if he wasn’t so flustered.
“Thanks, grandma, that’s- Nice of you-“
“Not for you, boy.” Deanna scoffs. “For me.”
She laughs, Dean chuckles nervously, and his grandfather—Samuel—makes a face at you like he’s heard that joke a million times.
And Deanna might dream of young love for herself, but you want something like that. Something where they grumble and sigh and poke at each other, but both keep holding on. When Samuel mutters that his back hurts, Deanna drags him off to sit down, completely ignoring his protests that he’s fine.
All you can think of is when Dean twisted his ankle, falling off a chair in the garage. You’d put him on non-negotiable best rest for a week, and he’d pouted about it, but within a day he was pretending he was too weak to lift the spoon without your help. You’d rolled your eyes, but helped all the same.
And when you close your eyes and picture that old, certain kind of love, you only see Dean staring back at you. With soft, worn and sturdy affection in his eyes.
God.
This weekend is going to suck.
You’re grateful when you have to sit for the toasts. No one expects anything from you, and you get to watch Dean ramble through the toast he’d been rehearsing through the whole trip. In the car, sitting in the terminal, crouching on the floor waiting for a rental car.
“Sammy.” He starts with a grin, wiping his hands on his pants.
For someone so confident, he hates public speaking. Prepared public speaking. Where he’s supposed to say all the right, emotional things and has to write it ahead of time. You’d suggested he just go off the cuff—he’s far better at that—but he’d refused.
Now, he’s grinning around the room and letting the Sammy hang in the air.
His face is neutral, but his hands. They’re fisting and unfisting and wiping and wringing and-
You catch one. Dean glances at you, and you smile. Squeeze his hand once, and give him an encouraging nod.
Wing it. You mouth, and his shoulders slowly relax.
He turns back to the crowd, lets out a slow, controlled breath, and launches into a story about Sam’s first crush being a girl on the playground who pulled on his hair and called him floppy. How devoted he’d been to getting her to like him. How if he could do that for a chick who wouldn’t share her Scooby snacks, he was going to worship the ground Jess walked on for the rest of their life.
You watch him work the crowd like a show with a soft smile. You know it’s too much. That it’s clear, how much you adore him.
But it’s still part of the fake show, so you allow it. You do adore Dean. He’s perfect.
And you feel something prickle on the back of your neck.
You turn slowly, and it’s John. Staring at you with narrowed eyes, his posture stuff.
Dean must have talked to him. And whatever he said, two things are clear.
John doesn’t love it, and you’re likely to blame.
You look back to your plate and bite your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just appear as an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech.
“To Sam and Jess.” He finishes, and you don’t need to look up. You know.
Dean’s looking at you.
You give him a small smile, raising your glass with the rest of the tent. Something flashes in his eyes. His jaw twitches.
His hand moves. Slow and graceful. You’re not sure he knows he’s doing it.
He grabs your chin, just like in bed. It’s the lightest touch in the world, but it feels like a nuke is being set off in your gut.
You grab his wrist, and a few awwwws echo through the crowd. They read it as romantic. Hadn’t seen it as the silent, panicked plea it was. For Dean not to play with you like this.
But you don’t know how he reads it. Dean just blinks, pulls back, and sits. His arm wraps slowly around your chair.
He kisses the side of your head, and you can feel the aftershocks, shaking in your knees.
It’s the first hole, punched in the dam.
In the morning, you’ll still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin. Tonight you wipe some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then suck it clean. He keeps his arm you. You both drink, relaxing slowly. A few people come up to you. Speak mostly to Dean, no matter how he tries to include you in the conversation. He starts to get tense about halfway through the night.
You take a risk. Place your hand, right on his thigh, and rub gently.
Dean jerks, and you start to move away.
He stops you. You look at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he offers you the first real smile of the night.
You smile back. That’s real, too
Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster.
You wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket.
It smells like him. You shove it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up.
✦Chapter Twelve✦
✦End note: people gonna be asking "when are you kids getting married" all weekend✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
the overarching theme of supernatural isn’t family or free will or whatever. open your third eye… it’s the unstoppable magnetism of dean winchester, resident bukowski protagonist, whose shining light of complexity in the face of terrible writing brings all the antagonists to the yard. he could redeem anyone if he tried. dean’s not just the heart and soul of this show, he’s its own unrequited crush
