german| 32yrs| book lover & wannabe writer Just out here writing mostly spicy fanfics about Jensen Ackles and the chaos his characters bring to my brain. — 18+ only, minors DNI. Expect plenty of smut, angst, and the occasional plot twist. I live for character depth, slow burns, and a good cup of coffee. Come for the fic, stay for the feels. OPEN FOR REQUESTS💫
I wasn't looking for anything — seriously, I wasn't. Just a night out, some drinks, and a little freedom to forget the heartbreak that's been weighing on me. But then — those eyes. Green, sharp, and dangerous in all the ways I wasn't ready for…yet somehow, I couldn't look away.
✨️This is their short story: messy, raw, tender, and occasionally a little ridiculous — because, let's be honest, real life and love rarely come neat and tidy.
⚠️Warnings: Each part comes with its own set of content warnings, so please check the tags before diving in. We're talking all the feels, the heat, and everything in between.
So, are you ready to get tangled up with Jensen and our fem!reader? Dive in here:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Thank you for coming along for the ride — buckle up, because this one's a wild, beautiful mess. 😉 Stay tuned!💛
I wasn't supposed to end up here — not after that fight, not after the way his words kept echoing in my head. But somehow, I did.
His couch. His whiskey. His quiet voice cutting through the noise that wouldn’t stop spinning in my mind.
Tim Bradford wasn't the type to offer comfort — not the gentle kind, anyway. But when the world felt too heavy, he didn't look away. He stayed. He saw me. And maybe, that was exactly what I needed.
✨️Sometimes it begins in the quiet aftermath of heartbreak — in a living room filled with unspoken words, melted ice, and a pair of blue eyes that see too much.
⚠️Warnings: Emotional damage, comfort scenes, and a slow-burn intensity that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. Oh, and yeah — part two turns up the heat, so maybe keep a glass of water nearby. Check the tags before you cry and blush, thanks.
So, are you ready to find out what happens when friendship stops being just friendship Read "That's what friends are for" here:
Hunters aren't known for celebrating. No traditions, no decorations, no quiet moments marked on a calendar — at least, that's the story they tell themselves.
This series explores the softer, quieter side of holidays in the bunker: the in-between moments, the anticipation, the almosts. One special occasion at a time. One shared moment that matters more than it should.
✨️Because even hunters can't outrun the calendar forever.
⚠️ Warnings: Each story comes with its own label — because not every holiday goes according to plan, and neither do hunters.
Curious about how hunters do holidays — or how they slowly learn to? This is where it starts:
Holiday wishes
Before the fireworks
When the sky explodes
Something that doesn't break
Cupid got it right!
Green with envy — coming up on St.Patrick's Day, march 17th
Blood on pastel colors — coming up on Easter
More holidays to come — one celebration at a time.💫
They hunted monsters. They ran from shadows. But the hardest battles were always the ones they couldn't see — the ones between them.
A confession in neon. Fault lines in their hearts. And the day their heartbeats finally collided.
This is the story of Dean and her. Of jealousy, fear, longing…and finally, the truth they couldn't keep quiet.
✨️Hearts don't wait, and hunters don't always play by the rules.
⚠️ Warnings: Each chapter comes with its own trigger — because feelings don't always follow the plan, and neither does Dean.
Think you can handle all the feelings, the tension, and the heart-stabbing moments? Dive in here:
After the witness interview, I wanted nothing more than to go home. As fast as possible. Into my warm bed. Out of this car. Away from him. But the weather clearly had other plans for how my evening was supposed to end. And Mark…well. Mark didn't seem to mind at all.
✨ Because even the worst heartbreak is no match for Mark Meachum's irresistible green eyes.
⚠️ Warnings: Both parts have their own individual warnings. But be prepared — you will probably feel every emotion known to mankind while reading.
What started as a curiosity turned into trust — and something deeper neither Dean nor she expected. A slow, intimitate journey through the layers of closeness, where hands were first, but hearts followed.
✨ A series of first, and learning that desire isn't rushed...it's taught.
⚠️ Warnings: Each chapter has its own set of warnings. Please read with care.
This series began as a request with "Sex, toys and rock'n'roll" (shout out to @beakaleak32 for the inspiration!), but it quickly grew into something that got under my skin. So here I am — exploring more firsts, more trust, and more ways desire can unfold between Dean and the virgin reader.
Inbox open like Dean's flannel – gimme those prompts!
If you've got fic ideas or prompts floating around – especially involving Jensen Ackles or any of his glorious characters (you know the vibe 😉) – my inbox is open!
Whether it's some classic Dean-and-his-baby fluff, gritty Soldier Boy angst, or small-town charm with Beau and his sheriff hat – I'm all in. I adore diving into Jensen's characters (pun semi-intended 😏) and bringing your thoughts to life.
So feel free to drop prompts, headcanons, or wild AU dreams – I don't bite...unless we're talking about pie 🍰
The fics listed below were written for readers’ requests♥️
Real prompts. Real feelings. Real dedication. Your idea could be next.
Summary: Being a virgin in your mid-twenties didn't mean you didn't know what you wanted. Turns out, some things you don't really learn from books — only from Dean Winchester. And some kinds of trust only make sense once you've had a taste of it.
Warnings: Virgin reader (all characters are 18+), mention of age gap (early 20's/late 40's), teasing, oral sex (fem receiving), aftercare, Dean Winchester being helpful in his own way
This fic contains the use of pet names (e.g. baby, sweetheart,...)
Words: 11403 (double-oops)
Note: English isn't my first language.
💫Check out my masterlist here!
So, the third part is finally here! ✨💕
It took me a little longer than planned (okay, a lot longer), and if you've been foolowing my little live update chaos posts, you probably already know why. Life has been...a lot lately, and writing this while not exactly being at my best definitely left its mark on the chapter. I actually noticed while writing that there's a lot more emotion in this part than I originally intended. I still tried my very best to stay true to the storyline, but I also didn't really fight the feelings that came with it. So if it hits a little harder (or maybe a little more dramatic than usual), that's probably why.
I hope you can forgive me for maybe leaning a bit too much into feelings here. But I also really hope you still enjoy it, even with all of that.
Thank you so, so much for your patience and for sticking with this story despite my extremely inconsistent update schedule. It genuinely means the world😭
And I promise I'll try my best to make sure the next part doesn't take another three months...no guarentees, but I'll try my best.
The words echoed in my head as I pulled the towel tighter around my body, fingers curling into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. The bathroom was warm and fogged from the shower, the mirror hazy except where I'd absentmindedly wiped a small circle clear with my hand.
My reflection stared back at me — hair damp and darker than usual, skin flushed, eyes still a little unfocused.
I barely recognized myself.
Not because I looked different. But because I felt different.
Dean's voice replayed just as clearly as his words had — the way he'd said it when everything had already gone quiet again.
"Go take a shower. Breathe. I want you clear-headed, sweetheart. I'm not going anywhere."
He hadn't rushed me. Hadn't followed. Hadn't tried to turn the moment into something more when my body was still buzzing and my thoughts were scattered.
I swallowed, lifting one hand to my hair and combing my fingers through it, trying to tame it into something presentable. Normal. Like this was just another evening in the bunker and not the aftermath of something that had quietly shifted the axis of my world.
My gaze dropped — just for a second — tracing the faint marks on my skin, the warmth still lingering beneath the surface. Nothing obvious. Nothing I couldn't explain away.
And yet.
My chest tightened as the memories surfaced again, uninvited. Not just the way he'd touched me — but the way he'd looked at me over my shoulder. Focused. Intent. Like every reaction mattered. Like I mattered.
I leaned closer to the mirror, bracing one hand on the sink.
What had I done?
The question rose automatically — the same one I always asked myself when something felt too big, too intense, too close to happiness.
But this time, it didn't settle the same way. Because nothing about it had felt wrong.
I straightened slowly, meeting my own eyes in the glass. There was no shame there. No regret. Just a lingering disbelief — and something softer beneath it. Something warm.
Dean hadn't treated me like a mistake. Or a curiosity. Or something fragile he'd accidentally broken.
He'd treated me like a choice.
My fingers stilled in my hair. The realization sat heavy and quiet in my chest.
I let out a slow breath, feeling the steady rhythm of it. In. Out. Just like he'd told me.
The bathroom felt too small suddenly, the air thick with steam and thoughts I hadn't yet figured out how to name. I reached for the counter, grounding myself again, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the warmth still humming through my body.
This wasn't something I could undo. And I didn't think I wanted to.
I glanced toward the door, half-expecting to hear footsteps on the other side — but the hallway beyond remained quiet. Dean was giving me space. Real space. The kind that didn't feel like distance.
My lips pressed together, then curved — just barely — into something like a smile.
I didn't know what would happen next. Didn't know what this meant, or how it would change things between us, or whether it would make everything messier instead of clearer.
I let my gaze wander through the bathroom one more time, as if I might find something there that would tell me what to do next.
My eyes drifted to the corner near the door — and landed on the laundry basket.
My clothes lay crumpled inside it. The shirt. The shorts. And, unmistakably, the underwear I definitely couldn't put back on even if I wanted to.
Heat crept up my neck.
For a brief moment, I considered the logistics. I could grab the towel, slip out quietly, and make a dash for my room. Sam was still gone. And Dean had already seen far more than that anyway. It wouldn't be a big deal. It shouldn't be a big deal.
Still, the thought made my stomach flutter nervously.
I tightened the towel around myself, fingers fisting the fabric at my chest, and made a decision.
Get a grip.
I straightened, rolled my shoulders once, and stepped toward the door. My hand hovered for half a second before closing around the cool metal of the handle.
Just open it. Walk out. Easy.
I turned the knob and pulled the door open...
...and nearly jumped out of my skin.
Dean stood directly on the other side. Close. Way too close.
His hand was still raised mid-air, knuckles bent slightly, frozen in the exact position of someone who had been this close to knocking. His eyes widened just a fraction — surprise flashing across his face before it smoothed into something else entirely.
"Oh—", he started, stopping himself immediately. "Shit. Sorry."
My heart slammed against my ribs, pulse racing as I clutched the towel tighter, suddenly hyper-aware of how little there was between me and the hallway.
"I—", I inhaled sharply, then laughed, more breathless than amused. "You scared me."
"Yeah", he said quietly, lowering his hand. His gaze flicked to my face — pointedly staying there — as if he were making a conscious effort not to look anywhere else. "Guess I deserve that."
For a second, neither of us moved.
The hallway lights cast a soft glow over his features, and up close like this, I could see the faint crease between his brows — concern, maybe. Or restraint. Probably both.
"I just wanted to check on you", he added, voice gentle, steady. "Make sure you're okay."
I nodded, swallowing. "I am. I just…needed a minute."
A corner of his mouth lifted. Not teasing. Just understanding.
The air between us felt charged again — quieter than before, but no less intense. Like something waiting patiently, giving me room to decide what came next.
Dean shifted slightly, giving me space without stepping away entirely. "You want me to grab you some clothes?", he offered. “Or...you good?"
I glanced past him, then back at him, my fingers still curled tight in the towel.
"I'm good", I said softly.
Dean nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving mine.
The second the silence stretched, my mouth went dry. I swallowed, nervous energy sparked under my skin, sharp and restless.
He noticed. I could tell by the way his eyes softened for half a heartbeat — and then darkened with something far more deliberate. Instead of stepping back, his attention shifted.
Unhurried.
His gaze traced my face, lingered at my mouth, slid down the line of my throat. Over my collarbone. Lower. The towel suddenly felt far too thin, far too revealing as his eyes followed the curve it hid, dipped briefly over my bare legs before rising again to meet my eyes.
My breath hitched.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up — a shiver I couldn't stop, warmth pooling low in my stomach, my fingers tightening reflexively in the fabric of the towel.
Dean took a step closer. Then another.
The space between us shrank until I could feel his presence like heat, solid and unavoidable. His voice was quiet when he spoke, casual on the surface, but there was an edge to it now.
"So...what else you got planned for today?"
I shrugged helplessly, my brain blanking completely — words refusing to form, especially when his hands came up, settling on my hips. The contact sent a jolt through me, my breath stuttering as my palms flattened uselessly against his chest.
"Shame", he said softly.
Then he pulled me just a little closer. Close enough that I felt the warmth of him through the towel, his body solid and real against mine.
His head dipped, his voice dropping even lower. "Because I might've had an idea."
He leaned down, inch by inch, his attention fixed on my mouth now. I could feel his breath brushing my lips as the distance between us disappeared.
I was frozen — startled, overwhelmed, electrified. My heart thundered in my chest as I stared up at him, anticipation curling tight in my stomach.
Millimeters. That was all that separated us.
I watched his eyes slip shut — and after a hesitant beat, I let mine follow.
"Guys?" Sam's voice echoed down the hallway. "Where are you?"
I jolted, sucking in a sharp breath, instinctively trying to step back.
Dean sighed — a quiet, frustrated sound — disappointment clear as he reluctantly released me and took a step away.
Just in time.
Sam rounded the corner, then stopped short when he saw us. His gaze moved between Dean and me, brow furrowed like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he hadn't expected to find.
"Am I interrupting something?", he asked carefully.
"No!", I said far too quickly, panic edging my voice — especially when I saw Dean open his mouth, clearly about to say something. I shot him a look, silently begging him not to.
Sam nodded slowly, unconvinced.
Dean turned toward him instead, irritation slipping into his tone. "What're you doing back already? Thought you were with Eileen."
Sam glanced between us again. His eyes lingered on me a second too long — and that was when it hit me.
The towel.
I crossed my arms instinctively over my chest, shrinking in on myself, chewing nervously on my lower lip.
Sam cleared his throat and looked back at his brother. "Long story."
He lifted the plastic bag in his hand — one I hadn't even noticed until now. "Brought food. Figured you guys might be hungry."
Dean looked at me briefly, like he wanted to say something — or ask something — then turned back to Sam and nodded once.
I stood there awkwardly, trying to process the mess of emotions buzzing through me before forcing a small, shaky smile. "Uh...thank you. I should probably…get dressed first."
I aimed for casual. Missed completely.
"Take your time", Sam said, already turning toward the kitchen.
I nodded, stealing one last glance at Dean — who was already looking at me.
Then I slipped past him, heart racing, brushed by Sam's lightly amused, slightly skeptical smile, and hurried down the hallway.
By the time I reached my room, I was almost running.
The door clicked shut behind me, and I leaned back against it immediately, the solid wood pressing into my spine. My breath came fast and shallow, chest rising and falling like I'd just run a mile.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
For a second, I just stood there — then a quiet laugh slipped out of me.
"Damn", I breathed. That was close. Too close.
I tilted my head back against the door, staring at the ceiling as my heartbeat slowly began to settle. The image replayed itself without my permission — Dean's face, so close, the way his eyes had darkened just before he'd leaned in.
The question crept in before I could stop it.
Had he really been about to kiss me?
The thought landed with a strange mix of disbelief and heat, my stomach fluttering again. Part of me tried to brush it off, to tell myself I was overthinking it — but the truth lingered stubbornly in my chest.
It hadn't felt accidental.
And maybe it shouldn't have surprised me as much as it did. Not after everything that had already happened between us. Not after everything he'd already done to me.
But kissing…That was different.
Touch could be about want. About curiosity. About control and sensation. Kissing, though...kissing felt personal. Intimate in a way that went deeper than skin, tangled up with emotion in a way that made it harder to separate what was felt from what was meant.
I swallowed, my laughter fading as the weight of that realization settled in.
So what did that mean? For him? For me? For us?
The questions started to pile up quickly, threatening to spiral — so I forced myself to stop. I pushed off the door, grounding myself the way I'd learned to do.
Don't overthink it. Not right now.
I needed to get dressed. To breathe. To feel like myself again.
I crossed the room and reached for my clothes, pulling on my underwear first, then a pair of short leggings. I hesitated for a second before grabbing the oversized band T-shirt, letting it fall over me — loose, comfortable, familiar. Safe.
My damp hair got twisted up into a messy bun, strands already escaping around my face, but I didn't bother fixing them. This wasn't about looking good.
It was about not sending the wrong message. Or maybe about sending a very clear one.
I glanced at my reflection briefly — calmer now, more put together — and took one last steadying breath. Whatever was happening between Dean and me, I could figure it out later.
Right now, Sam and Dean were waiting in the kitchen.
I squared my shoulders, reached for the door, and stepped back into the hallway — heading toward the smell of food, unanswered questions, and the quiet tension I knew would still be waiting for me there.
My bare feet carried me down the long bunker hallway almost on their own. They knew the way to the kitchen by heart after all these years, muscle memory taking over so I didn't have to think about where I was going.
Usually, I would've just kept walking.
This time, I slowed.
Sam's voice reached me before the kitchen did — muted, like he was trying to keep it down, but still sharp enough that every word carried clearly through the corridor. The kind of quiet that meant something mattered.
I stopped.
I didn't step forward. I didn't turn back either. I just…stood there, half-hidden by the corner of the wall, listening.
"What was that back there?", Sam asked.
There was a pause. I could picture Dean shrugging, hear it in the careless way he answered. "What was what?"
"Don't play dumb", Sam said. "You know exactly what I mean. With her."
My stomach tightened instantly.
Dean scoffed — a short, dismissive sound. "You're reading way too much into it."
"That didn't look like nothing, Dean."
Another beat of silence. Longer this time.
"There is nothing", Dean said, firmer now. Final. "Drop it."
The words landed harder than I expected.
Something sharp flickered through my chest — quick and painful — before I could stop it. I told myself it didn't mean what it sounded like. That of course he'd say that. That this was just Dean being Dean.
Still…it stung.
Sam didn't back off. I could hear it in the way his voice shifted, low but insistent. "Don't bullshit me. I know you. Something happened."
Dean let out a humorless laugh. "Jesus, Sam. You're imagining things."
"You think I didn't notice the way you were standing?", Sam pressed. "The way she bolted down the hall? Come on."
My fingers curled at my sides. My pulse thudded loudly in my ears, each beat making it harder to breathe normally.
"This is about her", Sam continued. "You can't just mess with her head like that and pretend it's no big deal."
Dean's tone snapped. "I'm not messing with anyone."
"Then explain it."
A chair scraped faintly — metal against floor. Dean moving. Pacing, maybe.
"You really think I'd do that?", he shot back. "You think I'd cross that line?"
Sam didn't answer right away.
When he did, his voice was quieter. More serious. "I think something already happened. And I think you need to be honest about what it is."
My chest felt tight now, like my lungs weren't quite expanding all the way. I pressed my back lightly against the wall, grounding myself in the cool stone, afraid my legs might give out.
Dean laughed again — louder this time, edged with irritation. "You're being ridiculous."
"Dean—"
"She's like my little sister", he cut in sharply. "And I would never touch her like that. Ever. So don't be an idiot."
The words shouldn't have hurt the way they did.
Little sister.
My breath caught, sharp and involuntary. My stomach dropped, that earlier warmth turning cold in an instant. I pressed my back against the wall, my throat burned — because that wasn't how he'd looked at me when his hands hand been on me.
That wasn't how it had felt when he'd whispered words into my ear, focused and patient, like nothing else in the world existed.
You don't touch your little sister like that. You don't teach your little sister how to fall apart.
I felt stupid — suddenly, acutely so — like I'd imagined something that had never really been there.
Telling him I was a virgin hadn't just been a confession. It had been a choice — one I'd made with my hands shaking and my heart far too open for comfort.
And somewhere along the way, without me really noticing when it happened, I'd stopped thinking of it as lessons. I'd started thinking of it as something private. Something fragile. Something only he and I shared.
Not because I believed it meant love. I wasn't in love with him. God, no. I knew the difference.
But there had always been this pull between us — quiet, constant, woven into years of looks held a second too long, of trust built in the spaces where words weren't needed. An attraction I'd never fully named, but never managed to ignore either.
And when he'd been that close to me — when he'd touched me with that kind of patience, that kind of intent — something in me had shifted before I could stop it.
I hadn't meant to let myself believe it was more. But I had.
I'd started to think that maybe, just maybe, what we were doing wasn't only about experience. That maybe there was something there for him too — something that didn't exist for anyone else.
Something that was only about me.
And it scared me how much that hope had slipped in without asking permission.
I stared down at the floor, blinking hard even though no tears fell, my body reacting anyway — shoulders tensing, jaw tightening, heart thudding painfully against my ribs.
I bit down on my lower lip, hard enough to ground myself, to keep from making a sound. I didn't want them to know I was there. Didn't want Dean to realize I'd heard any of it.
Behind the wall, their voices continued — rising, falling, Sam clearly unconvinced, Dean growing more defensive — but the words started to blur together.
All I could hear was that one sentence, echoing over and over in my head.
"She's like my little sister".
I drew in a slow, shaky breath, then another, forcing my body to cooperate even as my chest ached. Whatever this was — whatever I'd thought it might be — I needed to get a grip.
I straightened slightly in the hallway, steadying myself.
Then, quietly, forced my feet to move. Step by step, I rounded the corner and walked into the kitchen like I hadn't just stood in the hallway listening to something fracture quietly inside my chest. Like my hearbeat hadn't stumbled at a single sentence and never quite found its rhythm again. Like I had an idea how I was supposed to walk in there like everything was normal.
"Hey", I said, aiming for casual.
Both of them looked up.
Sam smiled first, easy and familiar. "Hey. You made it."
Dean looked at me a split second longer. Not long enough to be obvious. Not enough that Sam would notice. But long enough that I felt his eyes searching my face, brows pulling together slightly. The same way they did when he sensed a room had shifted, when something felt off and he couldn't tell why yet. Like he was already clocking the difference in me.
I didn't give him anything to grab onto.
I crossed the kitchen barefoot and took the empty chair at the table, smoothing my shirt down like my hands needed something to do. "Smells good."
Sam slid a container toward me. "Thai. Hope that's okay."
"Perfect", I said, and meant: "Thank you for giving me something else to focus on."
We started eating. The normalcy felt surreal. The clink of cutlery against plastic sounded louder than it should have. Every small noise felt amplified — the hum of the lights, the rustle of paper bags, the scrape of Dean's chair when he shifted his weight.
I focused on my food. Chewed carefully. Swallowed. Took another bite. Every bite tasted fine, but it sat heavy in my stomach anyway.
Dean barely talked. When he did, it was clipped. Controlled. He answered Sam's questions, nodded when appropriate, but his attention kept drifting — not to his plate, not to Sam, but to me. I could feel it like a pressure against my skin, even when I didn't look up.
When I did, our eyes met — briefly.
Something flickered there. Questioning. Guarded. Almost apologetic.
I looked away first.
Because now I knew.
Standing in the hallway, listening to him say it so easily — "She's like my little sister" — something had finally clicked into place. Not all at once. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Everything before suddenly rearranged itself in my mind. The patience. The structure. The way he'd always been careful, always guiding, always grounding me afterward.
It hadn't been about him wanting me. It had been about him wanting to give me something. An experience. A safe first step. A way to explore my body without fear or pressure.
He hadn't crossed that line because he wanted to — not emotionally. Not in the way I'd almost let myself believe after the near-kiss. I'd mistaken attentiveness for longing. Care for something deeper.
The realization didn't shatter me. But it hurt. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just...dull. Heavy. Settling right behind my ribs.
I'd thought — for a heartbeat — that maybe it had meant something to him. Like it meant something to me. That the closeness, the tension, the way he'd leaned in had come from the same place it had for me.
But now, sitting across from him, I understood.
Sam talked about the road. About Eileen. About a hunt lead that might pan out or might be nothing. I nodded at the right moments, murmured responses where they were expected, laughed once when it felt like I should.
Inside, I was holding myself together with sheer will. I wasn't myself.
Dean noticed.
I knew he did by the way he leaned back slightly, studying me from under his lashes, by the way his mouth tightened when I didn't react the way I normally would. I wasn't fidgeting. I wasn't joking. I wasn't asking questions.
He didn't say anything. Not with Sam there.
Instead, he pushed his food around a little, appetite clearly gone, and took a long drink from his beer.
At one point, Sam excused himself to grab napkins.
The second he turned his back, Dean's gaze snapped to me.
"You okay?", he asked quietly.
I didn't look up. "Yeah."
The lie slid out smoothly. Practiced.
He hesitated, clearly wanting to push — then Sam returned, and Dean leaned back again, the moment gone like it had never existed.
Dinner dragged on like that. Tense. Polite. Carefully contained.
By the time we were done, I gathered my trash, stood up, and forced another small smile.
"Thanks for the food", I said. "I think I'm just…tired. I'm gonna turn in early."
Sam nodded immediately. "Of course. Long day, hmm?"
Dean stood too — slowly — like he wasn't sure whether he should. "Night", he said, voice rougher than before.
"Night", I replied, already backing away.
I didn't look at him again as I left the kitchen.
But I felt his eyes on me the entire way out — burning, confused, and far too aware that something had shifted…whether he was ready to admit it or not.
---
Time passed without me really noticing it.
I was still sitting on my bed when the bunker settled into its usual nighttime quiet, dressed in the same clothes I'd worn to dinner. I sat right in the middle of the mattress, knees pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them like I could physically keep myself from unraveling.
My thoughts refused to slow down.
They circled relentlessly, picking at every decision I'd made, every word I'd ever said to him — especially the ones I couldn’t take back.
This was my fault.
I should never have told him. Not back then. Not in that motel room, when the walls had felt too thin and I'd felt too exposed, when I'd admitted something I'd never said out loud to anyone before. My virginity. I'd handed him my vulnerability like it was something he could hold safely — and worse, I'd let him.
Let him guide me. Let him teach me. Let him see parts of me I'd barely been brave enough to acknowledge myself.
And then, just hours ago, I'd done it again. I'd leaned into him. Trusted him. Let myself get close — too close. Intimate in a way that went far beyond curiosity or experimentation. Close enough that for a moment, I'd believed it meant something more.
Now it all felt distant. Almost unreal. Like something that belonged to another version of me — someone who hadn't been standing in a hallway listening to him deny me with the ease of someone who never thought there had been anything to deny in the first place.
Dean had never felt further away than he did now.
I stared down at my hands, fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt.
How was this supposed to go on?
Did people just…move past something like this? Did the disappointment fade eventually, or did it settle somewhere deep and quiet and become part of you?
What scared me most was that I didn't even know why it kinda hurt.
He hadn't promised me anything. Not emotionally. Not romantically. He'd been clear, in his own way. He'd offered me experiences — nothing more. And I'd agreed. I'd wanted it.
So why did it feel like I'd lost something?
I squeezed my arms tighter around my legs, resting my forehead against my knees, breathing slowly as the questions piled up with no answers in sight.
I don't know how long I sat there like that. Minutes. Maybe longer.
Long enough that I realized how strange grief could be. Nothing had ended. And yet it already felt like something had slipped through my fingers — until a soft knock sounded at my door.
I froze.
My heart skipped hard, instinctively knowing before my mind could catch up.
Another knock followed — gentle. Hesitant.
I swallowed, lifting my head slowly. For a brief moment, I considered pretending I hadn't heard it. Letting the silence answer for me.
Instead, I exhaled shakily.
"Yeah", I called out, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. "Come in."
The door opened. And there he was.
Dean stood in the doorway, one hand still resting against the doorframe like he wasn't entirely sure he was welcome — or like he was bracing himself for whatever he was about to find.
The room felt smaller instantly. Charged.
Dean didn't move at first.
He just stood there, watching me like he was weighing every word before letting it out. "Are you really okay?", he asked again quietly. "You were…off during dinner."
A short, almost disbelieving laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I lifted my head and looked at him — sharper than I'd meant to, edges cutting where they shouldn't have.
"What wouldn't be okay?", I asked. "Do I have a reason not to be?"
The words surprised even me.
I didn't know where the sudden heat in my chest came from, only that his question had struck something raw — like he'd pressed on a bruise I'd been pretending wasn't there.
Dean exhaled slowly, the sound audible in the small room. His gaze flicked past me, down the hallway, checking once — twice — to make sure Sam wasn't nearby.
Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The click echoed louder than it should have.
"You heard it", he said. Not accusing. Just tired. "Didn't you? What I said to Sam earlier."
I shrugged, staring down at my knees, suddenly very interested in the fabric of my leggings. "Heard what?"
But my voice was tight, and we both knew it.
Dean hesitated. "You know what."
I swallowed. "I don't. You're gonna have to be more specific." I looked up at him then, meeting his eyes despite myself. "You mean the part where I'm like your little sister? Or the part where you'd never touch me like that?"
The words tasted bitter the moment they left my mouth.
"Fuck", he winced, dragging a hand through his hair. He paced once, then crossed the room and sat down on the edge of my bed, close enough that I felt the mattress dip beneath his weight.
I shifted instinctively, trying to scoot away.
His hand closed gently around my wrist — not tight, not restraining. Just enough to stop me.
"Hey", he said softly. "Don't."
I froze.
He released my wrist almost immediately, like he didn't want to push his luck.
"What was I supposed to do?", he asked quietly. "You think I could tell Sam the truth?"
I didn't answer.
"He'd never let it go", Dean continued. "He'd ask questions. He'd worry. He'd look at me differently. At you differently."
His jaw tightened. "I wasn't about to put you in that position."
Something twisted in my chest.
"I know", I said finally. My voice was lower now. "I know that. I just—" I stopped, frustration creeping in. "It still hurt."
Dean blinked. "Why?"
The question wasn't defensive. It was genuine. Almost confused.
I looked away again, heat rising uncomfortably in my face. "I don't know", I admitted. "I just…thought—" I faltered, then forced myself to finish. "I thought it might've meant something to you."
He stared at me.
"I mean...maybe that's stupid. I didn't expect anything. I know you never promised me anything. I just—" My voice wavered despite my best effort. "I guess I thought that it wouldn't feel so…empty afterward."
Dean didn't interrupt.
I took a shaky breath. "Because it didn't just feel like an experience to me. And hearing you say it was nothing—" I shook my head. "I don't even know why it mattered so much, but it did."
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy.
Then, quieter, almost embarrassed, I added: "I mean…it's hard not to think that having your finger inside me would—" I stopped abruptly, cheeks burning. "God, I'm sorry. That sounded—"
I broke off, mortified now, wrapping my arms around myself like I could physically pull the words back in.
Dean didn't look away. Didn't laugh. Didn't flinch.
He just sat there, very still, like he was realizing that this conversation was a lot bigger, and a lot more fragile, than he'd ever intended it to be.
And whatever he said next…was going to matter.
His hand wrapped again around my wrist.
I hadn't even noticed until then — until I felt his thumb begin to move, slow and almost absentminded, tracing small circles against my skin like he was grounding himself as much as me.
The gesture made my breath hitch.
Dean watched my reaction closely before he spoke. When he did, his voice was low. Steady. No teasing. No deflection.
"It did mean something."
I looked up at him so fast it almost hurt.
"What?" The word slipped out before I could stop it, disbelief written all over my face. "Dean—"
"It did", he repeated quietly, not breaking eye contact. His thumb kept moving, warm and deliberate. "Just…not the way you think."
I stared at him, my mind scrambling to catch up.
He took a breath, his jaw tightening slightly — like saying this out loud wasn't easy. "It meant something that you let me that close. That you trusted me with something you'd never trusted anyone with before."
My throat went dry.
"You didn't just let me touch you", he continued. "You let me see you. You let me guide you. You let me be the one there with you when you didn't know what to expect."
His grip on my wrist tightened just a fraction — not possessive, not restraining. Present.
"That matters to me", he said. "A hell of a lot."
The room felt impossibly quiet.
I could barely breathe.
"And yeah", Dean added, his mouth curving into something softer — not a smile, but close. "It meant something that I got to be the one who made you feel those things. That I got to see the way you reacted, the way you trusted me enough to let go."
My heart was pounding now, loud enough that I was sure he could hear it.
He leaned in just a little, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him again — familiar and unsettling all at once.
"And for what it's worth...", he said, voice dropping, "...I'm not done. Not really."
My breath caught.
"I want to know what else is there", he went on, honest and unguarded. "What else you're capable of feeling. What else I can draw out of you...when you're ready. When it's right."
His thumb slowed, then stilled against my skin.
"But that doesn't mean I get to be careless with you. Or let Sam think something's going on that I'm not prepared to handle. That you shouldn't have to deal with."
I swallowed hard, too many emotions crashing together at once — relief, confusion, something dangerously close to hope.
"So when I said what I said...", Dean finished quietly, "...it wasn't because it didn't matter. It was because it does."
He gave me time to react.
And I had no idea what to do with it.
His words still lingered in the air— heavy, meaningful — while my mind tried to make sense of them. It meant something.
"You're not done", I repeated quietly, more to myself than to him.
Dean barely shook his head. "No."
His gaze stayed on mine. Open. Honest. But there was something careful in it too — like he was watching every move, making sure he didn't take a wrong step.
I slowly pulled my hand out of his. Not abruptly. Just…creating a little space between us again. Because I needed to think.
"So what does that mean now?", I asked eventually.
The question was simple. The answer obviously wasn't.
Dean leaned back slightly, elbows resting on his knees as he dragged both hands over his face. A quiet, thoughtful exhale followed.
"It means…", he started slowly, "...I don't want to rush anything."
I raised an eyebrow just a little. "That's coming from the guy who almost kissed me earlier?"
Something flickered across his face — almost a smile, but tired. "Almost", he corrected.
"That doesn't make it better."
"It does", he said calmly. "Trust me."
I crossed my arms, not defensive — just…unsure. "Then explain it."
Dean looked at me again, directly this time. "If I had kissed you…that wouldn't have been a 'maybe' anymore."
My heart stumbled over the words.
"That would've been something real", he continued. "Not just…learning, trying things, figuring out what you like." He hesitated for a second. "Something that stays."
I swallowed. "And you don't want that?"
"That's not what I said."
His voice was still calm — but firmer now.
"I just don't want you to get something like that for the wrong reasons", he said. "Or for me to give you something I'm not ready to handle."
I stared at him.
"You think I can't tell the difference?", I asked quietly.
"I think you're just starting to figure out what anything feels like."
That hit. Because it wasn't entirely wrong.
I dropped my gaze for a moment, exhaling slowly. "And you?"
"What about me?"
I looked back up. "Can you tell the difference?"
This time, Dean didn't answer right away.
His jaw tightened slightly, his gaze drifting off for a second before finding its way back to me.
"Not as well as I should", he admitted.
I let my arms fall.
"So we're both kind of…lost?", I murmured.
A quiet, genuine huff of amusement left him. "Sounds about right."
For a moment, there was nothing but that shared admission. No pressure. No expectations. Just…honesty.
I shifted a little closer without really thinking about it. Not close enough for things to tip again. Just enough that the distance didn't feel so loud anymore.
"Then maybe we just figure it out."
Dean watched me closely.
"Slowly", I added.
A brief pause. Then he nodded.
"Slowly", he echoed quietly.
His hand moved — hesitated — like he was leaving the choice to me, and then just rested on the mattress beside mine. Close enough that I could feel the warmth of it. Without touching me. And somehow…that made it more intense than anything before.
My gaze flickered down — just briefly — to his hand. Then back up to his eyes. And then down again.
There was something there. Something I couldn't quite name. Hesitation, maybe. Uncertainty. Like he wasn't as steady as he was trying to seem. Like this mattered to him, too.
I swallowed softly, realizing — almost at the same time — that he was watching me just as closely. Tracking every glance, every breath, every tiny shift like it meant something.
Like I meant something.
My chest tightened.
I closed my eyes for a second, drawing in a slow, steady breath — grounding myself before I could overthink it.
Then I opened them again. My focus dropped back to his hand.
And this time, I moved. Carefully. Slowly. Giving myself every chance to stop — but not taking it.
I placed my hand right beside his on the mattress, close enough that the outer edges of our little fingers brushed.
Just barely.
The contact was so small it should've meant nothing.
It didn't.
Something in me reacted instantly — a quiet, electric pull that spread through my chest before I could catch it, warm and sharp all at once.
I looked back up at him. Held his gaze.
And then, without breaking eye contact, I shifted my hand just enough for my little finger to hook around his.
A soft, tentative intertwining. Nothing more. It felt louder than anything we'd done before.
Dean's eyes dropped to our hands. For a second, he just looked at them — like he was trying to understand what had just happened.
Then his gaze lifted again. Not steady this time. It moved between my eyes…and my mouth.
Back and forth. Slow. Intent.
His breath deepened, and I saw the subtle flare of his nostrils as he inhaled, like he was trying to steady himself and failing just a little.
Then he shook his head — almost disbelieving — and let out a quiet, breathless laugh.
I frowned slightly. "What?"
He glanced down again, something uncertain tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Then, gently, he slipped his little finger free from mine...
...only to turn his hand and wrap it fully around mine instead. Warm. Solid. Completely surrounding it.
Dean huffed out another quiet breath, his thumb brushing lightly over the back of my hand as he looked at me again — something almost helpless in his expression now.
"You have no idea...", he muttered, a faint, crooked smile pulling at his lips, "...what you're doing to me."
His gaze lingered on mine, softer now — but still edged with something deeper.
"Being this…innocent."
At his words, my gaze dropped. Just for a second.
Like I suddenly needed something else to look at. Something steadier than the way he was looking at me.
His thumb was still moving over the back of my hand. Slow. Absentminded. Like he didn't even realize he was doing it anymore.
I exhaled quietly, trying to reset whatever was happening inside me.
When I looked back up, Dean had shifted slightly closer. Not enough to make it obvious. But enough that the space between us had changed.
Our legs brushed now where they rested on the mattress. Barely there, but impossible to ignore once I noticed it.
My eyes stayed on his for a moment too long. And then even longer.
I got stuck there. Like there was nowhere else I was supposed to be looking.
Dean spoke again, quieter this time, almost like he was thinking out loud.
"Especially after I've already seen a lot more of you and know you can be anything but shy when you want to be."
Heat rushed to my face before I could stop it. I felt it immediately. And I hated how fast he noticed.
His expression changed the second it happened. Not surprised. More like…satisfied in a way he tried to hide.
His free hand came up before I could even think about it, settling against my cheek. Warm palm. Gentle pressure. His thumb brushed slowly over my cheekbone once. Then again. Like he was memorizing the reaction he just caused.
"There it is", he murmured, almost amused. "That blush."
I looked at him like I wanted to protest, but nothing came out. Because my thoughts were suddenly too loud. Too scattered.
He was looking at me like that on purpose. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
And worse...like he liked it.
His eyes dropped again to my mouth. Slow. Unhiding anything he might've been trying to pretend earlier.
My lips parted slightly without permission, and I caught myself licking over my lower lip just to buy a second of control back.
It didn't help.
If anything, it made his stare sharpen.
My throat suddenly felt uncomfortably dry.
His hand stayed on my cheek, steadying me in place more than holding me there.
The rest of him followed. Slow, inevitable. Until there was barely any space left between us at all.
I could feel his breath now. Warm. Unsteady in a way I hadn't noticed before.
Our noses brushed lightly — just once. Testing the distance that was no longer really there.
Dean paused there, close enough that I could feel every word before he even said it.
"If this is too fast...", he murmured, "...tell me."
I didn't move. Didn't step away. Didn't create space.
I just shook my head once. Small. Certain.
His eyes flicked up to mine again, searching for anything that might change my answer.
Finding none.
His head tilted slightly.
And then he closed the distance.
The kiss wasn't rushed. It wasn't uncertain anymore either. Just real. And impossibly close.
My eyes slipped shut almost on their own. Not like a conscious choice. More like my body had already decided before my mind could catch up.
The next second, everything narrowed down to this.
To the warmth of his hand against my cheek. The softness of his mouth against mine. The quiet, almost disbelieving realization that this was actually happening.
For half a heartbeat, I barely moved. Just let myself feel it.
The kiss was careful in a way that somehow made it feel even more significant — like Dean was still giving me room to change my mind, even now.
Instead, I leaned into him. Just a little.
Enough for him to notice. Enough for something in him to shift.
The kiss deepened — not rushed, not messy. Less tentative. Like the hesitation had finally burned off somewhere between his whispered warning and me staying exactly where I was.
A soft breath escaped me against his mouth.
Dean reacted instantly.
The hand wrapped around mine loosened, slipping away only so he could move it higher. His palm slid to the back of my head, fingers threading carefully into my still slightly damp hair, catching lightly against the messy bun until he found a better hold.
The sensation sent a wave of warmth through me. Not because it was forceful — it wasn't. It was grounding. Intentional.
His fingertips settled against my scalp, holding me like something precious as he tilted my head just enough to kiss me deeper.
And then he drew me closer. Closer than before. Like the small distance between us had become unbearable.
My hand instinctively found his arm, then his shoulder, needing somewhere to anchor myself while everything else felt like it was quietly slipping out of focus.
Nothing existed beyond this bed. This room. This moment.
His thumb brushed once through the loose strands near my temple while his mouth moved against mine with growing confidence, like he was learning me in real time.
Patient. Attentive. Dangerously good at making everything else disappear.
Eventually, we had to break apart. Not by choice. Just because breathing had suddenly become a practical issue.
We separated only slightly, foreheads nearly touching, breaths uneven in the small space between us.
Neither of us spoke right away.
Dean's eyes stayed on my face, like he was still processing the fact that this had actually happened.
Then his gaze dropped briefly to my mouth again. A faint, crooked smile pulled at one corner of his lips.
"Told you", he murmured, voice low and rough. "Been curious what you'd taste like."
The sentence hit me with a ridiculous amount of delayed embarrassment.
A small, breathy laugh slipped out before I could stop it.
"Wow", I muttered, still slightly dazed. "That was…smooth."
Dean let out a quiet laugh of his own. "Wasn't trying to be."
"Sure."
Something softer settled over his features at that. Affection. Amusement. A little disbelief.
Like he still couldn't quite believe we'd crossed this line either.
And before I could say anything else — before I could overthink, or breathe properly, or recover even a fraction of my composure — his hand in my hair tightened just slightly.
Not enough to hurt. Just enough to guide.
And then he kissed me again. Less hesitant this time. Like whatever restraint had been hanging on by a thread was finally giving out.
A startled sound escaped me as his other arm slid around my waist, and in one smooth movement, he pulled me forward.
Suddenly I was no longer sitting beside him.
I was straddling his lap, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him.
The shift stole what little remained of my ability to think.
I broke the kiss with a soft inhale, eyes fluttering open for barely a second, clearly startled by the sudden change in position. My fingers curling into his t-shirt as I clung to him for balance.
Dean looked almost unbearably pleased with himself. Lips brushing close to mine again. "Better."
He kissed me before I could come up with a response.
My thoughts felt like they were spinning out of control, unable to decide what to focus on more: On Dean's hands, settled firmly on my lower back and pulling me even closer to him, or on the way his tongue silently asked for entrance, brushing gently over my lower lip — testing how far he could go.
Or how far I would let him.
There was no hesitation in him now.
Only certainty. The kind that made it almost impossible to think clearly.
And I…I was still catching up.
The first real contact of our tongues felt unfamiliar for a split second. Not wrong — just new in a way my body wasn't fully prepared for.
And then it wasn't.
It melted into something warmer, something that drew me in before I could second-guess it.
Dean didn't rush. He adjusted instead. Small shifts — tilting his head slightly, changing the angle, tightening his hold at my back like he was guiding the moment without ever forcing it.
Every movement felt deliberate in the quietest way. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.
And worse: like he knew exactly what it did to me.
As if I were somewhere else entirely, I only vaguely registered not just the heat building in my lower abdomen, but also the small, wet pool forming in my panties. And all because of a kiss! I can hardly imagine what would happen if he touched me again.
My grip on his shirt tightened again without me noticing, grounding myself in something solid while everything else blurred at the edges.
There was a brief moment where he pulled back just enough for air to slip between us, but even then, he didn't really let go.
His forehead stayed close to mine, his breath warm and uneven in the small space between us.
And I could feel it. The shift in him too. Not just control or confidence. Something deeper.
Something that made this feel less like something happening to me — and more like something he was choosing with me.
Dean searched my eyes, and I felt myself slip into it without meaning to.
His gaze held that quiet kind of intensity that didn't feel loud, but still managed to fill the entire space between us. Green eyes that didn't just look at me, but seemed to take everything in at once — like they were constantly reflecting more than he ever said out loud.
For a second, I just stayed there, caught in it. Like there was more in him than he ever let show, and somehow I was seeing it anyway.
Then he exhaled slowly. A faint, almost disbelieving curve tugged at his mouth.
"You know…", he murmured, voice lower now, rougher at the edges, "...that affected me a lot more than I thought it would."
For a beat, my brain simply refused to process what he meant.
Dean must have noticed, because his hands pressed a little firmer against my lower back, drawing me in even closer. So close, that the clearly visible bulge in his jeans pressed right against my crotch through the thin fabric of my short leggings.
Heat rose to my cheeks the moment I realized what he meant. Did this really turn him on as much as it did me?
Then a small, breathy laugh slipped out of me — too light for how close he was, too teenage and unguarded to match the heat still hanging between us.
"Oh please", I said, shaking my head slightly. "You've definitely done this a thousand times. Don't act like it's some big deal."
The faint humour in his expression didn't disappear, but it softened into something more grounded. More serious.
He leaned in closer, closing the space like it belonged to him now too.
"No", he said simply. A pause. Then, quieter: "Not like this."
His hands settled more firmly at my sides again, steadying me in a way that made everything else feel a little less anchored. I felt the change in my breathing before I even had time to think about it.
"But I have to be honest with you", he murmured, his hands settling on my bare thighs before slowly starting to trace lazy lines up and down. "I'd love to taste so much more of you."
Goosebumps prickled across my entire body. My thoughts tried to catch up, tried to form something — anything — clever or defensive or safe. Nothing came. Just silence.
Dean noticed immediately. Of course he did.
His eyes stayed on me, searching, reading every flicker of hesitation like it mattered.
"Hey", he said more softly now. "Just tell me if anything's too much, okay?"
A beat. Then, with that familiar edge of dry humour slipping back in, but gentler this time: "Even if I already know I'm gonna have a hard time stopping."
I playfully slapped him on the shoulder, a quiet laugh slipping out as I tried to hide the insecurity beneath it.
He caught my hand before it could drop away. Didn't let go.
"Okay?", he asked again, quieter.
I swallowed. Then nodded. Once.
That was enough.
Dean closed his eyes, just briefly — like he needed that moment to steady himself too.
And when he opened them again, something had changed in his expression. A decision made without words.
Before I could fully register it, he shifted his grip and lifted me with an ease that stole the air from my lungs for a moment — not rough, not careless, but certain.
Then he gently laid me down on my back against the mattress.
And in that quiet, controlled movement, there was nothing accidental about it anymore.
My breath caught somewhere in my throat, thoughts spiraling right back to the same thing over and over again: him. Standing at the edge of the bed. The way he looked down at me like I was something rare. Something delicate. Like I was the most beautiful and precious thing he had ever laid eyes on.
As if Dean had somehow caught that exact thought flickering through my mind, the corner of his mouth lifted into a slow, satisfied smile.
"I can't believe you're actually letting me go this far."
Speaking no longer felt like a realistic option.
Especially not when he climbed onto the bed after me, leaning over my body with both hands braced beside my head, effectively caging me in while my legs remained caught between his.
His gaze wandered slowly across my face — lingering on my eyes, tracing over my flushed cheeks and parted lips before drifting lower. To my neck. Down the line of my body hidden beneath the oversized T-shirt. Over my hips. My bare legs.
And then back up to me again.
And I could have sworn I saw something flicker in his eyes in that moment — something I hadn't seen before. Something untamed in a way that made it harder to breathe properly.
But then Dean shifted.
He sank back onto his knees, creating just enough distance between us again that it almost felt intentional.
A faint, crooked smile tugged at his mouth.
"Still okay?", he asked, but there was a teasing edge under it now. Quiet. Confident.
Before I could properly answer, his hands moved again.
He pushed my shirt up just slightly — nothing rushed, nothing careless — and his fingertips slipped beneath the edge of my waistband.
The contact alone sent a sharp, unexpected shiver through me, his knuckles brushing lightly against the bare skin of my hipbone as he adjusted his grip.
It was small. Barely anything. And yet it was enough to make my breath catch anyway.
His gaze lifted to mine — like he was checking in without actually breaking the moment — before his focus returned to what he was doing, steady and unhurried.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he continued until there was nothing left between us except distance I was still trying to understand how to close.
Dean guided the fabric down, unhurried, deliberate in every movement. Over my hips, my bottom — which I instinctively lifted slightly in relief — my thighs, my legs...until they reached my feet and slipped completely off over my ankles.
When he let go, the fabric fell aside somewhere next to him, forgotten.
And the silence between us shifted again — heavier now, charged in a way that made it impossible to ignore.
I lay there beneath him in nothing but my shirt — hanging loosely in a way that made everything feel even more unreal — and my panties — doing just enough to cover me, but not enough to stop his gaze from lingering.
Not even for a heartbeat.
Like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
Dean dragged his bottom lip slowly between his teeth before letting it go again, like he was physically holding himself back from saying — or doing — something he really shouldn't.
His eyes stayed locked on mine the entire time.
Then he leaned forward just a fraction, close enough that the space between us started to feel intentional instead of accidental, his hands resting firmly on my bare thighs like he needed the contact to ground himself.
A quiet breath left him, almost a laugh, but not quite.
"You have no idea...", he murmured, voice low, almost amused at himself, "...how easy it would be for me to stop thinking right now."
His gaze flicked down for the briefest second before returning to my eyes. "And just…do exactly what my instincts are telling me to do."
The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was annoyed at himself for even admitting that much.
"But I'm not gonna rush this", he added, quieter now, more controlled again. "Not with you."
His thumb shifted slightly against my skin, slow, absentminded — like even that small movement was him trying to stay in check.
"And trust me...", he said, voice dropping just a little, "...that is taking way more effort than I'm willing to admit out loud."
I drew a slow breath in through my nose, trying to steady myself before I completely lost control over the way my thoughts were starting to scatter.
Especially when I felt the way his hands shifted again — closer to my covered center, more deliberate now, like he was testing exactly how far he could go without pushing too much.
My pulse betrayed me anyway.
And before I could think better of it, the words slipped out, lower, warmer than I intended.
"If you really wanted to...", I said, meeting his gaze again, "...you could just…rush."
Dean stopped for a moment. Not fully pulling away, just enough to make me notice the pause.
A quiet laugh left him, almost disbelieving, like I'd just said something far more dangerous than I realized.
His head tilted slightly.
"Oh yeah?", he murmured, teasing again. "That what you want?"
The way he looked at me made it feel less like a question and more like a challenge he already knew the answer to.
Then his hands moved again — sliding back over my skin with that same unhurried confidence, grounding, steady, impossible to ignore —
until he reached the waistband of my panties.
And I felt it immediately in the way my body reacted, my breathing turning uneven without permission.
"Because if that's really what you want...", he said quietly, voice dropping just enough to change the whole atmosphere again, "...then I'm not gonna keep you waiting around."
A beat.
"And I promise you I can be a lot less patient."
Without wasting another moment, Dean slid my panties off in one smooth motion.
A quiet shiver rolled through me as the cool air of the room brushed against my damp skin.
He tossed the delicate fabric onto my discarded leggings before leaning over me again — slowly, deliberately, like a predator savoring the chase.
With his hands planted beside my thighs, Dean lowered himself until he was level with my center, his gaze fixed there as his tongue darted out to wet his lips.
Almost on their own, my legs parted a little wider — wordlessly giving him better access to my most sensitive place.
Instinctively, I pushed myself up onto my forearms, far too unwilling to miss a single second of what was about to happen.
To keep myself quiet, I sank my teeth into my lower lip, watching as Dean moved closer and closer — only to stop just before touching me.
Instead, he lifted his gaze to meet mine.
A satisfied sound — almost a low growl — slipped from Dean's throat as he noticed just how ready I already was for him.
"And you're really sure about it?", he asked once more, though it felt almost unnecessary the way I was already laid out for him.
All I could manage was a firm, slightly breathless nod.
That was all he needed.
With a slow inhale, Dean closed the distance and pressed a kiss to my slick core — almost tentative at first, like he was holding back just enough not to overwhelm me.
Even so, the touch alone sent something sharp and immediate through me, my body tensing on instinct, my breath catching for a moment.
Nothing else mattered in that moment but him between my legs — his face so close, so intent…and the way his tongue finally followed, dragging a slow, deliberate path through my folds.
A soft sound left me before I could stop it — half surprise, half something far more unsteady.
Dean didn't rush. If anything, he seemed to slow down even more, as if he was carefully reading every reaction my body gave him, committing each one to memory.
Especially when his mouth found the my sensitive clit, already aching with need. His first touches were careful — testing, almost teasing — before he committed to a steadier, more deliberate rhythm...before he pressed it flat against it. And this was what made my thoughts stutter completely.
My fingers curled slightly against the sheets beneath me, my breath coming in uneven pieces now. I could feel the way my control kept slipping, little by little, under the steady, patient attention he gave me.
"Fuck", I breathed. My back fell against the mattress again, my eyes squeezing shut on instinct.
"Look at you", Dean murmured, his voice low and rough with satisfaction, like he was watching something he’d been right about all along. "You taste way better than I ever could've hoped for."
My breath hitched at his words alone.
I forced my eyes open again, just barely, and the sight of him between my legs made it worse — so much worse. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to me and had no intention of stopping.
"Dean…", I managed, but it came out thinner than I meant it to.
A quiet, amused hum was his only answer at first.
Then, softer — but far more dangerous in its calmness: "Yeah? What is it?"
He didn't move away. Didn't give me space to recover. Just stayed exactly where he was, like he had decided there was no reason to stop now.
Instead, he simply continued licking my wet core — slower at first, deliberate, almost testing, as if he was still learning exactly how far he could push me before I broke. From my entrance up to my clit and back again…over and over.
The careful pace shifted into something more certain, more relentless in its intention, until I couldn't think in anything but fragments anymore.
My hands gripped the sheets harder. My breath came in uneven, broken pieces. Every attempt at control I had left dissolved a little more under his attention.
And Dean — Dean didn't let up.
Not even for a second.
My thoughts tangled completely.
Because the truth was…I didn't know what I wanted more anymore — relief or more of him.
And Dean, of course, looked like he already knew.
"Dean…", I managed to whisper, though I wasn't even sure what I was asking for anymore.
He only hummed in response, the sound low and grounding, like he was answering something I hadn't fully said out loud yet.
And somehow, that alone made everything sharper.
My thoughts blurred at the edges, every sensation narrowing down to the space between us, to the way he stayed exactly there — unhurried, unrelenting in the most deliberate way.
Every time I thought I had adjusted to the sensation, he changed something. Slowed down. Paused. Barely shifted — just enough to make my control slip again.
I hated how easily he could do that to me.
And I hated even more how much I liked it.
My thoughts kept trying to form something coherent, something that would make this feel less overwhelming. Less like I was being slowly unraveled on purpose.
But there was nothing coherent about the way my body kept reacting to him. Nothing logical about the way my breath kept catching whenever he lingered just a little too long, just a little to intentionally.
A quiet sound left Dean again — something almost amused, like he was listening to my reactions the way someone listens to music they already know by heart.
"You're thinking too loud", he murmured against me, voice low and far too calm for what he was doing.
My stomach tightened instantly.
I am not thinking too loud, I wanted to argue.
Except...I absolutely was.
I could feel it in the way I kept trying to steady my breathing. In the way my fingers curled tighter and tighter into the sheets. In the way I kept failing to stay still, to suppress my increasingly loud moans — like my body had completely stopped taking orders from my brain.
And Dean...Dean just kept going at that maddening pace, like he had all the time in the world to break me down into something quieter, something simpler.
Something that only reacted.
Something that stopped pretending it was in control at all.
And he did it with effortless ease.
Especially when he lay flat between my legs, wrapping one arm around my raised thigh and easily reaching my clitoris with his index finger, stimulating it in slow circular motions while he continued to bring me closer to climax with his tongue.
The moans that escaped my lips would have been embarrassing in any other context. But right now, I couldn't help it — I couldn't control myself. I could only feel.
Feel what Dean was doing to me.
Feel the emotions he was stirring inside me.
Feel how he made the knot in my stomach tighten, tighter and tighter…
…until it suddenly, without warning, snapped.
It hit me all at once.
A sharp wave of sensation broke through everything else, scattering my thoughts completely, leaving nothing but raw, overwhelming feeling in its place.
My body tensed, then unraveled just as quickly, like I had been holding myself together on a thread that finally gave way.
A broken sound slipped from my lips before I could stop it.
Dean didn't stop — just stayed right there with me through it, steady and unrelenting, as if he was guiding me straight through the edge rather than letting me fall alone.
And when it finally crested, it didn't feel like control or thought or anything I could name anymore.
Just him. Everywhere. Too much. And not enough at the same time.
Until everything slowly, gently began to settle again — leaving me breathless, quiet, and completely undone.
Dean finally eased back, just enough to break the relentless closeness between us. For a moment, he simply looked at me — like he needed a second to take me in properly, to make sure I was still there with him.
Then he leaned down again. This time slower. Softer.
He pressed a lingering kiss to my thighs first, unhurried, grounding. Then another higher up, his touch uncharacteristically gentle as he moved upward along my body, as if the urgency from before had melted into something quieter, more deliberate.
Over my stomach, over the fabric of my shirt, up to my chest and then my throat — each kiss lighter than the last, until he finally reached my lips.
The kiss that followed was deeper, slower. I could taste myself, which felt both surreal and incredibly...hot.
And when he pulled back slightly, I could feel his breath mingling with mine, something unmistakably intimate in the way he stayed so close.
"You're so beautiful", he murmured, voice rough but steady.
Then he shifted, propping himself up on his elbows beside my head. One of his hands came up instinctively, brushing damp strands of hair out of my forehead, his touch unexpectedly soft after everything.
He stayed close — close enough that I could still feel him, his heat pressed against me. His undeniable erection, still confined in his jeans, pressed against my bare center as he lay between my legs.
I tensed slightly, starting to say something, but he cut me off before I could.
"Don't", he said quietly, not unkind, just certain. A small shake of his head.
"You can with that later", he said with a wink, looking at me — and I could feel the heat rush straight to my cheeks.
No pressure lovely but may I know if you are going to post a new part of lessons in desire soon?🙏🙏
YES! I promise I haven't abandoned "Lessons in desire" 😭 I'm currently working on the next part and, if all goes well, it should be posted by the end of this week❤️
I'm really sorry for the long wait. this year has been an actual emotional rollercoaster for me and I had to deal with a lot more than expected, which made writing a little harder for a while. But things are finally settling down again and I'm sooo happy to be back in my little writing bubble 🥹✨
THANK YOU for sticking around and still being excited about this story, it means so much 🫶
girl i just read ur lessons in desire fics and i am OBSESSED! when dean said he couldn’t wait to taste her my insides melted 😫
Ahhh, I'm only just seeing this message now 😭 But oh my god, thank you so much!!
This is such a dangerous thing to tell me because now I'm just sitting here giggling and kicking my feet over your reaction 😫😂 I'm so happy you're enjoying "Lessons in desire" this much. Dean really does have a talent for making everyone collectively lose their minds, apparently.
And a little update for you: I'm making really good progress on part three right now, sooo if life decides to behave for once and everything keeps running smoothly on my end, it should be up by the end of this week 🤭✨
Thank you for reading and for taking the time to message me about it — messages like this genuinely make my day 🩷
Consider this my official I'm back from the dead post — crawling out of the void like a Winchester after a hunt gone wrong…except this time, I'm choosing to stay. No more ghosting, no more disappearing acts. Dean would call it a ggetting my shit together” era — and honestly? He'd be right.
2026 hasn't exactly been gentle with me. It started with health issues, then my breakup, then work stress hitting differently when you're the one in charge…and somewhere along the way, I kind of lost myself. I never called it what it was, but looking back, it definitely felt like a quiet little spiral — a mini depression I didn't fully notice while I was in it.
And just when I started picking myself back up again…life said "round two" and I tore a ligament in my ankle two days ago. Because apparently we're doing full drama this season.
But here's the thing: I'm not letting this pull me back under.
If anything, I'm taking it as a sign to slow down, to breathe, and to come back to what I love most: writing, creating, escaping into my stories…
So yes: I'm back at my desk (okay, realistically: on my terrace, laptop on my knees, with actual sunshine for once because spring is finally showing up in germany☀️) and I'm pouring myself back into my work.
You should definitely stay tuned…
"Lessons of desire" is far from over — not even close. And "Hunters don't do holidays"? Yeah…we might be a little late to the party, but trust me, we're still showing up.
Thank you for staying. For being patient. For being here❤️
Summary: Woke up early, burned a pancake, and realized maybe the best birthdays are the quiet ones—just Jensen, me, and a little bit of morning magic.
Warnings: nothing — just a bit of birthday fluff
This is a work of fiction. Jensen Ackles does not belong to me, nor do any of the actions or words depicted in this story reflect real events, behaviors, or beliefs. Everything is purely imagined and created for entertainment purposes only.
Words: 1529
Note: English isn't my first language.
Hey loves♥️ Just a little something for Jensen's birthday while you wait for my other stories to continue (and while I try to get my chaos together). Life's been…messy, I'm taking time to sort things out after my breakup, so writing has been slow. Thank you for sticking around, for reading, for just being here. Sending soft vibes and pancakes to all of you 🫶
The house was still wrapped in that heavy, blue-gray silence that only existed before dawn. The world felt paused. Suspended. Like even time hadn't decided to move yet.
And then I remembered.
His birthday.
Forty-eight.
The thought made me smile into the pillow.
He was still asleep beside me, on his stomach, one arm stretched lazily across the mattress like he'd reached for me in the night and missed. His hair was a mess, softer when he slept, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look younger than he liked to admit.
There was something unfair about how peaceful he looked.
No cameras. No scripts. No expectations.
Just him.
I slipped out of bed carefully, trying not to wake him. The floor was cold beneath my feet, and I held my breath when the bedroom door clicked softly behind me.
I wanted this morning to feel…normal.
Not like Hollywood. Not like interviews or celebrations or loud rooms full of people who loved him loudly.
I wanted quiet.
The kitchen light felt too harsh, so I didn't turn it on. I moved in the dimness, guided by memory, pulling flour and sugar from the cabinet, cracking eggs into a bowl, whisking like I knew what I was doing.
I didn't.
The first pancake burned.
Of course it did.
I stared at the blackened circle in the pan and laughed under my breath, quickly scraping it into the trash before the smoke alarm decided to ruin everything.
"Great start", I muttered to myself.
The second one was better. And by the third, I found a rhythm. The scent of butter and coffee slowly replaced the cool morning air. I set the table simply — two plates, two mugs, a small candle I found in the drawer. I didn't light it yet.
It felt silly. Sweet. Intimate.
Forty-eight.
I wondered if he felt different. If birthdays hit harder the older you got. If he ever lay awake at night counting years the way other people counted regrets.
The bedroom door creaked.
I froze.
Slow footsteps padded down the hallway. And then—
"Why does it smell like you're either cooking or committing a crime?"
His voice was thick with sleep.
I turned.
He stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but gray sweatpants, hair completely unruly, eyes still half-closed. He leaned against the frame like he needed it to stay upright. He looked devastating. And entirely unaware of it.
"Good morning", I said softly.
He squinted at me like the morning light offended him. "What time is it?"
"Early."
He glanced toward the windows, then back at me. "That's suspicious."
I bit back a smile. "Go sit."
"Bossy."
But he obeyed.
He dragged a hand down his face, scratching at his jaw as he lowered himself into the chair. He looked around the table, at the coffee, the pancakes stacked slightly uneven, the candle still unlit.
Realization slowly replaced confusion.
"Oh", he said quietly.
I walked over and struck the match. The flame flickered to life, casting gold over his features.
"Happy birthday", I whispered.
For a second, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at me. Not amused. Not teasing. Just…soft.
"You didn't have to do this", he said.
"I wanted to."
He exhaled through his nose, something almost like a laugh but quieter. "You burned one, didn't you?"
"Maybe."
He smiled properly then, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"I love that about you", he said.
"What? My inability to cook?"
"No." He shook his head slowly. "That you try anyway."
The way he said it made something warm bloom in my chest.
He reached for my hand, tugging me closer until I stood between his knees. His hands rested at my hips, warm and steady.
"Forty-eight", I murmured, brushing my thumb along his cheek.
"Don't remind me."
"You're not old."
"I feel it when I get up too fast."
I laughed softly. "You're dramatic."
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "You woke up early for this."
"Yes."
"Why?"
The question wasn't teasing. It was genuine.
Because I wanted you to wake up loved.
Because I wanted the first thing you saw today to be someone who sees you.
Because you spend so much of your life giving pieces of yourself away.
But I didn't say any of that.
Instead, I shrugged lightly. "I like mornings."
He narrowed his eyes. "Liar."
I smiled.
He stood suddenly, and before I could react, his arms wrapped around me. He pulled me against him, chin resting on top of my head.
His heartbeat was slow. Steady.
"I don't need big things", he murmured into my hair. "Not anymore."
I felt his breath against my scalp. "This is perfect."
We stayed like that for a while.
The candle flickered. The coffee cooled. The world outside slowly brightened.
Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at me.
"You're staying in today", I said.
"Am I?"
"Yes."
He raised a brow. "You've decided?"
"I have."
He hummed thoughtfully. "And what if I had plans?"
"I'd cancel them."
He grinned. "You're ruthless."
"Only for important causes."
He leaned down and kissed my forehead, slow and unhurried.
"You're my favorite cause", he said.
I felt my face heat.
"Sit", I told him again, nudging him toward the chair. "Eat before it gets cold."
"Yes, ma'am."
He took a bite, chewing dramatically.
"Well?", I asked.
He swallowed, pretending to consider. "I've had worse."
I gasped. "Excuse me?"
He laughed, that full, warm laugh that filled the entire kitchen.
"They're good", he admitted. "Really good."
I sat across from him, watching as he ate, as he sipped his coffee, as the morning light slowly painted everything gold.
There was something sacred about it. No one else knew about this moment.
Not fans. Not friends. Not family.
Just us.
Halfway through his plate, he leaned back in his chair and studied me again.
"You know what the best part is?", he asked.
"What?"
"You're not performing."
I frowned slightly.
"Most people...", he continued gently, "...when it's my birthday, they make it…loud. Big. It turns into a thing."
He gestured vaguely. "But you just…made breakfast."
"It's just pancakes."
"It's not", he said softly.
His gaze didn't waver. "It's you getting up before the sun because you wanted my day to start quietly. It's you not posting anything yet. Not turning it into something."
He reached across the table, brushing his fingers over mine.
"You see me", he said.
The words settled somewhere deep.
"I've always seen you", I replied quietly.
Silence stretched between us again — comfortable, warm.
After breakfast, we left the dishes in the sink. He insisted. "Birthday privilege", he claimed.
We moved to the living room, the couch still cool from the night air. He pulled me down with him, one arm slung over my shoulders, my head resting against his chest.
The house was brighter now.
Outside, the world had fully woken up. But inside, it still felt like dawn.
He traced absent patterns against my arm, absentminded.
"Do you think forty-eight is supposed to feel different?", he asked suddenly.
"Does it?"
He considered. "Not really. Just…quieter."
"Quieter is good."
"Yeah", he agreed. "It is."
I tilted my head to look at him. "Are you happy?"
He didn't answer immediately. Then he looked down at me, and something softened again in his expression.
"I am", he said. Simple. Honest. No performance.
I felt my throat tighten slightly.
"Good", I whispered.
He brushed his thumb along my cheek.
"I don't need the noise anymore", he said. "I don't need to prove anything."
"You never did."
"Maybe not." He shrugged slightly. "But it's nice to feel like I don't have to now."
I pressed closer to him.
"You know...", I said after a moment, "...you're allowed to age."
He scoffed lightly. "Wow. Comforting."
"I mean it", I insisted. "You're allowed to change. To grow. To slow down."
He looked at me thoughtfully. "And you'll still be here?"
"Obviously."
"Even when I start complaining about my knees?"
"I already complain about my back", I reminded him.
He smiled. "Then I guess we'll be insufferable together."
We spent the rest of the morning like that.
Talking about nothing. About everything. About a trip we might take. About a movie we wanted to watch.
At some point, he fell quiet again, fingers still tracing slow circles against my skin.
"You know what I wished for?", he murmured.
"You're not supposed to tell me."
"I don't care."
I waited.
"I wished for more mornings like this."
The simplicity of it nearly undid me.
No fame. No milestones. No big declarations.
Just this.
"I can do mornings", I said softly.
He leaned down and kissed me — not hurried, not hungry. Just warm. Just certain.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
"Best birthday I've had in years", he whispered.
And I believed him.
Not because of the pancakes. Not because of the candle.
But because for once, the world hadn't taken him first.
Happy Birthday to the man who has been living in our screens — and in our hearts — for decades❤️
You gave us the golden-boy beginnings of Eric Brady, the sharp wit and hidden vulnerability of Alec McDowell, the unwavering loyalty and soul-crushing devotion of Dean Winchester, the sarcastic softness of Priestly, the horror and heartbreak of Tom Hanniger, the rage and redemption of Jason Todd, even the voice of Batman himself, the reckless charm of Soldier Boy, the steady strength of Beau Arlen, and the quiet depth that completely wrecked us as Mark Meachum.
You don't just act. You transform.
Every smirk feels personal. Every tear feels real. Every character becomes someone we carry with us long after the credits roll.
You raised an entire generation on classic rock, trauma bonding, and emotionally unavailable fictional men.
And we thank you for it.
Happy Birthday to the man who gave us heroes, anti-heroes, heartbreakers, and hunters.
I wanted to give you a quick update about my planned stories: They'll be on pause for a little while.
I broke up with my boyfriend yesterday. It was the right decision, but it still comes with a lot of emotions — and a lot of real-life stuff to sort out, especially concerning our shared apartment. So right now, my energy is going into untangling reality rather than fictional chaos.
As much as I adore diving into the worlds of Jensen Ackles' characters, I just don't have the emotional headspace for it at the moment. Writing them takes heart, focus, and a bit of sparkle — and currently I'm running on "barely functioning human" mode.
Dean would probably tell me to get my shit together, grab a beer, and keep fighting. And I will. Just…maybe not today.
This pause isn't permanent. I love these stories and this little corner of the internet more than you know. I'll come back as soon as things start feeling lighter again.
Thank you for your patience, your kindness, and for sticking around. 🤍
I'll update you as soon as it's going uphill again.
Part 4 of "Hunters don't do holidays (except when they do)"💫
Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader
Summary: Valentine's Day was never part of the plan — but when the hunt ends early, Dean makes a choice. A choice neither of us can keep avoiding lead to a night where almost finally turns into something more.
All stories in this series work on their own, but trust me: Reading them back to back just hits different🤞
💫Want more hunter holiday chaos? Head to my masterlist — all stories from this series (and a few more disasters) are waiting for you.
Happy Valentine's Day to my favorite spn family! 💌Whether you're celebrating, ignoring it, or pretending it's "just another day" — this one's for you. I firmly believe that if anyone says "hunters don't do holidays", Dean Winchester would prove them wrong…eventually. Hope this little Valentine's moment made your day a bit softer 🖤
I was bent over the massive library table, fingers tracing lines of text, when I heard it: the bunker door creaking open above. My head snapped up, ears straining — heavy, familiar footsteps echoed down the hall. Sam and Dean, just back from the hunt. Relief flooded me.
I shoved my notes aside and ran to meet them, but froze halfway. Their clothes were smeared with dirt and blood, hair mussed, boots scuffed grinning like idiots at the thrill of a job well done.
"Well?", I asked, trying not to laugh. "Hunt successful?"
Sam exhaled, shoulders relaxing. "Thank god", he said, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.
Dean, on the other hand, grinned like a devil. "So fast, you won't get rid of us, sweetheart", he said, and before I knew it, his lips pressed briefly to the top of my head. My stomach flipped, a familiar warmth spreading through me.
I felt Sam's gaze, but he didn't comment — he knew. He'd noticed our little…proximity lately.
"Come on", Dean murmured suddenly, stepping back a little, but keeping his hand lightly on my shoulder. "Get ready."
"Why?", I asked, raising an eyebrow.
His grin turned mischievous. "Because…we're going out."
I blinked at him. "Going out?"
"Valentine's Day", he said, tone matter-of-fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We can't spend it in the bunker...now that the hunt's done on time."
I gaped at him, heart doing somersaults. "A date?"
Dean shrugged, flashing that half-smile that made everything feel like a dare. "Call it whatever you want." And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me stunned.
I spun toward Sam, who was watching with that slight, knowing smile. "You heard him", he said quietly. "Get ready."
---
I stood in front of my closet, arms crossed, staring at the chaos I'd already created.
Three different outfits lay abandoned on my bed. A dress I'd worn once on a hunt-gone-wrong dinner. A flannel and jeans combo that suddenly felt…very wrong. Another dress I couldn't decide was too much or not enough.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair.
Dean hadn't told me anything. Not where we were going. Not how fancy — or not — this was supposed to be. Just "We're going out."
Which somehow made everything harder.
Before I could overthink myself into another outfit change, I made a decision: I'd ask him.
I left my room and walked down the familiar bunker hallway, stopping outside Dean's door. I hesitated for half a second — then knocked.
"Yeah?", came his voice from inside.
I pushed the door open...and immediately forgot how to breathe.
Dean stood a few feet in front of me, a towel wrapped low around his hips, hair still damp, water droplets trailing slowly down his chest. His skin was flushed from the shower, muscles relaxed in that way that made it painfully obvious he'd just washed away the hunt.
My brain stalled. Completely.
I took him in without meaning to — the way the towel clung to his hips, the faint sheen of water on his shoulders, the slow drop rolling down his stomach before disappearing beneath the fabric.
Oh, shit...
"Uh—", I started, then stopped, painfully aware of the heat creeping into my cheeks.
Dean noticed. Of course he did.
One brow lifted, his lips curving into that familiar, teasing smirk. "You gonna say something...", he drawled, "...or you just gonna stand there admiring the view?"
I blinked, forcing myself to look at his face instead of…everything else. "I...I came to ask what you're actually planning", I said, regaining just enough composure to sound normal. "Because my room looks like a clothing store exploded, and you didn't exactly give me details."
He chuckled, stepping closer — close enough that I could still smell his soap, clean and warm and very distracting. His hands came to rest lightly at my hips, grounding and yet entirely destabilizing all at once.
"Relax", he murmured. "No black-tie event. Promise."
My pulse kicked up anyway. "And?", I prompted.
He tilted his head slightly. "You remember that little diner outside Lebanon?"
I frowned for a second — then smiled. "The one with the cracked red booths and the jukebox that never plays the song you pick?"
"And the pie that tastes way better at two in the morning than it has any right to", he added.
"And the waitress who calls everyone 'hon' ", I said softly, the memory settling warm in my chest. "Yeah. I remember."
"That one", Dean said, nodding. "Thought we'd go there."
Something loosened inside me. The tension, the uncertainty. It wasn't fancy. It wasn't vague anymore. It was…him. Us.
"That's actually really nice", I said quietly.
His grip on my hips tightened just a fraction.
"So...", he continued, voice lower now, "...find something cute. Dress, jeans, whatever. Long as you come with me."
I met his eyes — really met them this time — and nodded. "Okay."
His smirk softened into something warmer. Something real. "Good."
Then, just as easily as he'd closed the distance, he stepped back. "Now go", he added, waving me off. "Before I finish getting dressed and you forget why you came here in the first place."
I laughed, shaking my head as I backed toward the door.
---
I finally settled on something simple — but intentional.
A soft, dark dress that fell just above my knees, fitted enough to feel feminine without trying too hard. Long sleeves, a gentle neckline, nothing flashy. Boots instead of heels — still me, still grounded — but my hair was loose, falling over my shoulders, and I'd taken just a little more time with my makeup than usual.
Not armor. Not camouflage. Just…me.
When I stepped into the bunker's entrance area, the place was quiet. Too quiet. I paused near the stairs, glancing around, listening for footsteps, voices — anything. Nothing yet.
I folded my hands loosely in front of me, nerves creeping in despite myself.
Then footsteps echoed from the kitchen. Sam appeared first, a mug in one hand and a sandwich in the other, mid-bite. He stopped short when he saw me.
"Oh", he said, swallowing quickly. "Wow. You look…really good."
Heat crept into my cheeks. "Thanks", I smiled, ducking my head a little.
He lingered there for a second longer than necessary, grinning into his coffee.
"What?", I asked, suspicious.
He lifted his shoulders. "Just saying. Guess tonight's the night, huh?"
I frowned. "The night for…what, exactly?"
He gave me that knowing look — the one that told me he absolutely knew more than he was saying. "Come on", he said lightly. "For finally saying...or figuring out...whatever it is you and Dean have been dancing around for weeks."
I opened my mouth, ready to protest...
...but footsteps sounded behind him.
Dean stepped into view. Clean. Changed. Dangerous handsome. Dark jeans, fitted just right. A black button-down, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, collar open just enough to make my brain short-circuit. His hair was still slightly damp, brushed back but stubbornly refusing to behave.
His eyes found mine instantly. And stayed there.
"Well", he said, voice softer than usual. "You look…beautiful."
My face burned.
"Thank you,", I managed, suddenly very aware of my hands, my posture, my heartbeat.
Sam cleared his throat loudly. "I'm gonna...uh...finish this somewhere else", he said, already backing away with a grin. "You kids have fun."
Dean shook his head, amused, then turned back to me. "You ready?"
I took a breath, nodded. "Yeah. I am."
His smile was small but genuine as he reached for the door. We walked out together, side by side, the bunker lights fading behind us.
And for the first time, it didn't feel like stepping into the unknown.
It felt like stepping toward something.
---
The bell above the diner door chimed softly as Dean held it open for me. Warm light spilled out onto the asphalt, yellow and inviting, and for a second I hesitated — not because I didn’t want to go in, but because suddenly this felt…real. Official. Different from everything we usually did.
Dean must have noticed, because his hand brushed lightly against my lower back, grounding, reassuring. "C'mon", he murmured. "It's just a diner."
But it wasn't. Not yet.
Inside, nothing had changed since the last time we were here — red vinyl booths, a long counter with spinning stools, the low hum of a jukebox somewhere in the background. The smell of coffee and fried food wrapped around me instantly, familiar and comforting.
We slid into a booth near the middle of the diner. That was the detail. The one with the cracked vinyl seat and the little flickering lamp mounted on the wall above it — the one Dean had jokingly called romantic lighting if you squint hard enough. Back then, I hadn't thought much of it.
Now, sitting across from him, knees almost brushing beneath the table, I absolutely did.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the table, suddenly acutely aware of my heartbeat, the way my breath felt just a little too shallow. I could feel him watching me — not hunting, not distracted — just...present.
"This is…kinda weird", Dean said finally, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
I let out a small, nervous laugh. "Yeah?"
"Yeah", he admitted. "I mean…don't get me wrong, I like it. Just…not used to sitting at a table like this with you. Just us. No research. No monsters. No Sam."
That earned him a smile from me. "It's a lot quieter."
"Terrifying", he deadpanned, then softened. "But…good."
The waitress came by, menus in hand, and the moment broke just enough for me to breathe again. We ordered easily, automatically — muscle memory from years of doing this together — and when she walked away, the space between us filled again.
Dean leaned back slightly, one arm draped along the seat behind him. His knee brushed mine under the table. Accident. Except neither of us moved away.
"I keep thinking about that night", I admitted quietly, before I could overthink it. "New Year's Eve."
His gaze sharpened, not intense — attentive.
"It was—" A low chuckle interrupted myself. I shook my head. How could I confess something I didn't even have the words for?
"You mean…the kiss?" Dean didn't laugh. He looked at me, serious, with a slight, soft smirk on his lips.
"Yeah", I answered, unable to look into his eyes — those beautiful green eyes. "It was…nice?" It sounded more like a question than a fact, but it felt kind of weird to sit here — across from him — and talk about our shared kiss like it was the most normal thing ever.
"It was", Dean said, leaning over the table, looking more concerned than before.
"And then your birthday", I continued. "And…after that hunt two weeks ago. When I almost kissed you…again." I swallowed. "I didn't plan it. I was just…relieved. Happy. And suddenly you were there, alive, and I didn't want to think anymore."
Dean's mouth curved into a faint smile. "Yeah. I remember", he said softly. "Even the part where you stopped. Unfortunately. Right before it got harder to walk away."
I looked at him — and for a moment, I got lost in his eyes. The diner faded, the noise dissolving into nothing but the steady pull between us. I took a slow breath, grounding myself, before I continued.
"I've been trying to figure out what this is", I confessed, motioning between us with a small, uncertain gesture. "If it's just…moments. Or if it's something we're both too scared to name."
His hand slid forward on the table, fingers brushing mine. Slow. Deliberate. "I don't think it's just moments", he said quietly. "I think it's us being idiots. Careful idiots."
That made me laugh softly. "You? Careful?"
He squeezed my fingers gently. "Only with things that matter."
The air between us shifted — heavier now, charged. Our eyes held, longer than necessary, the rest of the diner fading into background noise.
"I like you", he said, simple but honest. "Not in a 'one-night, bad-idea' way. In a 'this could change things' way."
My chest tightened. "That's the scary part."
"Yeah", he agreed. "But I'm tired of pretending I don't want this."
His thumb traced a slow circle over my knuckle, and I felt it everywhere. Then his gaze dropped to my mouth, a smirk tugging at his lips. "And I wouldn't mind feeling those pretty lips on mine more often."
I chuckled quietly and shook my head — but his words confessed exactly what I'd been thinking about ever since New Year's Eve.
When our food arrived, we barely noticed. We ate, talked, laughed — but the undercurrent never left. His knee stayed pressed against mine. My foot brushed his boot. Every look felt intentional.
By the time we stood to leave, my nerves had settled into something warmer. Steadier. Something like anticipation.
Dean held the door open again, eyes lingering on me just a second longer than before.
"You ready to head back?", he asked, voice low.
I nodded, heart fluttering. "Yeah."
And as we walked toward the Impala together, I had the sudden, unmistakable feeling that the night wasn't done with us yet.
---
The Impala's engine rumbled softly as Dean pulled onto the road, the diner's neon lights shrinking in the rearview mirror. The dashboard cast everything in that familiar green glow, shadows dancing over his hands on the steering wheel. Classic rock played low from the speakers. Something slow. Something that felt intentional.
I sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, heart still racing from everything that hadn't been said — and everything that almost had. My fingers twisted together in my lap, nerves buzzing under my skin.
Dean glanced over once. Twice. "You okay?", he asked, voice rougher than before.
I nodded, smiling softly. "Yeah. Just...thinking."
"Dangerous", he muttered, but there was a smile in it.
A few minutes passed in comfortable silence before he slowed the car, turning off onto a quiet stretch of road — trees lining both sides, nothing but darkness and the hum of the engine.
He parked. Turned the key. The engine died. The sudden quiet felt loud.
Dean exhaled slowly, resting his forearms on the steering wheel for a moment before turning toward me. "Hey."
I met his eyes.
"There's something I wanna do", he said. "But only if you're okay with it."
My heartbeat kicked up. "Okay."
He tilted his head. "Come here."
I didn't hesitate.
I leaned toward him, shifting in my seat, the movement sending a quiet rush through me. The closeness changed everything instantly — the warmth of him, the faint scent of leather and soap, the way his attention locked fully onto me now.
Dean lifted one hand from the wheel and brushed his fingers along my jaw — slow, real slow — his thumb resting just beneath my cheekbone. The touch alone made my breath hitch.
"Still okay?", he asked quietly, searching my face.
"Yes", I whispered, barely louder than my breath.
His gaze lingered — my eyes, my mouth — before he leaned in and pressed a soft, tentative kiss to my lips. Not rushed. Not claiming. Just enough to ask the question again without words.
Then he pulled back. Just slightly. He looked at me — waiting.
My hand came up without thinking, fingers sliding into the back of his neck, grounding myself in him. I closed the distance again, kissing him this time with certainty.
This changed everything.
Dean made a low sound in his throat and kissed me back, deeper now, the careful restraint slipping. His hand stayed firm at my jaw while the other fumbled briefly before clicking my seatbelt open, the quiet snap loud in the charged air.
"God", he murmured against my mouth, half-laughing, half-breathless.
He tried to pull me closer, but the front seat suddenly felt a lot smaller than it looked — elbows bumping, knees knocking, the steering wheel very much in the way. We both froze, then laughed, the tension breaking just enough to breathe.
"Wow", I said, grinning. "Very smooth."
"Hey", he shot back. "This car was not built for romance."
He glanced toward the backseat, then back at me, a mischievous spark lighting his eyes.
"We could behave like complete teenagers and take this to the back."
I raised a brow, amusement and warmth curling through me. "You suggesting we make out on the backseat of the Impala?"
Dean smirked. "If we're gonna do this, we should do it right."
I laughed softly, nodding. "Okay. Yeah. Let's be idiots."
Dean's grin was immediate — satisfied, unmistakably pleased. "Hoped you'd say that."
He shifted in his seat, already reaching for the door handle. "Hang on."
Before I could react, he was out of the car, the driver's door shutting with a solid thud. I watched him through the windshield as he walked around the front of the Impala, boots crunching softly against the gravel.
Then the passenger door opened.
He gave me and exaggerated little bow, one hand extended toward the back. "Milady."
I rolled my eyes, smiling despite myself — and still, I reached for his hand.
He pulled me toward him, a little more momentum than strictly necessary, and I barely had time to react before I bumped into his chest. My hands landed flat against him instinctively, fingers splaying over warm fabric as I looked up.
Dean just grinned, looking down on me.
For a split second, we were close — close enough that our noses brushed, a soft, accidental nudge that made my heartbeat speed up. His smile lingered.
"Careful, sweetheart", he winked, though there was no apology in his voice.
With his free hand, he pushed the passenger door shut behind me, the click loud in the squiet night. Then he guided me back another step — gentle — until he could reach the handle of the rear door and opened it.
"After you", he added, softer now.
I climbed onto the backseat, the leather creaking beneath me as I shifted, my pulse still racing from the closeness, from the way his hands had never really left me. I turned and settled back, watching him the entire time.
Dean followed immediately, one knee on the seat, one hand braced above me as he leaned in. With the other, he pulled the door closed behind him.
The space shrank. The air warmed.
And suddenly, there was nowhere else to be — and nowhere else I wanted to be either.
We stayed still for a moment, just looking at each other, faces so close that I could feel his warm breath. My heart raced, thumping loud enough I was sure he could hear it. Then, unexpectedly, I laughed — soft, breathy, a little embarrassed.
Dean's brow arched. "What's so funny?"
I shook my head, smiling. "I never thought I'd be...lying here on your backseat. With the one and only Dean Winchester."
His grin was amused, teasing. "Well...consider a little surprise. A...special occasion", he said, voice low, his green eyes locking into mine.
I took the time to study him — the sharp line of his cheekbones, the faint freckles along the bridge of his nose, the way his eyes seemed to catch every flicker of the moonlight. Every little detail of him that made my chest tighten.
And then, without warning, he leaned forward, pressing his lips on mine. Soft at first, just enough to let me know what he wanted. I responded without thinking, hands sliding to his soulders, the heat between us building.
The kiss deepened, teeth barely grazing, breaths mingling, bodies pressing just a little closer. His hands moved carefully, brushing against my sides, guiding me gently.
My fingers fumbled slightly at the hem of his jacket. He noticed, smiled, and helped me ease it off. Then, in one smooth motion, he tugged off his own shirt, revealing his warm, familiar torso.
I shivered. The scent of him and the heat of his skin filling my senses.
He leaned over again, lips finding mine, hands moving with deliberate, teasing touches. One of his hands wandered under the hem of my dress, trailing lightly across my bare tigh, just enough to make my breath hitch.
I pressed my hips up against him instinctively, letting him know I was there, letting us exist in this moment.
Every touch, every brush of skin, felt electric — the kind of closeness that leaves your heart hammering and your mind dizzy with relief and desire.
Dean pressed closer, his chest against mine, and I rested my hands lightly on his bare arms, feeling his muscles underneath my fingertips.
The Impala was silent around us, but in the backseat, the world had narrowed to just Dean and me.
This wasn'z just Valentine's Day — this was so much more.
i am soooooo obsessed w lessons in desire u don’t even know. like i am just eating this shit up and constantly rereading as i wait for more. 100/10.
Oh my GOD this just absolutely wrecked me in the best way possible 😭🖤 Knowing you're rereading "Lessons in Desire" while waiting for more?? I'm overwhelmed — truly. I never in a million years expected this series to hit the way it has, and reading this honestly means everything to me. Thank you for loving this story the way I do.
And good news (because I cannot shut up about it): part three is already in the works, and this series is planned to be five parts total. I honestly cannot wait to see where this journey takes us — the tension, the longing, the mess between Dean and the reader is doing things to me already and I'm just along for the ride at this point.
You can find all currently published parts on my masterlist, and every upcoming chapter will be added there as soon as it goes live 🖤
Thank you for being here, for feeling this with me, and for making the waiting worth it. more is coming. I promise.
Hi there! Stumbled upon your stories & absolutely fell in love ❤️ Saw your requests were open and I just couldn't resist. My request is based on a Destiel fanfic; https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687014 Hunting for an incubus, female!reader gets dosed up & Dean helps her out or even a lust spell from a meddling witch, anything that pushes the two together with cardiophila please 🙏
A heart too loud
Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader
Summary: I didn't know when it started — only that something followed me out of that building. The closer Dean stayed, the harder it became to think. The farther he moved away, the worse it got. We were hunting something that fed on closeness. I just didn't know yet that it had already found me.
Hi hi 🖤 @fantasylover4evr— I'm not even going to pretend this didn't take me forever to write. And I'm honestly still not 100% sure this is exactly what you had in mind…but I hope you'll enjoy this little Deanventure anyway (because yes, that pun was absolutely intentional). Thank you so much for trusting me with this idea and for your patience — feel free to scream in the comments. I'll be right there with you 🥲💚
I didn't know when it had started. Only that my heart had suddenly become too loud, and that Dean's presence drowned out everything else. Something in me reacted before my mind could catch up.
We had only been in town for a few hours. One of those forgotten places, where motels smelled like stale smoke and even the neon lights looked tired.
At first, the hunt had felt harmless to me. Too harmless, as it would turn out.
Dean had been reading the case file in the Impala while I stared out the window, watching the houses grow closer together. Small town. Hardly any traffic. Too much darkness between the streetlights. Two missing persons. No bodies. No clear signs of violence.
"Sounds like a low-level demon", I'd said. "Or something that feeds on fear."
But Dean had felt it immediately — that subtle pull in the air that told him something was wrong. I'd laughed and told him to relax.
Now, I wished I had listened.
The trail led us to an old apartment block at the edge of town. Abandoned, officially condemned — unofficially the perfect place for trouble. The air inside was stale and heavy, like it hadn't moved in years. I remembered stopping for a moment before stepping inside.
"Do you smell that?", I asked.
Dean sniffed, frowning slightly. "Could be dust. Or mold. Nothing unusual. Yet."
I nodded and pushed the feeling aside. Including the fact that he hadn't sounded quite as convinced as he wanted to. Looking back, that was my first mistake.
Inside, it was dark. Our flashlights cut narrow beams through the space, shadows shifting along the walls. Every step echoed too loudly. I felt the familiar prickle along my neck — the usual hunt response. Adrenaline. Awareness.
And something else.
It crept in quietly. No impact, no sudden pain. I couldn't quite name it. Just the sensation of my chest tightening, my breathing growing shallow. My heart picking up speed whenever Dean came closer. I blamed the tension, the narrow hallway. We'd worked together for years. Proximity wasn't new.
Or so I thought.
"Hey." Dean’s voice. Close. Too close.
Dizziness hit me instantly.
I looked up, and for a moment everything felt unreal. The sounds from the second floor — a soft, dragging breath, as if someone knew exactly that we were there — were muted, like cotton stuffed into my ears.
I registered Dean before I truly saw him — his warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his breathing. My heart stumbled.
Dean noticed none of it. Not yet.
He raised his hand. A signal to stop. I froze, feeling his hand briefly at my back, holding me in place. The touch was fleeting — and still it pulled through me like a thread of heat.
I frowned. That was new.
We moved on. Door open. Empty room. Dust on the floor, a broken chair, an old mattress. Nothing out of place.
And yet, everything felt wrong.
It became more obvious when heat spread through me. Not sweat-inducing, but deep, under my skin. My breathing turned shallow. I loosened my jacket without really knowing why.
"You okay?", he asked.
I wanted to nod. I really did. But my body had other ideas. Instead, I pressed a hand to my chest, as if I could quiet my heartbeat that way.
"I…don't know", I managed. "I'm hot."
Dean frowned again. His gaze swept over my face, lingered on my eyes, as if searching for something I hadn't found myself yet. Then he placed a hand on my elbow — steadying, harmless.
And it nearly took my legs out from under me.
Still, Dean stayed professional. He said nothing, only nodded. The hunt had to continue. We had a job to do.
We split up briefly to check the remaining rooms. As soon as I was alone, the feeling weakened. My heartbeat slowed. My thoughts cleared. I thought less, acted more.
And none of it made sense.
"Get it together", I whispered to myself.
A sound behind me. I spun around, gun raised — nothing. Just my own breathing, too loud in the silence.
When we met again, Dean stood closer than before. On purpose or not, I didn't know. I felt him before I touched him.
And suddenly, he was all I could register. His voice. His breathing. The way he instinctively placed himself between me and anything dangerous.
Too much. Everything was too much.
"We're pulling back", he said quietly. "I don't like this."
I wanted to argue. Truly. Finish the job like any other. But in that moment, blood rushed in my ears, and all I felt was the pull toward him — as if he were the only solid point in a spinning room.
Outside, it hit me all at once.
The cold air should have helped. It didn't. My heart raced, my head felt light, my body heavy. I stopped, gripping the stair railing.
"Hey." Dean was there instantly, steadying me — making everything worse. "Okay, that's enough."
He guided me forward. His hand on my arm was firm, secure. My body relaxed immediately, my eyes fixed on his face — and that scared me.
"Dean", I whispered. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
He didn't answer right away. His gaze traced my posture, my breathing, the way I struggled to stay upright. Then he grew serious. Quiet. Focused.
"I have a theory."
---
The drive to the motel was silent. Dean barely spoke, both hands tight on the steering wheel while I tried to breathe evenly. Streetlights streaked past us, and with every mile it became clearer that whatever this was — it wasn't fading. It was waiting.
In the motel room, he sat me down on the bed. I remembered the creak of the mattress, the flickering light overhead. I focused on breathing, while my heart felt like it was trying to break free of my ribs.
"Stay here", he said. Not a suggestion. An order.
I nodded. I didn't have the strength to argue anyway.
Dean dropped his bag, opened the laptop on the small table by the window, and started typing immediately. The sound of the keys filled the room. I leaned back, pulled my knees up, and watched him.
He paced. Read. Clicked. Muttered under his breath.
"Damn it…"
A few seconds later: "No. No, that can't be right."
I swallowed. My heart sped up every time his voice rose — not from fear. From attention. From him.
"Dean?", I asked softly.
"Give me a second." He dragged a hand through his hair, dropped into the chair, and stared at the screen. His shoulders were tense, jaw set. Then he slammed his hand against the table.
"That can't be happening."
I sat up. "What did you find?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he looked at me — and in his eyes was something I rarely saw: uncertainty. Not about the hunt.
About me.
"Be honest", he said slowly. "Since when have you been feeling…off?"
I hesitated, searching for words that made sense. "Since the building, I think. First it was just heat. Then—" I trailed off, pressing a hand to my chest again. "Then you were suddenly all I could focus on."
His expression darkened. He stood, took a few steps toward me — then stopped, as if forcing himself to keep distance.
But when he saw the fear in my eyes, he exhaled and knelt in front of me. Eye level.
That alone stole my breath.
"Listen to me", he said quietly. "You're not sick. This feels…wrong."
I swallowed. "Wrong how…?"
He hesitated. Just a moment — but I saw it. The worry. The realization.
"Like an incubus."
The word settled heavily in the room. I knew what it meant — in theory. A demon feeding on desire. On closeness. On emotions too intense to be coincidence.
"But I didn't see anything", I whispered. "No visions. No attack."
"They don't always work that way", he replied. "Some of them are careful. They don't force. They amplify."
"Amplify what?", I asked, even though I feared the answer.
He met my gaze. Direct. Honest. "Feelings. Proximity. Trust. Anything that was already there."
Damn it", he muttered. "It all fits. The missing people, no trauma, no signs. They leave their victims once they've taken what they need."
I clenched the bedspread. "Then why me?"
He shook his head immediately. "No. Not you." His voice firmed. "What's being done to you."
Still, I couldn't ignore what was happening inside me. Every breath pulled me closer. Every thought circled him — his voice, his hands, the way he looked at me like I was something fragile he meant to protect.
I noticed the heartbeat first. Not mine — his. Steady. Constant. An anchor in a body that no longer felt like my own.
"Stay with me", I said before I could stop myself.
"I'm not going anywhere", he answered instantly.
He sat beside me, deliberately leaving space. I knew he was doing it on purpose — giving me control. And still, his presence felt magnetic.
The incubus' influence lingered. Not aggressive. More like pressure, warping my perception. Dean’s shoulder looked more comfortable than it had any right to. His voice sounded deeper, calmer. I caught myself leaning toward him.
"Tell me what you're feeling", he asked.
I closed my eyes. "My heart won't slow down. And…it feels like I need to be closer to you to think straight."
A quiet curse left him. Not angry. Worried.
"That's the incubus", he murmured. "It's amplifying what's already there."
I opened my eyes and looked at him. "And what exactly is already there, Dean?"
He held my gaze. Too long. Then he inhaled slowly. "We'll talk about that later."
He draped a blanket over my shoulders. A simple gesture — and my body relaxed immediately. I leaned toward him before I could stop myself. My breathing evened out the moment I did. His heartbeat was there again. Loud. Comforting.
Dean noticed. I saw his hand curl into a fist — not desire, but restraint.
"This isn't your fault", he said quietly.
I let out a short, breathless laugh. "Feels like it is."
He shook his head. "No. Your body's being manipulated. That's it."
Still, he lifted his hand, hesitated — then gently wrapped it around my wrist. His thumb rested over my pulse.
"And because your heart trusts me", he added more softly.
I looked up at him. Our eyes locked. For a moment, I forgot the incubus. The hunt. Everything.
"You're safe", he said quietly. "As long as I'm here."
Eventually, the dizziness eased. Not completely — but enough to think again. The incubus was still out there somewhere in town. But right then, it felt far away.
I didn't know how long we sat like that. Only that I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so calm. So held by someone's presence alone.
"Stay with me", I whispered again.
His thumb traced slow, steady circles. Grounding. "I'm here."
Summary: Being a virgin in your mid-twenties didn't mean you didn't have questions. Letting Dean Winchester answer them — patiently, confidently, and with his hands — was a whole new level of education. Turns out, some lessons are best learned through experience.
Warnings: Virgin reader (all characters are 18+), mention of age gap (early 20's/late 40's), teasing, fingering, light praise kink, Dean Winchester being helpful in his own way
This fic contains the use of pet names (e.g. baby, sweetheart,...)
Words: 7371 (oops)
Note: English isn't my first language.
💫Check out my masterlist here!
So, what began as a request somehow demanded a sequel. Turns out, Dean Winchester doesn't do half-measures — and neither does this story. You've been warned. It’s hands-on. Literally 🥵🔥
A few days had passed since Dean and I had our little…sex toy affair.
Time blurred easily after that — the way it always did when he was involved. But what I remembered clearly, though, was how abruptly it had ended.
Dean's phone had rung — loud and insistent — Sam's annoyed voice echoing faintly from the other end of the line. "We're not done", Dean had promised me, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he slipped out of the motel room, leaving me behind with my thoughts far too loud to ignore.
And oh, they had been loud.
What had I done? How could I have let that happen? Had I ruined something between us? Had we gone too far? Would things be awkward now? Different? Worse?
I worried the way I always did — deeply, excessively — like over-soaking French toast until it was barely recognizable as food.
All of it, it turned out, had been unnecessary.
The Winchesters picked me up late that evening after finishing their witness interviews, and we ended up in a nearby diner, ordering our way through half the menu like nothing had happened at all.
And Dean was…well, Dean.
Relaxed. Normal. Easy. No strange distance. No awkward silences.
But also no lingering touches, no meaningful looks — no hint that he'd had a sex toy in his hand between my thighs only a couple of hours earlier.
It was exactly like always. And for the moment, that was enough to calm me.
The hunt wrapped up not long after. The ghost was dealt with; salt and iron did their job. And soon enough we were back in the bunker — back to familiar hallways, flickering lights, and the quiet hum of something ancient and alive beneath our feet.
Everything felt the same.
Almost.
What still felt unreal was the fact that it had been my first real sexual experience with a man. That I had crossed that invisible line I'd guarded for so long — not with some faceless stranger, not out of pressure or impatience — but with Dean Winchester.
Sometimes the thought hit me out of nowhere, leaving me breathless all over again. Dean. Confident, experienced. The man who'd taught me how to hunt, how to survive — and somehow, without meaning to, had become the first to touch me like that.
I still didn't quite know how to wrap my head around it.
Then I started noticing things the day after. Or maybe I imagined them — I told myself I did.
Dean's gaze lingering a second too long when he thought I wasn't looking. His attention sharpening whenever I entered a room. Almost-smiles flickering across his face and vanished just as quickly.
Wishful thinking, I decided. Nothing more.
We interacted like we always had — banter, shared meals, late-night research sessions — but beneath it all, something felt…charged. Subtle. Quiet. Like the air before a storm that hadn't decided whether it wanted to break yet.
One evening, I wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the promise of food and the comfort of routine.
Dean stood at the counter, leaning against it casually, one boot hooked around the leg of a stool. He held a sandwich in one hand, his phone in the other, scrolling lazily as he took an unapologetically large bite.
The sight stopped me short.
He looked unfairly good like this — relaxed, comfortable, completely unaware of the effect he had on me. His hair was slightly mussed, a few strands falling into his eyes. His sleeves were pushed up, exposing strong forearms marked by old scars and familiar strength. There was something effortlessly confident about him, something grounded.
Something dangerous.
"Hey", I said, suddenly very aware of my own presence.
Dean glanced up, mouth full, and smiled around his bite. "Hey yourself."
"Where's Sam?"
"Went to see Eileen", he replied easily, eyes already back on his phone. Then, with a crooked grin, he added: "Figured it was about time little Sammy got let out to play."
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
And then — traitorously — my mind supplied a memory I hadn't asked for.
Dean, back in the motel room, sitting in front of me. The sex toy in my hand… the moment when he had asked, voice low and rough: "Do you wanna play?"
The memory hit me just as he mentioned little Sammy needing to be let out to play. Somehow the words — innocent, teasing, mundane — dragged the past straight into the present. That question, that rasp of his voice, made my pulse skitter all over again.
I swallowed hard, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands my feet — myself — while Dean scrolled through whatever had amused him enough to make him huff out a quiet laugh.
My eyes drifted to his fingers without permission.
Long. Steady. Confident.
The same fingers that had held a vibrator like it was an extension of himself. The same fingers that had promised more.
And I realized I wanted that more. Not exactly the toys this time, not just the experimentation — but him. Just the warmth of his hands. The way he could make me feel…
That realization settled low and heavy, an ache I hadn't expected.
"You good?", Dean asked, glancing up again, sharper this time.
"Yeah", I said quickly. Then hesitated. "I was just…thinking."
He set his phone down, attention fully on me now. "Tell me."
I swallowed. "Do you remember…the thing in the motel room?"
His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "How could I forget?"
"You asked me what else I wanted to try", I continued quietly.
"I know, baby", he said gently. "I know exactly what I asked you."
"Well…it's been a few days", I said, my heart pounding. "And—"
"What do you want, doll?"
I fidgeted with the edge of my sleeve, my stomach twisting in knots. Asking him this — wanting him to touch me again — felt terrifying and thrilling all at once.
"I—I'm not sure exactly", I admitted, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Dean tilted his head, studying me. His gaze lingered on my face, then slid down over my body just long enough to send a jolt of anticipation through me before returning to my eyes. He didn't rush. He just…waited.
Without looking at him, I added: "Could you…touch me again?"
Dean's brow lifted slightly — not in judgment, just in quiet curiosity. "You sure?" His voice was soft, teasing, and somehow more intense for it.
I nodded, even though it didn't feel like enough. I wanted him to ask, to clarify, to give me permission to say yes. And then, almost like he could read the exact storm of nerves and desire inside me, he stepped in just a little closer.
"Want me to replace the toys with my fingers?" His tone was casual, deceptively calm — but the heat behind it was unmistakable.
I almost didn't know how to answer — because yes, I wanted him to. But did I really want to say that? Was it what I wanted, or was it just that I wanted him, and didn't care how?
"If…if you want to?", I managed, each word tentative, fragile.
Dean's eyes darkened, a slow smolder curling in their depths as he stepped closer. "Do you want me to?"
I closed my eyes for a brief second, letting the fear and heat crash together. "Y-yes", I breathed, as my pulse threatened to give me away.
He smiled then — slow, deliberate. "In ten minutes", he said. "My room. I gotta clear the chaos first before Sammy kills me or walks in on us."
And just like that, the air shifted.
---
Ten minutes and a non-stop brain meltdown later, I stood at Dean's bedroom door with trembling legs. The door wasn't fully closed — just slightly ajar — a thin sliver of light spilling into the hallway.
That meant Dean was already in his room.
He never left the lights on. Not even if he just went to the bathroom.
"Who knows how long these old bunker generators will even last?", he always said when someone teased him about it. "Those old guys back in the day couldn't possibly have guessed that three complete idiots like us would end up settling in here almost a hundred years later."
Still, I knocked. Lightly. Quietly.
Part of me hoped he wouldn't hear it — that I could turn around and retreat to my room, pretend none of this had ever happened.
"Come in."
His voice rumbled from inside the room. Low. Certain.
Of course he'd heard me. Damn near supernatural hearing...
I closed my eyes, took another deep breath in and out, and pushed the door open. It squeaked softly, the sound far too loud in my ears. My legs, however, refused to cooperate — rooted to the spot, unwilling to carry me any further.
From the doorway, I could finally see him.
Dean was sprawled on his bed, propped up against the headboard. His legs were crossed casually at the ankles, boots still on, jeans faded and familiar. His hands were laced behind his head, posture loose, relaxed — like he'd been waiting for exactly this on purpose.
A twitch at the corner of his mouth told me he'd noticed my hesitation.
"Standing there like that?", he chuckled. "Yeah, that's gonna make touching you pretty easy, sweetheart."
Heat flared under my skin.
His gaze moved over me without shame, slow and deliberate, and I felt every second of it like a physical thing. I squeezed my thighs instinctively, painfully aware of the warmth gathering there under his attention.
God — how did he manage to do this so effortlessly?
"You've changed", he observed, almost casually.
I glanced down at my body before I could stop myself. Five minutes earlier, I'd swapped my skin-tight jeans for thin, loose shorts. At the time, it had seemed like a good idea. Practical, even.
Now it just felt obvious.
"Yes, I thought...well… I—", I stumbled over the words, frustration bubbling up. I was a grown woman. I should've been able to explain myself better than this.
Dean's soft laugh cut me off. The sound alone sent a shiver through me.
"Come here", he said. His voice had shifted — not sharp, not harsh — just edged with something hungrier than before. "Or do I have to come and get you?"
Something in me gave in.
Before I could overthink it, my legs carried me forward, right up to the bed. I stopped beside him, my gaze dropping to where he lounged far too comfortably.
Dean grinned that familiar, satisfied smirk tugging at his mouth He shifted slightly, sliding his arms free and parting his legs just enough to make his intention clear.
He patted the mattress between them. "Come here, baby. Sit there."
My eyes flicked down to his hand, then back up at him. My pulse doing somersaults.
At his nod — confident, patient — I climbed onto the bed, movements tentative, a little clumsy, and knelt between his legs, facing him.
Dean chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Not like that", he murmured, voice low enough to prickle my skin. "Turn around."
I frowned, confused. Had I…done something wrong?
He sighed, but the crooked grin and the spark in his eyes betrayed him.
"Turn around and lean against me", he explained. "It'll be much more comfortable for you that way."
Slowly, understanding settled in.
So I turned awkwardly between his legs, sat down, stretched my own out in front of me, and then — with careful hesitation — leaned back.
It didn't last.
Dean's hands found my sides almost immediately, firm and sure, drawing me back until the space between us disappeared. I gasped, caught off guard by the sudden closeness.
"That's better", Dean murmured near my ear. His breath brushed my neck, warm and unhurried, sending a ripple of heat straight through my lower abdomen.
My eyes fixed on an imaginary spot on my bare knees. I couldn't bring myself to look at him — not with the press of him against my back, not with his hands anchoring me there.
For a moment, his hands stayed where they were — steady, warm, grounding — giving me time to adjust. To the position. To the closeness. To him.
I slowly got used to feeling him closer to my body than ever before, my muscles loosening without me telling them to.
"You okay?", he asked softly, attuned to the change in my breathing.
Just like in the motel room, when he had been so close, my speech center seemed to have completely shut down. So I just nodded, the motion small and silent.
His chest vibrated with a quiet laugh.
"Words, baby", he muttered. "I'm not going to start anything unless you tell me it's okay."
I drew a deep breath — and let it out sharply.
Carefully, I turned my head, catching his face close to mine. His eyes met mine instantly, focused and intent. I bit my lip, suddenly self-conscious, overwhelmed by how close he was, how easily he filled my senses.
"I'm fine, Dean."
I wasn't sure if I said it for him — or because my body needed to hear it.
He hummed softly behind me, like he didn't quite believe me — or maybe like he didn't need to. His hands were still resting at my hips, thumbs hooked lightly into the fabric of my shorts, grounding me there between his legs.
"Okay", he said quietly. "Then we're gonna take this slow."
One of his hands loosened its grip, drifting away from my hip. I felt the absence immediately — a strange, hollow thing — until his fingers reappeared, brushing down the outside of my thigh instead. Bare skin this time.
The touch was light. Almost careless. As if he were just mapping me, getting used to the shape and warmth of me beneath his palm.
I sucked in a quiet breath.
Dean noticed.
His thumb traced a lazy line along my thigh, back and forth, never venturing anywhere dangerous — just enough to make my muscles twitch beneath his touch. "Sensitive", he observed softly, amusement laced through his voice. "Good to know."
Heat crept up my neck, settling under my skin. I shifted without meaning to, my body reacting before my mind could catch up.
"Hey", he breathed, the hand at my other hip tightening just a fraction. "You don't have to do anything. Just let me."
Let me.
The words settled deep in my chest.
His free hand slid upward again, skimming over my side, over the thin fabric of my shirt. He didn't rush — his palm was warm, steady, moving slowly enough that I felt every inch of it. When his fingers reached my ribs, he paused, as if checking in without asking.
I nodded slightly, barely noticeable.
That was enough.
His hand continued its path, spreading wide over my stomach, right over the cotton of my shirt. The contact wasn't sexual — not yet — but it felt intimate in a way that made my pulse stutter. Protective. Familiar. Like he was reminding me I was safe there, pressed back against him.
"Still okay?", he murmured near my ear.
"Yes", I whispered, my voice betraying me by how breathless it sounded.
Dean's breath brushed my neck as he exhaled, slow and warm. "Good."
His fingers moved again, drifting up, skimming the curve of my waist before sliding higher — to my side, then my arm. He traced along my forearm with two fingers, following the goosebumps rising there like they were a roadmap only he could read.
I shivered.
"There you go", he grinned, almost approving. "That's you feeling it."
His hand wrapped gently around my wrist, not restraining — just holding — before his thumb began stroking slow circles into the sensitive skin there. It was such a small thing. Such an innocent place to touch.
And yet it made my head tilt back against his shoulder before I could stop myself.
Dean froze for half a second — not pulling away, just registering it. Then, carefully, he adjusted, letting me rest there. His chest rose behind me, solid and warm, his presence everywhere.
His other hand slid up to my shoulder, fingers kneading lightly into the tension he’d noticed earlier. I hadn't even realized how tight I was until his touch started to ease it out of me.
"You carry everything up here", he murmured, thumb brushing the base of my neck. "Gonna have to teach you how to let go."
A quiet, helpless sound slipped from my throat.
Dean's thumb paused.
"That okay?", he asked immediately, voice softer now, more focused.
"Yes", I said again, faster this time. "Please."
That did it.
He chuckled under his breath, low and rough, and his fingers slid into my hair at the nape of my neck, massaging gently. Not pulling. Not forcing. Just touching me like he had all the time in the world.
Like he wasn't trying to take anything — only to give.
And for the first time since I'd walked into his room, since I'd knocked on his door with shaking hands, my body stopped bracing for what might come next.
Instead, I leaned into him.
Dean didn't move his hand right away. His fingers were still threaded, holding me there like he was anchoring me to him. His thumb rested just below my hairline, brushing slow, absent circles into the sensitive skin there.
I felt it everywhere.
"There", he muttered, more breath than voice. "Yeah. That's it."
When his fingers flexed gently in my hair — not pulling, just enough pressure to make my breath hitch — my head tipped back a fraction on instinct.
Dean adjusted without comment. His thumb slid lower, tracing the curve where neck met shoulder, easing some of the tension he'd already noticed.
His other hand came up to my shoulder, palm broad and grounding, before drifting forward — slow, unhurried — along my collarbone.
The contrast made me shiver.
His fingers traced the line deliberately, following it from one side to the other, like he was learning exactly how much pressure I could take before my breathing. When it did, he paused.
"You with me?", he asked softly, lips near my ear.
"Yes", I whispered.
That was enough.
His hand slid inward, over the fabric of my shirt this time, resting flat against my upper chest. He didn't cup me — not yet. Just held me there, warm and steady, his fingertips grazing lightly with the rise and fall of my breathing.
"You're doing good", he praised me. "Just stay with me."
Every touch felt like a question he already knew the answer to.
And he didn't hurry to ask the next one.
Instead, his fingers spread slowly, until his palm settled fully over my breast — solid, unmistakable. He cupped me there through the fabric of my shirt, his hand fitting like it belonged, like he'd already known the shape.
My breath stuttered instantly, speeding up without permission.
Dean felt it — and so did I.
"Yeah", he nodded, voice low, roughened just enough to give him away. "That."
His fingers flexed then — not gentle this time, not testing — gripping me properly, his hand closing with intent. The pressure sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through me, and a soft, broken sound slipped from my throat before I could stop it.
Dean went still. Just for a second.
His eyes closed as he drew in a slow breath, chest rising firmly against my back. His forehead came to rest against the back of my head, the contact heavy and grounding, like he needed it as much as I did.
"Fuck", he breathed. Then, softer, steadier: "You sound like that again, I'm gonna lose my damn mind."
His other hand, which had been resting at my shoulder, began to move.
Slowly, he traced it down my upper arm, over the sleeve of my shirt, following the line of muscle beneath. When his fingers reached the edge of the fabric and slipped onto bare skin, I shivered hard — goosebumps erupting in their wake.
Dean's thumb brushed back and forth over the sensitive skin there, almost absentminded, while his other hand stayed firm around my breast, anchoring me.
I leaned back into him without thinking, eyes fluttering shut as my body gave in to the sensation.
"Hey", he murmured close to my ear. "You tell me if I'm pushing too far. Okay?"
Even as he said it, his hand slid to the hem of my shirt.
He lifted it just enough for his fingertips to slip underneath, brushing against bare skin at my waist. The touch was brief — teasing — before he let the fabric fall back into place.
My breath came out shaky.
Dean lifted the hem again, higher this time, his hand gliding under my shirt, over my side, along the curve of my ribs. The fabric bunched slowly beneath his fingers as he moved, inch by inch, unhurried, until his knuckles brushed the edge of my bra.
He paused there. Waiting. Feeling my breathing, the way my body had gone tight and warm against him.
"Talk to me", he murmured, forehead still resting against my head. "You feel how far this is going?"
"Yes", I whispered. "I do."
I felt his chest expand behind me as he exhaled, slow and heavy — like he'd been holding that breath for longer than just this moment.
"Kinda hoped you would." A quiet edge of satisfaction slipping into his voice.
But then his hand loosened around my breast, easing its grip before lifting away completely. The sudden absence made me frown instinctively — a small, frustrated sound catching in my throat — but it didn't last.
Not when I felt that same hand slide under my shirt instead, warm palm replacing fabric as it followed the exact same path his other hand had taken moments earlier. Over my side. Along my ribs. Slow. Really slow.
Both of his hands stopped there now, mirrored beneath the cotton — thumbs resting just below my chest, fingers spread like he was holding himself back on purpose.
"Is it okay if I take this off?", he asked softly, his hands already teasing the fabric of my shirt.
The question landed heavier than the touch.
I hesitated — just for a heartbeat. My teeth caught my lower lip, a nervous, embarrassed reflex I couldn't quite stop. My pulse thudded everywhere. In my ears. In my chest. Low in my belly.
Then I nodded.
Dean huffed out a quiet laugh, half amused, half resigned — his forehead still resting against the back of my head.
"Gonna need you to say it, sweetheart", he murmured. "You know that."
My face burned.
"…You can take it off", I said softly.
That did it.
Dean pressed his nose briefly into my hair, breathing me in — just once — like he needed to ground himself before moving. Then he pulled back, hands sliding out from under my shirt only to catch the hem completely.
The fabric lifted slowly, brushing over my ribs, my chest. I raised my arms without thinking, instinctively helping him, and the shirt slipped free over my head.
Cool air met warm skin.
My hair fell back over my shoulders, loose strands tickling where only thin bra straps remained. I shivered — from the contrast, from the exposure, from the way Dean had gone utterly still behind me.
He folded the shirt carefully and set it aside, like it mattered.
"Damn", he breathed, low and reverent, more breath than word.
Both of his hands returned then, gliding down my arms from shoulder to wrist — slow, steady passes that sent goosebumps racing in their wake. When his palms settled on my bare stomach, he pulled me closer again, somehow closing a distance that hadn't existed anymore.
His thumbs traced lazy circles around my navel, skin warm and unhurried, before drifting outward, following the curve of my ribs. Upward. Higher.
Until his hands reached my breasts again — this time separated only by lace and elastic — his palms broad, unmistakably there.
I sucked in a breath.
Dean felt it immediately.
"Easy", he said softly. "I've got you."
I tried to steady my breathing — in through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow. Controlled.
It didn't work.
Not when I felt Dean shift slightly behind me — not pulling away, just adjusting — and then the faint brush of his nose against my hair. He nudged a few strands aside, unhurried, until his breath warmed the line of my shoulder.
I held my breath without meaning to.
His nose traced along my skin, following the slope of my shoulder, lingering there for just a second before gliding upward — inhaling every inch of my skin — to the side of my neck. Higher still. Until he reached the spot just behind my ear.
My pulse jumped wildly.
I was suddenly certain he could feel it — the frantic beat of it — right there beneath his touch. As if my body was betraying me in a language only he could read.
Dean let out a quiet huff of breath. Then his hands moved again.
One stayed where it was — firm over my bra-covered breast — while the other slid up to my shoulder. His fingers hooked lightly beneath the strap there, pausing just long enough to make my stomach flip.
Slowly, he nudged it down.
The strap slipped off my shoulder, almost by itself. And before I could even register the loss, his hand was back on me — settling over my breast again, like he couldn't stand the distance for even a second.
Then he did the same on the other side — his hand leaving my chest only long enough to guide the second strap down, before returning, both of his palms certain through the fabric.
Then he began to move his hands — not squeezing, not demanding — just slow, deliberate pressure, massaging me through lace and elastic, learning the weight and softness of me as my body reacted without asking permission.
His thumbs brushed in unison over my hardening nipple, like it was meant to be. His fingertips pressed into the covered curves of my breasts, as if he had to convince himself that this was real.
A quiet sound slipped out of me. I couldn't stop it. I couldn't control my breathing anymore. It came quick and shallow, chest rising hard against his hands as sensation rippled through me, unfamiliar and overwhelming and so, so good.
I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back against his shoulder again, just to savor the feeling of his touch.
"Has anyone ever touched you like this before?"
I tried to answer. Tried to form words.
Nothing came.
So I shook my head instead — small, almost embarrassed.
Dean went very still for a moment.
Then he smiled against my shoulder, the sound of it in his voice unmistakable. "Well...", he murmured, as his hands continued their slow exploration, "...guess I get to be the lucky bastard."
And the way he touched me after that made it clear he intended to take his time proving it.
Dean shifted slightly behind me, leaning closer, his chin resting lightly on my shoulder. From this angle, he could watch his hands move, tracing every curve, exploring every subtle reaction my body offered.
"Watch what I do, baby", he murmured, voice low and commanding.
I swallowed, my pulse still wild, and obeyed instinctively. I glanced down at my body. My chest rose and fell rapidly as his hands worked over me, slow and confident.
If I weren't feeling it — my arousal pooling between my legs — I might think this was a dream. But it wasn't. It was real. Dean was real. His touch. His warm breath. His body behind me.
Then — without any hesitation — he nudged the cups of my bra down from both breasts, exposing the soft, bare skin beneath. His palms returned immediately, cupping, kneading, pressing with the same careful attention as before.
A sharp, shared intake of breath echoed between us.
Dean's lips twitched into a crooked, wicked grin against my shoulder. "God…that's the hottest thing I've seen in a long, long time."
I laughed, breathless, nearly choking on my own disbelief. "You're a liar."
He pressed closer, inch by inch, until the hard line of his body was fully against mine from behind. The heat, the closeness, the growing bulge in his jeans — they confirmed every word: he wasn't lying.
"Does that feel like I'm lying?", he murmured, rough and teasing, voice low against my skin.
I shook my head, whispering: "No…"
He let the question drop, letting the moment speak for itself.
And then — teasing, impossibly slow — his fingers closed around one nipple, thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling lightly.
A shiver ran straight down my spine, my back arching into him instinctively.
Dean's lips twitched against my shoulder, low and rough. "You're driving me insane, baby. Every damn inch of you."
The words, filthy and grounding all at once, made my stomach clench and my pulse hammer like a drum in my ears.
My mind, despite itself, began to wander — imagining how his fingers would feel somewhere else, somewhere lower, somewhere that had been aching for attention ever since we'd started.
I couldn't stop the small, automatic movement — pressing my thighs together in an almost unconscious attempt to restrain myself, though it only heightened the ache between my legs.
Dean's breath swept over my neck, his voice low and velvety: "Mmm…you like that, don't you? You like how I make you feel…" He leaned closer, adding in the same sultry tone: "Tell me…tell me where else I should make you feel good."
I froze briefly, knowing exactly what he was implying. That I'd never, ever, say it out loud. My lips parted, heart hammering, but no sound came.
Instead, I decided to show him.
Gingerly, almost hesitantly, my hand went to his, the one still resting over my breast without moving. I guided it, deliberately, across my body — over the curve of my chest, along my ribs, down across my stomach, and finally to the waistband of my shorts.
Dean let out a low, well-pleased hum behind me, chest vibrating against my back. "Is…that really what you want, sweetheart?"
I nodded hastily, craning my head just enough to catch a side glimpse of his face. His normally light green eyes were darker now, shaded with desire, and I knew without doubt that he was more than aware of the effect I was having on him.
"You just…lead me where you want me", he murmured, tone a seductive mix of invitation and challenge. "Don't hold back anymore."
I didn't need to think. I slid his hand down under the fabric of my shorts, letting it rest over the wetness beneath my underwear. My legs parted automatically, instinctively giving him better access, pressing into him just enough that he could feel exactly how ready I was.
A low growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating against my shoulder, before his fingers began to move, gliding slowly over the damp fabric, teasing and firm at the same time.
I bit my lip, shivering at the contact, breath catching in my throat, knowing I'd never be able to say what I wanted — but showing him in a way that left no doubt.
Dean's hand didn't rush, but the pressure, the warmth, the controlled glide of his fingers was enough to make my knees quiver. Every small movement, every subtle gasp or shiver from me seemed to pull him in deeper.
"Fuck", he murmured against my ear, voice rough and deep. "You've got me so damn worked up, baby."
And I couldn't stop myself from leaning back, pressing fully into him, letting him guide, let him feel, let him explore, while I surrendered to every inch of the sensation.
His fingers traced slow, deliberate paths over me through the thin barrier of my underwear, learning the shape of me the way he'd learned everything else about me — patiently, thoroughly. Each pass lingered a heartbeat longer than the last, the pressure building just enough that I could feel him more clearly every time.
A soft sigh slipped from me before I could stop it. Then another.
Heat bloomed low in my belly, spreading, pooling, leaving me achingly aware of every place where I needed him most. I shifted without thinking, breath stuttering, my body responding on instinct alone.
His touch changed — just slightly — the glide of his fingers more intentional now, more focused. My hips twitched at the sensation, a quiet, helpless sound breaking free.
Then his fingers changed again — the lightest, deliberate scratch, unexpected, right above my clitoris through the thin fabric of my underwear — and the reaction tore out of me, louder this time, unmistakable. My breath caught in my throat as my body arched back against him, sharp electricity flaring through me all at once.
"You like that, don't you?", he asked softly, his hot breath fanning over my bare shoulder.
I nodded fast and breathless, unable to form words, afraid my voice would splinter if I tried.
So he did it again.
And again.
And again.
Each time, my response came quicker, stronger, until I was trembling openly against him, my thighs pressing together and then parting again as my body finally gave up on pretending it had any control left.
A deep sound rolled from his chest — low, pleased, barely restrained — and the hand that had been holding my other breast steady finally moved, joining the first with unmistakable intent. Fabric shifted as he drew my panties aside with one hand. Warmth followed as the other touched me without any barrier at all.
Dean exhaled slowly, his chin pressing more firmly into my shoulder, like he needed the contact as much as I did.
"God", he murmured. "You feel incredible."
His voice dropped, intimate and certain. "I've got you. I'm right here."
My legs opened again, almost on their own. I barely registered the way my shorts pulled tight over my thighs, stretched a little more than usual because of the position — my awareness was already somewhere else entirely.
Dean's touch shifted, slow and deliberate. One hand stayed firm, gripping the fabric and keeping it out of the way, while the fingertip of his other index finger slid between my wet lips, exploratory rather than urgent. The contrast — restraint paired with unmistakable intent — sent my thoughts spiraling.
I had always known how it felt when I touched myself, how familiar that pleasure was, especially when my thoughts drifted to him. But this…this was different. Being touched by Dean, actually feeling him there, erased every comparison my mind tried to make. It wasn't just sensation anymore — it was presence. It was him.
My breath stuttered when his touch traveled higher, lingering just barely over my clit. The lightness of it was almost worse than pressure, my body reacting instantly, tightening as if bracing for something more.
I was already so close it startled me. The idea of him touching me with more intent, more certainty, felt almost overwhelming.
And then — as if he'd sensed the shift in my breathing, the tension coiling in my body — his touch deepened. Slower at first, broader, then more focused. Each movement built on the last, coaxing, unrelenting.
A sound slipped from me before I could stop it. My head tipped back again, instinctively seeking him, my hands scrambling for something solid — fingers digging into his thigh, my other hand curling around his wrist inside my shorts like an anchor.
Dean stayed right there, steady and sure, murmuring low encouragements meant only for me. "You're doing so good for me", he breathed. "My good girl."
The sensations gathered, tightening, coiling deep inside me until I could do nothing but cling, eyes squeezed shut, breath coming apart...
...and then everything inside me drew tight and spilled over all at once, leaving me trembling in his hold, coming apart with an intensity I couldn't begin to describe.
For a moment, the world felt unreal — like I was floating somewhere just above myself, everything softened around the edges. The aftershocks still hummed through me, my body slow to remember where it was.
Dean didn't rush me back.
He stayed exactly where he was — his finger above my clit — his presence a quiet constant behind me. The touch that remained was gentle now, unhurried — small, reassuring movements that told my body it was safe to take its time. With his other hand, he traced slow, absent-minded lines along my thigh, skin to skin, careful not to break the fragile calm by letting anything snap back into place.
"Take all the time you need", he murmured into my ear. "Let it settle."
I breathed, finally. Deep this time. In…and out. Gradually, the haze thinned.
When I opened my eyes, everything looked a little blurred at first, as if the room hadn't quite caught up with me yet. I blinked, swallowing, trying to make sense of the fact that this — all of this — had just happened.
Dean noticed immediately.
"You okay?", he asked softly, the question wrapped in warmth rather than worry. "Did it feel good?"
I nodded, still finding my footing, then managed a breathy, almost disbelieving: "Better than…better than ever."
His quiet laugh vibrated against my back, low and pleased. "Yeah?" There was a pause — just long enough to make my stomach flip again. "You wanna feel even better?"
I turned my head as much as I could, awkward and curious, trying to catch his eyes. "What do you mean?", I asked, the question coming out lighter than I felt.
Dean's smile turned slow and crooked — the kind that promised things without spelling them out. His focus shifted, making sure I felt every second of it, and my breath caught as his finger guided its way down through my wet lips once more, unhurried, until it came to rest at the entrance of my vagina.
I looked down, heart thudding, watching where his hand had disappeared, where his intention clearly was.
"Think you'd give me another one?", he purred.
A small, nervous laugh escaped me before I could stop it. "I…I can try?", I said, even to my own ears sounding like a question.
His grin widened.
"That's all I'm asking for."
Then he pressed forward — just the tip of his finger at first. Then more. And more.
My body reacted instinctively, tightening at the unfamiliar feeling. Dean felt it immediately and stopped, not pushing any further. His voice softened, steady and close against my ear. "Breathe. I won't do anything you don't want. I promise."
I focused on that — his words, his warmth, the way his presence grounded me. Slowly, I let myself relax. And with every millimeter his finger slid inside me, the tension eased, melting into something else entirely — anticipation that made my breathing turn shallow and quick, my body waking up to the sensation instead of resisting it.
I bit down on my lower lip, pulse racing — aware, achingly aware, of what might come next.
When his finger was fully inside me, the sensation made me pause. It felt strange — a quiet awareness I'd never experienced before. There was a brief tug, a fleeting tension, but it faded almost as quickly as it came, leaving behind something warm, undeniable.
It struck me how different his fingers felt from mine. Thicker, stronger, with just the right weight and length to fill and explore in a way my own fingers never could. There was a confidence in the way his hand moved that made the sensations sharper, more consuming. The pads of his fingers were broader, pressing against me in a way that left no question where he was or what he intended.
Dean inhaled sharply behind me. "Fuck", he murmured, low and rough. "You already feel so good around me." Then, softer, almost a whisper to himself: "I can only imagine how much more intense it'd be if my dick was inside you."
The words hit harder than the touch.
My thoughts spun — was he really saying what I'd dared to imagine? Wanting all of me, not just this moment, not just this finger?
I didn't get time to linger.
Dean moved again, slowly, deliberately — easing his finger back just enough to make me ache for its return before sinking it deeper again, letting me feel every second of it.
A breathy sound slipped from my lips. Then another. Each time, my reactions grew less controlled, more honest. Quiet sounds became soft moans, unguarded, impossible to stop.
Every subtle curl, every gentle stretch, reminded me that this was him — Dean — and no amount of self-exploration could ever replicate the depth of feeling in just the touch of his hand.
Restlessness pooled in me. I wanted more — I didn't even know what more would feel like, only that I needed it.
Dean chuckled behind me, a mix of amusement and sharp attention. "What is it you want?", he asked, clearly reveling in the way my body answered before words could form.
The chuckle faded when he noticed how I shifted — the subtle press of my hips, instinctively grinding against him, brushing against his bulge.
"If you keep wiggling your ass like that...", his voice edged with a warning, "...I can't promise I'll keep this slow."
I opened my mouth, teasing words almost forming, but they vanished when his movements changed, faster now, surer.
My breathing broke apart, rising in pitch, especially as his other hand joined in — pressing lightly against my clit, guiding, teasing, intensifying everything at once. Sensations layered, stacking, until there was no room for restraint, no space for hesitation.
"Fuck", I gasped, words spilling out before I could stop them. "Just like that."
The honesty of it startled me — how effortlessly he'd stripped away my hesitation, how completely safe it felt to surrender.
"Are you close?" Dean's voice was tight, focused.
I nodded, unable to hide it, feeling that familiar pressure coil tighter and tighter, growing sharper, deeper inside me.
My toes curled, thighs tensed, every nerve alive, every breath uneven. And then, the release came — sudden, intense, consuming. My body clenched around him, every muscle drawing in and letting go, leaving me trembling, breathless, clinging to him as though he were the only thing that kept me anchored to the world.
Dean slowly withdrew his finger from me — a final, shuddering tremor ran through my body as the wave of my orgasm gradually faded.
"Uh…wow…uh...", I mumbled something completely nonsensical, unable to form proper words.
A low, warm laugh came from behind me. Dean watched me from the corner of his eye, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Damn", he murmured admiringly. "That was more than I ever hoped for when you came into the kitchen today."
His other finger lifted off my clit, too, but his hand lingered for a moment, stroking gently over my mound. Then he let my wet panties slide over my even wetter center and slowly pulled his hands out of my shorts, as if he wanted to stretch the moment.
But then he did something that left me completely breathless: Dean brought each of his used fingers to his mouth. I could only watch from the side as he slid them one by one between his lips, licking them clean and letting out soft, indulgent sighs.
My mind went completely blank. I couldn't believe what I was seeing — it was insanely hot.
"Delicious", he purred finally. Then, with a teasing smirk: "I can't wait until I get to taste you properly."
So my idea is virgin female reader who is curious and takes it upon herself to start experimenting with sex toys. Then somehow Dean finds out, and maybe takes over and says he can do better? Its up to you what you want to happen.
If you don't wanna write it I totally understand, no hard feelings.
Sex, toys and rock'n'roll
Part 1 of "Lessons in desire"
Pairing: Dean Winchester x virgin!fem!reader
Summary: Being a virgin in your mid-twenties wasn't a bad thing. Being a virgin in your mid-twenties with an urge to experiment with sex toys wasn't a bad thing either. But being a virgin in your mid-twenties with an urge to experiment with sex toys when Dean Winchester caught you in the act… well. That was a whole different kind of disaster. Or was it?
Warnings: Virgin reader (all characters are 18+), mention of age gap (early 20's/late 40's), teasing, use of sex toys, mild voyeurism, Dean Winchester being helpful in his own way
This fic contains the use of pet names (e.g. baby, sweetheart,...)
Words: 5171
Note: English isn't my first language.
Here it is, @beakaleak32! 💕Hope it's everything you dreamed of!
Writing this was an absolut blast! Thank you for trusting me with this little...adventure! 💕
I'd convinced myself the motel room would truly be my safe haven for a few hours. Dean and Sam were out, the TV played softly in the background, and for the first time in days, the air didn't feel dangerous but rather…possible.
I'd wrestled with myself for a long time before I finally finding the courage to pull the small package from my bag — innocent-looking on the outside, anything but innocent in its contents. Not because I was actually afraid, but because my own curiosity suddenly felt much bigger, much more real than I'd expected. I wanted to understand what control felt like. Control over my body, my thoughts. Without chaos. Without hunting. Without constantly having to function. Just me.
It was ridiculous, really — surviving monster hunts but getting nervous like a teenager over something like this. And yet, that was exactly how I felt: like a teenager. Small. Inexperienced. At war with my own sexuality.
It wasn't that I'd never been with a man…not entirely. But it had never gone beyond kissing and a little clumsy fumbling over clothes. Why? I'd asked myself that more than once. Deep down, I'd always known none of them had been the right person to give away the most precious thing I had: my virginity.
And somewhere along the way, I'd missed the socially acceptable moment to lose it.
When I met the Winchesters a few years ago — a classic I'm the victim, you're my heroes, now I'm stuck with you forever situation — and moved into their bunker headfirst, hunting had happened almost naturally. So had the abstinence. Because the moment there was even a single man nearby, Dean and Sam seemed to awaken some primitive instinct to protect me from every form of danger imaginable.
Including myself, apparently.
And so here I was — mid-twenties, sitting cross-legged on an uncomfortable motel mattress, a small selection of sex toys laid out in front of me. Different shapes. Different sizes. Different colors. Some battery-powered, others manual. But they all served the same purpose: experimentation.
I'd always been good at my job. As a hunter, I knew how to track things, fight things, kill things. How to analyze a room in seconds. How to improvise when everything went wrong. I'd survived situations that would have killed most people.
But this? This was unfamiliar territory.
I knew what it felt like to touch myself. I knew how easily my body reacted to certain thoughts…certain people. But I didn't know what it felt like when someone else was involved. What it felt like to be truly wanted, truly desired, truly touched by another person.
And though I hated admitting it — even to myself — whenever my thoughts drifted too far, they always seemed to circle back to the same person.
Dean.
It was absurd. Impossible. He was older. More experienced. He'd been with women who knew exactly who they were and what they wanted. Why would he ever look at someone like me the same way?
Maybe that was why I'd bought the toys. To prepare. To understand myself better. So that, someday, if I ever let someone close — someone who wasn't Dean Winchester — I wouldn't seem quite so clueless.
Somewhat hesitantly, I reached for the smallest one and turned it over in my hands. Soft. Smooth. Light. A harmless-looking shade of pink. My stomach fluttered anyway.
And of course — because life had a twisted sense of timing — just as I admitted to myself how absurd this all was, the door creaked behind me.
My heart dropped straight into my stomach.
"Okaaay...", Dean's voice drawled slowly, "...either I'm seeing something I shouldn't be seeing…or we need to talk."
I turned around far too slowly, hoping he was a hallucination.
He wasn't.
In all his glory, he stood in the doorway, his hand still on the handle, frozen in place. This couldn't be happening.
"W-what are you doing here?", I asked incredulously, my voice an octave higher than usual. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I was absolutely certain I'd never been in such an uncomfortable situation in my entire life.
Dean, however, seemed far too relaxed about the whole thing. With a casual shrug, he released the handle, stepped fully into the room, and nudged the door shut with his foot. A broad, almost cheeky grin spread across his face as he approached the bed.
My heart skipped a beat as I watched him. What the hell was he doing here? He was supposed to be out with Sam, interviewing more witnesses after the ghost we were hunting had claimed yet another victim. Instead of sitting in the Impala, arguing with his brother over shitty music, he leaned down and picked up one of the toys laid out on the bed.
Like some self-appointed product reviewer, he straightened and examined it from every angle. To make matters worse, he'd chosen the one that most closely resembled a classic vibrator — the one the saleswoman had described as having "an additional function for external stimulation."
"Nice choice", he nodded approvingly, pressing the power button. A soft whirring filled the room. Then he gestured broadly at the others still lying on the bed. "But seriously...", he added, "...why do you need so many? Are you really that insatiable?"
"Dean." More than just embarrassed, I closed my eyes as his name escaped my lips, almost pleading.
"What?", he asked, feigning innocence.
I opened my eyes again — and immediately wanted to close them when I was met with Dean's infuriating grin.
"Oh, c'mon", he said, trying to lighten the mood. "This is hot!"
I blinked at him. "Excuse me?"
Dean placed the vibrator back among the others, giving it a little pat as if wishing it luck, before looking back at me. "Don't look at me like that, doll. I'm just a man. And walking in on…all of this? It's a lot to take in."
My breath caught for a brief second before my pulse started racing again. A strange knot formed in my stomach, and I couldn't tell whether it was anger, shame, or something far more dangerous.
"Can't you just leave?" My voice came out barely above a whisper. The request felt foreign on my tongue — I usually treasured every moment he was around — but right now I wanted him gone. Preferably for the rest of the day. No, the rest of the week.
Dean let out a short laugh. "Why?", he asked, still pretending not to understand. "Then I'll miss out on all the fun."
He picked up another toy — this one shaped like a small egg that required an app to control — and turned it over curiously. He even held it to his ear and gave it a shake. "Seriously though", he said, baffled. "How is this thing supposed to make a woman come?"
"Dean!" This time I didn't just sit there like an intimidated child and let him mock me.
I moved quickly off the bed and tried to snatch it from his hand.
Of course, his reflexes kicked in immediately — what else would I expect from a first-rate hunter like him? He stepped back just out of reach, arm lifted high, effortlessly keeping it away from me.
"That's not fair", I muttered, the embarrassment giving way to a surge of anger. "Give it back!"
Like a kangaroo gone berserk, I jumped and reached for it again, but he stayed just out of reach, clearly finding the whole situation far too entertaining.
That was the breaking point.
"Why are you such a fucking dick?", I snapped.
Dean stopped laughing. His expression shifted — something darker, more serious crossing his face. His gaze held mine, suddenly intense.
"Because my dick gets hard just thinking about all the things you can do with these toys."
My jaw dropped immediately. He didn't just say that, did he?
Dean lowered his arm. The toy was now only a few inches out of reach, but my mind went completely blank because of his confession. He was mocking me — that had to be the only rational explanation for this.
"You have no idea what kind of effect this whole situation has on me, sweetheart", he added, his voice lower than before. Edgier. Rougher.
"You're messing with me", was all I could manage. "You're completely messing with me."
Dean let out a soft laugh but shook his head. "Why would I?"
"Because…" I cut myself off — unsure of what to say, unsure of how to say it.
Dean frowned, studying my face, trying to read my expression. "Is it so inconceivable that the thought of you pleasuring yourself turns me on?"
His words rang in my ears, along with the blood rushing back to my head. I slowly nodded in response.
Dean's eyes widened in surprise. "But why?" He really hadn't the faintest idea. And I wasn’t ready to enlighten him. Not yet.
I lowered my head, too uncertain to meet his eyes, too embarrassed to hold his gaze.
But Dean didn't seem to mind. He gently placed the index finger and thumb of the hand not holding the sex toy under my jaw, lifting it just enough to force me to look up.
Mistake. Big mistake.
The green of his eyes captivated me instantly — and made me ready to confess anything he wanted.
"Why do you think it's so unlikely?", he pressed again. It was obvious he wasn't going to be easily deterred.
I closed my eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and mustered all my courage. "Because…because…", I started, but couldn't finish.
Dean tilted his head slightly, questioningly, without breaking eye contact. "Because?"
"Because I've never…turned on anyone like this before."
My confession hung heavy in the air between us. The moment I saw Dean frown, I immediately regretted saying anything at all.
He slowly lowered his hand from my jaw.
"Wait", he began, pursing his lips as if he were trying to solve a difficult puzzle. "So, no one has ever watched you use a sex toy, right?"
Again, I shook my head. Again, my eyes left his — too vulnerable to meet him.
"No", I confirmed, taking a deep breath. "But…not only that…I…"
"What else?" Good lord, why did this man have to be so curious?
I looked up again, back into those beautiful eyes that had often haunted my dreams. Too often. "No one has ever watched me do anything. Or…joined me."
For a brief moment, Dean's brain seemed to be working overtime. If the situation hadn't been so awkward, I would have laughed at his concentrated expression.
But the laughter caught in my throat — especially when he seemed to grasp it. Dean's eyes widened in shock, as if I'd just told him that Led Zeppelin had pulled the same dirty move as Milli Vanilli.
"Are you saying you're still a virgin?"
The silence after his question was deafening.
My body reacted faster than my mind. My palms grew damp, my breathing shallow and uneven. I fixed my gaze on some invisible spot between us — somewhere around his chest — unable to meet his eyes. It felt as though, with a single sentence, I'd laid bare everything I'd spent years carefully hiding.
Dean didn't say anything. But I could feel him looking at me. For a long moment. Too long.
Then I heard him exhale softly. Not irritated. Not amused. More like…overwhelmed.
"Wow", he murmured at last. "Okay. Didn't see that coming."
I dared to glance up. He ran a hand through his hair and left it there for a moment, as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself. Uncertainty didn't suit him — and yet it was impossible to miss.
His gaze stayed on me.
"Why?", he asked quietly. Not demanding. Not teasing. Just genuinely confused. "I mean…why is that?"
The question hit harder than it should have. Why? As if there were a simple, neat answer to that.
A bitter smile tugged at my lips. "Gee, I don't know", I said at last, the sarcasm slipping in on its own. "Maybe because I spent years being followed around by two overprotective, hyper-paranoid hunters who gave every man within ten feet a death glare."
Dean's brows knit together slightly.
I shrugged, even though it hurt to say it out loud. "Kind of hard to have normal experiences when you're treated like fragile porcelain all the time."
The words lingered between us. More honest than I'd meant them to be.
Dean didn't respond right away. But something in his expression shifted — guilt, maybe. Or realization.
And this realization seemed to trigger something in him. Something I never would have expected.
"Oh yeah? Is that so?" His voice suddenly sounded somehow…foreign. Darker. As if it didn't belong to him.
I tried — very deliberately — to ignore the hot shiver that ran down my spine.
I nodded reflexively. What else could I do!?
Dean nodded too. But more slowly. More thoughtfully. As if he had just made a decision that would change everything.
I looked at him questioningly. "Dean, what's wrong?"
His eyes seemed to bore into me, his gaze suddenly so intense it was almost overwhelming.
"If that's the case…", he began, letting the sentence hang heavy with meaning.
"If that's the case, then what?" Slightly annoyed, I crossed my arms.
Dean took a step toward me. Then another. Until he stopped right in front of me and looked down at me. The sudden proximity made me nervous, and I tried to suppress it. Failed.
"If that's the case, I should help you out."
"Huh?", I managed, not exactly known for my eloquence in that moment.
Dean wasn't fazed. Instead, he glanced past me toward the motel bed.
"They're all for experimenting?", he asked, as if he wanted to be sure.
I didn't even have to look to know he meant the sex toys. So I nodded uncertainly.
His gaze returned to me.
"Okay", he said quietly. "Let me help you."
A short, incredulous laugh escaped me. "Sure, Dean."
That had to be the dumbest joke he'd ever made.
But the determined expression on his face — and the slight smile on his lips — made me doubt whether he was joking at all.
"You blame me for the fact that no one has ever touched you. And now you want to use sex toys. Completely inexperienced." He stated it like a fact that would be recorded in history books. "So I'm going to help you. How else are you supposed to know what really feels good?"
I swallowed. Hard. Why on earth would he want to help me? Why didn't he just leave and let me be alone with my inexperience? And why did the thought of Dean taking care of me like this make my panties wet?
Dean noticed my hesitation — my uncertainty. Of course he did.
He placed a hand on my shoulder and crouched slightly so we were at eye level. "Do you trust me?"
Again, all I could do was nod. I barely registered the hoarse "Yes" that escaped my throat.
"Then let it happen, sweetheart."
He was so close now that I could see his features more clearly and distinctly than ever before — the small scar beside his right eye, the freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks, the curved lines of his mouth, made for more than just smiling.
"Only as far as you want", he added quietly. "You're the boss. I would never do anything you don't want. Or anything you're not ready for."
Could I really let it happen? Could I really let Dean get that close to me? Let him accompany me in a situation that was more than just intimate?
It was something I'd always dreamed of — to be as close to Dean as all those meaningless one night stands had been. But what if it was just a one-time thing for him, too? What if he was only offering because he felt guilty? What if, afterward, he'd go back to seeing me as someone insignificant?
"Do you really want this?", I asked quietly, barely more than a whisper.
Dean's expression shifted into a wide, slightly uneasy smile. "It would be an honor."
So I nodded. In agreement. I really did. I must have lost my mind — but there was no going back now.
Dean's grin settled fully onto his face as he removed his hand from my shoulder and straightened to his full height.
"Perfect", he winked. "Then…take your clothes off."
"What?"
Dean laughed at my puzzled expression and shook his head in amusement. "Baby, for this to work, you're gonna have to take your jeans off."
I knew he was right. But I also knew I’d never been as excited in my life as I was right now.
"Just the jeans?", I asked, needing to be sure.
"Just the jeans", Dean confirmed. "Although I wouldn't mind getting a glimpse of those wonderful tits."
"Dean!", I gasped in surprise, though I couldn't quite suppress a small giggle.
He only grinned mischievously as he walked past me toward the bed and pushed the sex toys aside — then added the molded toy he was still holding to the pile.
With trembling fingers, I fumbled with the button of my jeans, pulled it through the fly, and unzipped them. A quick glance over my shoulder told me that Dean was watching me. Of course he was.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, then pulled my jeans down over my hips and thighs before bending forward to slide the fabric over my bare feet. I was left standing in nothing but black lace panties — a pair he probalby saw before in the laundry — and my shirt.
I thought I heard Dean gasp as I bent over. But when I turned around — clutching my jeans as though they could offer me some kind of protection — he was simply watching me expectantly. Under his gaze, I felt hot and cold at the same time.
Still holding my jeans, I tried to tug my shirt down a little farther. It was pointless. Considering he was about to see me in a much more exposed state anyway, it didn't make much sense.
Dean noticed again. His grin tilted.
"Don't hide from me", he murmured, his eyes unashamedly traveling over my hips, down my bare legs, and back again. "You're beautiful."
My cheeks flushed. My grip on my jeans tightened.
"Come here", he said softly, nodding toward the bed. "Lie down. Make yourself comfortable."
With all the courage I could muster in that moment, I took a deep breath before walking to the empty side of the bed. I carelessly tossed my jeans onto it, then climbed up myself and leaned back against the headboard.
My legs bent close to my body, I looked at Dean, who was still standing at the foot of the bed.
Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his brow slightly furrowed, as though he were carefully considering his next move.
"Your position looks anything but comfortable, sweetheart", he said with a crooked grin.
"And what do you think would be the right position for me?"
Dean's expression changed again, as if that question had given him the go-ahead for everything he had planned.
"Spread your legs", he said. "And lift that pretty ass a little."
I did as he instructed.
He quickly circled the bed until he stopped beside me. I watched as he leaned slightly over me — which made me catch my breath for a moment — and reached for a pillow lying next to me, only to slip it under my ass a second later.
His fingers brushed against the bare skin of my thighs. By accident. Or on purpose. I couldn't tell. But even that gentle touch made me want more. I took a deep breath. After all, that wasn't what this was about.
"Good", he chuckled darkly. "Now tell me, angel: Which of these little helpers would you like to try first?"
As if this were a life-or-death decision, I glanced over at the sex toys Dean had pushed aside.
"Hm…I think the blue one?" My decision sounded more like a question than a proper answer.
"The blue one?", Dean repeated, reaching over me again to retrieve it. He then held out a small, oblong, smooth, vibrating object that seemed more suited for external than internal use.
With trembling hands, I grasped it and slowly took it from him. "Th-thanks."
"Anytime, baby." He clicked his tongue, his gaze still fixed on me as he sat down on the bed in front of my feet — one leg bent on the mattress, the other planted on the floor beside it. This gave him the perfect view between my spread legs.
"Fuck, your panties are already completely soaked", he muttered. "Getting excited, huh?"
I involuntarily bit my lower lip. With the sex toy in my hand and Dean sitting right in front of me… it all felt surreal. Absurd.
But it was real.
"So what now?", I asked, unable to hide the uncertainty in my voice.
"What do you think? Do you wanna play?"
The deep rasp of his voice and the intent behind his words had my skin heating in an instant flush.
"Yes", I confirmed, "I wanna play."
Dean nodded. "Then do it."
My fingers still trembling, I pressed the power button. A soft whirring sound filled the air, the vibration sending a faint, unfamiliar tingle through my fingertips.
"Good", Dean murmured, his voice low, rough. "And now…touch yourself with it."
A shaky breath escaped me before I guided the toy between my legs. Slowly. Deliberately. As if moving too fast would make everything fall apart.
Then I reached the spot.
A soft, startled gasp slipped from my lips as the vibration settled gently over the fabric of my panties.
Dean swore under his breath. "Shit…just like that." One of his hands dropped instinctively to his crotch, as if to adjust himself. His voice was strained when he added: "Move it."
My eyes were wide, my vision slightly blurred as I began to move the vibrator over my covered center. Lightly, with barely any pressure. From my mons, over my clit, along my folds, down to my entrance — and back again.
I repeated the motion. Again and again. Until soft, steady sighs began to slip from my parted lips.
I couldn't believe this was really happening. But my uneven breathing and racing heart told me it was.
Dean's eyes were fixed between my legs. He didn't miss a single movement, not a single rise of my chest.
"Good?", he asked hoarsely, clearing his throat as if he needed to pull himself back together. As if all of this affected him far more than I'd ever imagined.
I didn't trust my voice, so I only nodded.
Dean's grin returned, wider now — almost proud. "Perfect." Then, without warning, he shifted closer and placed his hand around my lower leg. "But there's more."
Mischief flickered in his eyes as he leaned in even closer.
"Can I show you?"
I swallowed. My hand stilled as his reached for mine, gently taking the vibrator from my grasp.
"I can make you feel things with this that you don't even think are possible", he murmured, brushing off my hesitation. "I can do better than that."
"O-okay", I heard myself whisper. The word escaped before I could stop it.
Dean let out a slow breath — as if he'd been holding it while waiting for my answer.
"Fuck, baby. You just made me the happiest man alive."
He wanted this. Just as much as I did. The realization was overwhelming.
But I didn't have time to dwell on it — because he was already moving.
With his free hand, he guided my legs farther apart, positioning himself between them — propped on his forearms. His face was close. Close enough that I could feel his warm breath over my covered center.
Goosebumps erupted across my skin.
"Let me show you how it's really done", he murmured — almost to himself — before pressing the vibrator back against me.
But unlike me, he used more pressure. More intention.
A wave of sensation crashed through me, and I instinctively tried to close my legs — but Dean's body prevented it.
"Uh-uh." He shook his head, eyes snapping up to mine. "Let me make you feel better than you ever have."
I forced myself to relax again, to let my legs stretch.
It didn't take long, honestly.
Dean kept guiding the vibrator over my center, using a pressure that made everything else fade away.
My breathing grew faster, my heart hammered in my chest. God — this felt so good. He hadn't exaggerated.
"Fuck, baby. Look at you", he murmured, never stopping. "You look so hot. So seductive."
His words only fueled the sensation. A first moan slipped from my lips — not loud, not quiet, but unmistakable. Dean glanced up briefly.
"That's it."
Clearly pleased with himself, he slowed the movement and held the vibrator just above my clit, drawing small, deliberate circles over the fabric of my panties.
"Fuck", I breathed, my hips lifting on their own, pressing into the toy and his hand.
"You like that, huh?"
I nodded quickly. Eagerly. Thinking had become nearly impossible.
But it still didn't seem to be enough for him.
"Baby, let me take your panties off", he said softly.
I looked down at him, chest rising and falling. "Really?"
Dean nodded, his free hand sliding along the inside of my thighs. "I want you to feel everything."
The look in his eyes erased every doubt. I lifted my hips — a silent permission.
Dean licked his lips, briefly pulled the vibrator away, and placed it into my hand, still buzzing. "Take care of it", he winked, before hooking his fingers into the sides of my panties and slowly sliding them down. He straightened to make it easier, his movements unhurried.
Once they were completely off, he tossed them aside without a second thought.
His gaze immediately returned to me. Bare now. Fully exposed in front of him. Shining with need. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"That looks so damn delicious", he whispered. "I'd love to taste you."
I inhaled sharply, heat pooling low in my belly. The vibrator was still humming in my hand, almost forgotten beneath his words.
But Dean shook his head. "Not yet." He leaned forward and gently took the toy from me. "First, I'll show you what else this little guy can do."
I'd heard of men who saw toys as competition — who felt threatened by them. Dean wasn't one of them. Definitely not. Instead, he made it feel like this was an addition. Something extra.
And I couldn't quite put into words how much that turned me on.
Without wasting another second, he settled himself comfortably between my legs again, supporting his weight on his forearms.
"Are you ready?", he asked once more.
A faint, excited smile curved my lips. "Ready."
And then Dean pressed the vibrator against my center again — this time without any fabric in between.
Only moments earlier, I'd thought the sensation was indescribable. Now I realized I'd been wrong. Completely wrong. This was more intense. More overwhelming.
My moans were no longer accidental, fleeting sounds. They filled the room, mingling with the soft hum of the vibrator as Dean guided it along my wet folds — slowly, deliberately — from my entrance upward until it brushed my clit.
"That's good, isn't it?" Dean murmured, wetting his lips as he looked up at me, clearly aware that he was bringing me dangerously close to the edge.
"Shit", I moaned. One hand clenched the sheet beside me; the other tangled in his hair, searching for something to hold on to. "Please…please…"
"Please what, baby?", Dean whispered, his movements growing quicker as he slid the vibrator through my slick folds. "Tell me what you want."
My breath caught, then broke into louder sounds as my entire body tensed. Something warm and inevitable coiled low in my belly.
My eyes closed on their own, making everything feel even stronger.
"Please don't stop."
I heard Dean chuckle softly. "Believe me...that never crossed my mind."
And he didn't stop. Again and again, he let the vibrator graze my clit — sometimes only briefly, sometimes lingering longer — before guiding it back down to my entrance. Always just before, just before the tightening knot in my stomach could finally snap.
"Is this what you wanted to try?", he asked.
His words made me open my eyes, my gaze dropping to where he knelt between my spread legs — where his eyes met mine.
The sight alone nearly undid me. Dean Winchester between my thighs, a vibrator in his hand. My therapist would never believe this.
"More than that", I moaned, my fingers tightening in his hair as my hips pressed closer to him.
"I promised you."
And then he pressed the vibrator against my clit again. This time harder. Longer. Without hesitation.
My moans broke into something closer to a small cry. "Fuck…just like that."
My hips lifted again, the sensation spreading through me too intense to bear.
Dean let me — didn't hold me back. Instead, he grasped one of my legs and draped it over his shoulder, and I could have sworn it intensified the pressure even more.
"Enjoy it, baby", he murmured. "Just let it sink in."
Those were the last words I needed.
Something inside me finally contracted. Heat flooded my lower abdomen, intoxicating and overwhelming. My inner muscles tensed —
And for the first time in my life, I came because of someone else. Even if it was with a sex toy, it was Dean who brought me to my climax. Dean fucking Winchester.
"Oh my god", I breathed, the sensation refusing to let go.
My legs closed gently around his body, pressing him between them.
My torso arched as he continued to hold the vibrator against me — even as the peak slowly ebbed.
For a few seconds, I could do nothing but lie there, completely overwhelmed. My body felt loose and heavy at the same time, as if I'd been pulled apart and put back together in a way that finally made sense. My thoughts were slow, hazy — but one thing was painfully clear: it had been him. Dean. And that realization sent another quiet shiver through me.
Only when the last waves subsided did he finally ease back, switching the toy off and placing it beside us on the mattress.
He looked at me with open admiration, his hand moving softly over my lower legs.
"So?", he asked quietly. "What would you like to try now?"
Summary: We were never supposed to end up here. A storm. A borrowed house. Too much history between us. I told myself I was over him. I was wrong.
Warnings: cheating (mentioned), exes to lovers, kissing, physical, teasing, explicit sexual content (18+!), oral sex, p in v, spanking, power dynamics, emotional intensity
This fic contains the use of y/n and pet names (e.g. sweetheart, baby, love,...)
Words: 3840
Note: English isn't my first language.
So...there you go: Part 2 Mark Meachum trying to fix things up 😏
Mark's hands found my bare thighs almost on instinct, gripping them tightly.
For so long, I'd denied myself the chance to feel him — out of fear that he'd hurt me again, just like before. He probably would. Not even on purpose…simply because he was him. But in that moment, I didn't care.
My body responded before my mind could catch up, reacting to him the way it always had. My fingers tangled deeper in his thick hair, my lips moved relentlessly against his, my hips shifting instinctively against him.
A soft whimper slipped from my throat when I felt the rough fabric of his jeans against the most sensitive part of me, even through the thin layer of fabric.
"Fuck, baby", Mark growled into the kiss. "I missed you. I fucking missed you."
My brain should have snapped back to normal by now — but instead, it did the exact opposite. All the ifs and buts I'd carried with me over the past few months without him simply disappeared.
Mark's hands kept moving upward — from my thighs beneath the oversized t-shirt, over my ass where he briefly grabbed me, guiding my movements, all the way to my hips. There, his fingers pressed more firmly into my bare skin, as if he needed reassurance that this was real. That I was here. Closer than I'd been in a long time.
"This is an absolutely bad idea", I murmured against his lips — unable, however, to stop kissing him.
Mark smirked, letting his fingertips trail slowly up my spine. A hot shiver ran down my back.
"You've said that before", he replied softly. "And it turned out to be the best idea ever."
I sighed in quiet defeat, knowing he was right. That only he could quiet the burning tension between my legs. Even if I'd hate myself tomorrow for being this weak.
For a heartbeat, I let myself linger there, feeling the weight of him against me, the pull of everything we'd buried stirring under my skin. My chest rose and fell rapidly and I wasn't thinking — just feeling. But then, somewhere between the pounding of my heart and the warmth radiating from his body, a thread of clarity wove through the chaos.
My hips stilled, my hands shifting to his shoulders as I pushed myself back just enough to look at him properly.
Mark paused as well — his eyes dark with desire, his breathing as uneven as mine.
"What's wrong, love?", he asked hoarsely, head slightly tilted.
Love…
How many times had he called me that? How often had I ached to hear it again? How often had I cursed myself for still hoping he'd ever use that stupid pet name?
I took a slow breath, closing my eyes briefly to steady myself. When I opened them again, Mark was still watching me — questioning, but just as expectant.
"Please…" I began softly, my gaze dropping to his chest, unable to meet his eyes. "Please, don't hurt me again."
That hit.
Mark blinked. Once. Twice. Then he closed his eyes tightly, as if he needed a moment to process the weight of my words. His nostrils flared as he exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
When he opened his eyes again, they were heavy with everything — regret, longing, sorrow. A quiet ache that made my chest tighten.
Slowly, he slid his hands from beneath the t-shirt and cupped my face. His fingers brushed carefully through the loose strands of hair that had escaped my braid, tucking them back gently before resting his palms on my temples, holding me with quiet certainty. His gaze bore into mine, unwavering and raw.
"I…I swear...", he began, voice low, rough with emotion, "...I'll never hurt you like that again. Not ever. I can't…I won't." His thumbs traced tiny circles against my skin. "I was an idiot. A fucking fool. And I am so, so sorry for every second I made you doubt me. Every tear you cried because of me…I...I can't take them back, but I swear I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it right."
My throat tightened, a lump forming. Tears pricked my eyes again, but this time, I blinked them back. I wanted to believe him. I had to.
He kept speaking, words pouring out, steady and full of conviction. Promises, confessions, apologies — all wrapped together in the warmth of his voice.
Slowly, I felt myself nodding, almost against my will, letting myself trust, even if only a little. The weight in my chest eased slightly, and my pulse slowed just enough to feel the space between us.
For a long moment, he simply held me, just looking. Drinking me in. And then, almost unconsciously, he wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue — a small movement that made my attention snap back to him. My breath caught. I couldn't think. I just leaned forward, closing the gap between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that was sudden, instinctive, and full of everything we hadn't said.
Mark's eyes closed immediately, relief sliding through his expression as he exhaled softly into the kiss. It deepened, slow at first, then firmer, more insistent, as if he was letting every word he had just spoken find its way into that single touch.
And then, carefully, his hands moved from my face, resting instead on my ass again. The connection between us tightened, and I wrapped my arms around his neck reflexively, my legs instinctively finding a hold around his waist. Every small motion of trust and need was mirrored by his, grounding us in the here and now.
He shifted, steadying me against him as he rose to his feet, bringing me up from the sofa in his arms. I instinctively clung to him, locking my legs behind him, holding on, letting the warmth and steady pressure of him carry me forward. Step by step, we moved together through the living room, silent except for the soft sounds of our coordinated breaths, until he guided us toward one of the guest rooms.
Through it all, our lips remained locked, every movement a continuation of the trust and longing that had been building between us all night.
We reached the guest room door after only a few steps. I noticed because Mark struggled to press the handle down with me in his arms — and in the process, he accidentally bumped my head lightly against the closed door.
"Ouch", I muttered, though I couldn't quite suppress a small laugh.
Mark immediately looked up, clearly only now realizing what had happened. "Fuck, I'm sorry, baby", he said at once — then added with a crooked grin: "That's really the last time I hurt you."
I blinked in surprise. As if the situation weren't confusing enough already, my mind immediately tried to overanalyze his words. Instead, I laughed again and playfully punched his shoulder. "You're such an asshole, Meachum."
All I got in return was a smug wink — and a quick kiss that made me forget everything for a moment. "Your asshole."
Then he returned to what he'd originally intended to do, opened the door, and carried me inside, gently lowering me onto the bed.
Without taking my eyes off him, I shifted further back until I lay in the middle of the mattress. My legs parted almost instinctively, leaving space between them.
I still couldn't quite grasp that we were here — that we were this close again. Closer than we'd been in a long time. And yet everything felt painfully familiar, as if we'd never been apart. Not physically. Not emotionally.
Mark seemed to feel it too. The way he stood there, looking down at me, said more than words ever could.
"Look at you", he murmured, almost to himself. "More beautiful than I imagined."
"And you're not even old enough for dementia yet." Despite everything I felt, I couldn't quite stop myself from teasing him.
He shook his head with a grin. "Just wait. Anyone that cheeky usually has to deal with the consequences."
I shifted my hips slightly, watching him closely. "I'm looking forward to it."
A quiet breath escaped him. Then, without hesitation, he hooked his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head in one smooth motion, letting it drop carelessly to the floor.
The only light in the room came from the moon outside the window, softened by the rain still falling beyond the glass, while the distant thunder had faded to nothing more than a soft backdrop to our breaths. And yet I could still make out the familiar lines of him standing there. I swallowed hard.
"Like what you see?", he asked quietly. "Even on an old man?"
I smiled faintly, lifting my hand in a halfhearted gesture. My patience was wearing thin. "Come here before I change my mind."
He didn't need to be told twice. Within moments, he was on the bed, hovering over me, his arms braced on either side. His gaze traced over me slowly, deliberately, before returning to my face.
"Don't you think you might not need the tee anymore?", he breathed, one hand moving lightly along my side.
I closed my eyes briefly, the sensation stealing my focus. "It might be… impractical", I admitted softly.
"Then let's finally get rid of it."
I had no idea where his sudden impatience came from — especially after all the teasing — but Mark actually followed through. He straightened up, kneeling between my legs without using his hands for support. Then he ran both hands over my thighs and hips again, slowly pushing the t-shirt up bit by bit.
I helped by lifting my upper body slightly, catching the hem myself and pulling it over my head along with him.
And just like that, I was in front of him — half lying down, half sitting up — in nothing but my black bra and panties.
"You're gonna kill me", Mark growled before leaning in and capturing my mouth in a hungry kiss.
I smiled into the kiss, fully aware of the effect I had on him. Mark had always been the kind of man who could be driven crazy by pretty lingerie — even if it never stayed on for long once he'd seen it.
Still kissing me, he eased me back down onto the mattress. One hand cupped my jaw, keeping me close, while the other traced slow paths along my body — my cheek, my neck, my shoulder, down over my bra, and to my stomach. There, his fingers circled my navel, and a soft sigh escaped me.
Mark smiled against my lips. He knew exactly how sensitive I was there — and he was using it deliberately.
"God, I've missed that sound", he admitted, before his mouth left mine and found the spot just beneath my ear instead.
I gasped, tangling my hands in his hair once more.
"Don’t tease me", I whispered, trying to sound more convincing than I felt.
"Or what?", he murmured against my skin, his mouth drifting down to my collarbone.
"Or—", I started, but the words fell apart when another breath slipped out of me as I felt his fingers brush the edge of my panties.
Of course he noticed. He glanced up at me briefly, searching my face, reading every reaction without effort.
"Very convincing", he said dryly.
As much as I wanted to fire back a comment, I was too distracted by his fingers, which slid beneath my panties, exploring the soft skin of my mons with deliberate slowness.
"Still as soft as ever", he murmured, while his attention shifted to the curve of my left breast through the fabric of my bra.
With his free hand, he pushed the cup down, giving him direct access to my already sensitive nipple, which he began circling with his tongue.
My hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer. My hips lifted instinctively, hoping he would finally move his fingers exactly where I needed them most.
But Mark wouldn't be Mark if he made it that easy. He had always loved tormenting me far too much. Back then — and apparently still now.
Because instead of giving me what I silently begged for, he withdrew his hand from my panties.
The sound of protest that left my lips turned into a broken breath as he simultaneously closed his mouth around my nipple and sucked gently.
Then he released me and shifted back slightly, rising onto his knees and putting a little distance between us again.
"So impatient", he grinned — that infuriating, self-satisfied grin I desperately wanted to wipe off his face. "So fucking impatient. And I haven't even really started yet."
If I hadn't been so affected by him, I would have snapped back. I would have asked him why he had to be such an arrogant, infuriating asshole — and why he took such pleasure in teasing me.
But instead, I frowned, pouted, and pleaded with a quiet, breathless: "Mark."
That was exactly what he wanted. His grin deepened. His hands closed around my ankles, drawing me closer.
"Tell me what you want, love", he whispered as he leaned down toward me again. "You'll get everything you want."
I bit my lower lip, breathing in slowly. "You", I whispered back. "All of you."
That seemed to trigger something in him.
In the dim light of the room, I could have sworn I saw his gaze darken — sharper, more dangerous. But also more certain.
His fingers hooked into the sides of my panties — and with almost deliberate slowness, he drew the already soaked fabric down over my hips, my ass, my thighs, my legs.
But instead of simply discarding them, he brought the fabric to his face and closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. And I had never seen anything hotter in my life.
Almost dazed, he shook his head. "How could I ever have been stupid enough to let you go?"
I bit my lip again — but this time to hold back the emotions rising in my chest.
"Now stop being so melodramatic and just fuck me already!"
Mark let out a low laugh, tossing my panties onto the mattress beside him. "That's the plan, baby."
Then, without hesitating, he shifted between my legs, lowered himself onto his forearms — his face directly in front of my wet center. Once again, he searched my eyes. Once again, he waited.
I gave him a small, eager nod in answer before my eyelids fluttered shut, my breath catching as I felt his tongue glide once along my folds — his first deliberate movement against me...and not his last.
Mark ate me out like a starving man, like someone who needed this to survive.
He licked along my folds, over my clit, tugged at it, lapped up my juices — with just the right amount of pressure to make me see stars.
My moans grew more uncontrolled, louder, my breathing faster. And I was fairly certain I wouldn’t last much longer.
"Fuck, I'm…I'm close", I whimpered as my pelvis rocked helplessly against him.
"That's it, baby." Mark placed an arm across my stomach, holding me steady, keeping me right where he wanted me. "Let me see you like that again."
With his index and middle finger, he parted my folds before pressing the tip of his tongue to my clit again, moving in slow circles.
My breath caught in my throat, my heartbeat skyrocketing.
"Jesus…", I hissed, fists tangled in the bedsheets. "I need you so bad."
And then I came — harder than I ever had in my life.
Mark didn't stop, licked me through the aftershocks, only pulling back once my vision cleared and my breathing finally steadied again.
He kissed my still-sensitive center once more before licking my own taste from his lips.
Then he crawled up my body, hovering over me, his face only inches from mine.
"Satisfied?", he asked softly — but the wide grin on his face told me he already knew the answer.
Without a word, my gaze drifted down over his bare torso — down to the more than obvious bulge straining against his jeans.
"Things are getting a little tight down there, huh?", I asked with a crooked grin.
Mark let out a breathless laugh. "Like crazy." Then he took my right hand and guided it between us. "Time to let him play."
I didn't need to be told twice. With practiced fingers, I unbuckled his belt first, then undid the button of his jeans.
Mark gasped softly, watching every movement with intense focus.
But I wasn't about to make it that easy for him — not after the way he'd tormented me before finally giving me what I wanted.
Instead of removing the fabric completely, I slipped my hand inside his open jeans and wrapped my fingers around his penis through the thin layer of his boxers.
A low hum escaped him, his hips instinctively pushing forward.
"Don't tease me, sweetheart", he murmured roughly.
My grin widened as I began to move my hand slowly. A small victory for me. "Sucks, hmm?"
Mark nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. "More than that." Then, with a determination that sent a shiver straight down my spine, he added: "I wanna feel you. Right now."
Gently but firmly, he removed my hand from his crotch — only to free himself a second later, first from his jeans, then from his boxer shorts.
Meanwhile, I reached behind my torso, unhooked my bra with my thumb and forefinger, and slipped it off.
My mouth watered in anticipation as Mark's penis sprang free, thick, long, erect — ready for everything to come.
He grasped it, giving it a few slow, teasing strokes before positioning himself between my legs. "Are you still on the pill?", he asked hoarsely, bracing himself with one hand next to my head, the other still on his shaft.
I nodded, sucking my lower lip in. My legs parted of their own accord, giving him even better access.
"Good", he murmured, before easing the tip into me — slowly, torturously slowly, as if he'd been waiting for this moment forever and didn't want to miss a single second.
A soft moan escaped me. I never would have thought I'd ever again experience the pleasure of being completely filled by him. I never would have thought I'd ever again see the tiny beads of sweat that had formed on his forehead from the effort of holding back his arousal.
Mark began to move slowly, testing the waters, gauging how far and fast he could go.
My legs curled around his hips, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.
"God, I missed you", he sighed. "I missed this. I—"
He cut himself off, thrusting harder, deeper.
My moans became more regular, higher-pitched. My hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his hot, taut skin.
With every thrust, every breath, every filthy word whispered in my ear, I felt myself teetering on the edge of my second orgasm.
"You were made for me", Mark groaned, tilting his hips, hitting that spongy spot inside me that always drove me wild. "So perfect."
Shakily, I brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, tugged him down by the nape of his neck, and kissed him messy, desperate.
A few more thrusts, and that familiar warmth pooled in my lower abdomen, spreading through my belly.
"I'm coming", I whimpered, lifting my hips to meet his, matching his every movement.
He seemed to take it as encouragement — his thrusts became harder, deeper, precise.
With a soft cry, I reached my next climax, legs trembling around him, breath hitching in my throat.
But Mark wasn't finished. After riding out my orgasm, he withdrew, his hands moving with smooth precision to roll me onto my stomach.
A surprised sound escaped me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw him straddle me, his legs trapping mine.
"Close your legs."
I obeyed, eyes closing, as he greeted my ass with a hard slap before spreading my cheeks apart.
"You're so hot. So unbelievably hot." Then he plunged into me from behind, filling me completely.
This time it was him who couldn't hold back a moan. "Fuck, you're so tight."
He quickly found his rhythm again, fucking me like his life depended on it.
I gripped the bedsheet, digging my fingers into it, my head heavy against the mattress — completely consumed by the sensations he was stirring in me.
Once more, his flat palm struck my ass. Again. And again. Each slap drew a small, breathy cry from me.
"That's it", he growled, his speed increasing. "You're taking me so fucking well."
His thrusts grew more erratic, more urgent. His breathing louder, his moans more frequent — a clear sign that he was close.
Then, without warning, he pulled away and turned me onto my back. He lifted my right leg, draping it over his shoulder. Whatever he planned next, I knew it would ruin me for any other man — and I didn't mind.
"You're so beautiful", he murmured, sliding inside me again — this time with an even more merciless drive. We moaned in unison, the sound of our bodies colliding filling the room.
One of his hands clenched firmly around the thigh of the leg draped over his shoulder, while the other pressed into my side, holding me steady. I instinctively tried to bend my leg, but his grip was unyielding.
Then he started moving — fast, hard, unrelenting. No teasing, no rhythm shifts. Just raw, relentless power.
"Look at me", he grunted, thrusting over and over. "Look at me while I make you come again."
I tried, my gaze straining to focus, but the sensations he stirred — the knot in my stomach tightening again — made it nearly impossible.
Mark leaned further over me, his chest pressing against mine. "Baby…", he murmured breathlessly in my ear, "… look.at.me."
Summoning the last ounce of strength, I complied. My vision blurred as he drove into me, fulfilling every desire, draining the last of my energy.
He was merciless. Hard. Exactly how I loved it.
And then came the next orgasm, sudden and unforgiving, sweeping me away completely, pulling me out of reality.
My inner muscles clamped down on him so tightly that he stumbled mid-thrust. "Shit, you're killing me", he gasped, thrusting deep two, three, four more times before he finally came — long and hard, inside me.
Gradually, his movements slowed. Our breaths evened out, the room settling around us.
He stayed propped on his hands beside my head, arms tense as he held himself from collapsing on me. A breathless laugh escaped him. "I take that back…"
"Huh?", I whispered, chest heaving.
"I take that back", he said, voice rough. "That was the best sex we ever had!"
"I would never in a million years spend the night in there with you!"
With my arms crossed tightly over my chest, I sank deeper into the passenger seat, my gaze fixed in disbelief on the dark, silent house in front of us. Rain kept hammering relentlessly against the windshield of Mark's Ford Bronco. Somewhere in the distance, thunder cracked through the night like a warning.
Beside me, Mark let out a dramatic sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, eyes closed, breathing measured — like he was physically holding himself together, trying not to completely lose his patience.
"And what exactly do you suggest we do instead?" His voice was calm. Too calm. I knew him well enough to recognize that this was the voice he used when he was anything but calm.
I shrugged, still stubbornly staring straight ahead. "I don't know."
Mark huffed and turned toward me. "Great plan, y/n."
Then, softer, more careful: "C'mon. Dave's gone all weekend. He won't mind if we crash at his place. It's better than killing ourselves out there in this storm."
Deep down, I knew he was right. Driving any further in weather like this would've been suicide.
But I couldn't just…agree to this. I couldn't spend the night in the same house as him — not after everything. Not after he had ripped my heart out, crushed it without mercy, and left me emotionally wrecked in the aftermath.
"No way", I said firmly, shaking my head. "I'll just call an Uber."
From the corner of my eye, I saw his eyebrow lift as he watched me dig my phone out of my jacket pocket — only to be greeted by the mocking words No service on the screen.
"Fuck", I muttered, letting the phone drop against my thigh.
Mark, of course, looked like he'd already expected this. He clapped his hands once, as if the matter was settled, unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the driver's door. Cold air rushed into the car, making me shiver instantly.
"C'mon", he said over his shoulder. "There are multiple beds in there. We are not sleeping in the car!"
Without waiting for my response, he stepped out into the rain and jogged toward the front door.
I watched him for a few seconds…then, with a quiet sigh of defeat, I followed.
My shoes made soft, wet sounds against the rain-soaked ground. To keep from getting completely drenched, I pulled my jacket over my head — though it probably wasn't just the rain I was trying to shield myself from, but everything that was about to happen.
With quick steps, I came to a halt beside Mark in front of the front door. He glanced at me only briefly, wearing that unmistakable grin that clearly said: See? Told ya.
I rolled my eyes instinctively. A habit I'd picked up during our time together.
"Do you actually have a key?", I finally asked, letting the jacket fall back over my shoulders while tugging it tighter around myself. Thank god the architect of this house had at least been smart enough to include a porch roof.
Mark's mouth curved into that crooked grin again as he shook his head. "Nope."
That made me pause — until he crouched down beside the door, lifted the flower pot resting there, and revealed a single key hidden underneath. That explained a lot.
"Creative hiding spot", I muttered. Still, I was ridiculously relieved that he knew where the spare key was and hadn't planned on breaking into the house.
Mark shot me a quick wink before sliding the key into the lock. The door opened with a quiet creak. "Ladies first", he said, gesturing me inside with a mock-gallant sweep of his hand.
I rolled my eyes again but stepped over the threshold anyway. The brief brush of my arm against his chest was something I very deliberately chose to ignore.
Inside, I was met with a warm, muted stillness — a sharp contrast to the storm raging outside. Rain hammered against the windows while somewhere in the house, soft creaks traveled through the walls, as if the building itself had noticed that two people with far too much unspoken history had just crossed its threshold.
I reached for the light switch beside the front door, needing the light just to orient myself. Then, I slipped out of my jacket and draped it over the nearest chair. Water dripped onto the floor — and for a moment I simply stared at the small dark spots, as if they might tell me how I was supposed to handle this.
With a quiet sigh, I kicked off my shoes, nudging them aside with my foot so I wouldn't track even more dirt through the house. The thin fabric of my socks met the cool floorboards, grounding and exposing all at once.
A second later, I heard the soft thud of Mark's boots hitting the floor behind me. Of course he noticed. Of course he followed suit.
Then he closed the door behind us and leaned back against it. Too briefly to be accidental.
"See? Not so bad", he said quietly.
I didn't turn around. "We've been here for thirty seconds."
A soft, almost amused exhale behind me. "Fair."
I folded my arms across my chest again — not because I was cold, but because I needed something to hold myself together. The house was cozy. Far too cozy. Dim lighting, warm wood tones, a blanket casually thrown over the couch. Like it had been designed for people to feel safe here. To let their guard down. To let closeness happen.
Great.
"I'll show you the layout real quick", Mark said, pushing himself away from the door. "Then you can pick a room as far away from me as possible."
I shot him a brief glance. "Appreciate the consideration."
A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. Not forced. Not teasing. But the other one. The one that used to knock the ground right out from under me. I hated that it still worked.
He led me down the hallway, gesturing to two doors. "Guest rooms. Both comfy. Bathroom's in between. Kitchen…" He nodded toward the open living area. "…obvious."
"You've really studied this place", I muttered.
"Dave and I once got stuck here way too long on an observation." His shoulders lifted slightly. "It kind of feels familiar."
I only nodded, even though something unpleasant twisted in my stomach. Too many shared memories. Too many nights where familiarity had been dangerous.
"I'll take that one", I said eventually, pointing to the room at the end of the hall.
Mark nodded. No comment. No joke. And somehow that made it worse.
When I closed the door behind me, I leaned my forehead against it. Breathed in. Out. Just one night. Just a storm. Just a house. Just Mark Meachum.
What could possibly go wrong?
Outside, thunder rolled through the sky, like the universe itself was laughing.
---
I spent a while in the room, lying on the bed, letting the silence settle around me, though my mind refused to. Every detail of the day — the witness interview, the drive, the storm — kept looping in my head. Why hadn't we just made the whole thing weather-dependent? Checked the forecast properly, listened to the warnings? We'd never have driven this far, never ended up here, in a house I didn't belong in, with him just two doors down.
I hugged my knees, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how I'd let him get too close once. Too close, too fast, and how cruelly he'd pulled away afterward, leaving me raw and tangled in my own feelings. And now, he was somewhere behind that wall, probably lying in the guest bed two rooms over, completely at ease, probably even snoring lightly, while I tried to make sense of the mess he'd left me in.
I reached for my phone, fingers trembling slightly. The screen lit up: 2:37 a.m. A small, bitter laugh escaped me. Who plans for this? Who ends up in a stranger's house in the middle of a storm with the one person they'd hoped never to see again like this?
With a sigh, I swung my legs over the bed and padded out into the hallway, bare feet brushing the cool floor. The oversized T-shirt, tossed on the bed and practically calling my name, replaced the damp jeans and T-shirt I'd worn all day. It smelled faintly of fabric softener, comforting in its simplicity, and I welcomed the soft weight against my skin.
I reached the kitchen, stretching up toward one of the hanging cabinets, looking for a glass as I heard him.
"Top shelf. Second from the left", Mark's voice broke the quiet, casual and completely unnerving at the same time.
I jumped, spinning around to see him on the sofa in the adjacent living room. Dim light pooled around him. Jeans, dark t-shirt, socks. Whiskey in hand. Casual, effortless, infuriatingly perfect. My gaze lingered longer than it should have — and I felt it, the familiar twist in my chest, the rush of heat I always tried to hide — before forcing myself to blink and give him a sardonic tilt of my head.
"Wow, captain instructional. Good thing I didn't know the glass patrol was on duty tonight", I muttered.
He laughed, a low, amused sound that slid straight under my skin. "I've got to set boundaries somewhere", he said, raising the glass slightly.
I grabbed a glass, hesitated, thinking about the water bottle tucked in the fridge, before noticing the whiskey bottle sitting temptingly on the living room table.
Mark's eyes flicked toward it, a half-smile teasing. "Help yourself", he said. "But if you want some, you'll have to come over here."
I froze for a heartbeat. Something stronger than water felt necessary — maybe necessary in ways I didn't want to admit.
Then I crossed the short distance and poured myself a modest amount, the amber liquid catching the dim light.
Mark's eyes followed me the entire way, slow and deliberate, as I reached for the whiskey bottle on the living room table. I could feel the weight of his gaze tracing my movements — the way my bare legs stretched toward the table, the soft bend of my knees as I lifted the bottle, the careful tilt as the liquid filled my glass.
Heat pooled in my stomach. My skin tingled in a way that was impossible to ignore, my pulse picking up. I hated that he could do this to me — that just by watching, he could make me so acutely aware of myself, of my bare legs, of the way the oversized t-shirt barely protected me. Vulnerable. Exposed. And yet, part of me couldn't look away, couldn't stop wondering if that subtle smirk or the faint sparkle in his eyes meant he knew exactly what he was doing.
"Wow", I said finally, tilting my head, trying to sound more amused than flustered. "Really subtle, Meachum. Watching me like some…exhibit?"
He straightened slightly on the sofa, raising his hand in mock defense, though the faint grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. "Hey! I was just…making sure you didn't spill the whiskey."
I rolled my eyes, hiding a small smile. "Uh-huh. Totally believable."
Sitting beside him on the sofa, I left enough space between us to breathe, tugging the hem of the t-shirt over my knees like it could somehow shield me from him. But I could feel it — his eyes lingering, impossibly, on the expanse of my bare legs. The awareness sent a sharp little thrill through me, mingled with the heat of embarrassment and something I wasn't ready to name. Too much skin, too much memory, too much him.
The quiet thrum of the storm outside, the faint scent of whiskey, the muted lamplight, the sofa beneath us, and the unspoken tension between us — it made every nerve alive, every thought sharp, every feeling impossible to ignore.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The kind of silence that wasn't empty, but heavy. Charged. Loud in ways sound could never be.
I lifted the glass to my lips and took a larger sip than I meant to. The whiskey burned its way down my throat, sharp and unforgiving — and somehow that sting grounded me. Pulled me back into my body. Back into the room. Back onto the sofa, with Mark sitting far too close for someone I was trying very hard not to feel anything for.
His gaze never really left me. I could feel it without even looking.
And of course, that was exactly what my mind chose to latch onto.
Memories came uninvited, slipping in through every crack I tried to keep sealed shut.
The first time we'd met — all wrong timing, all wrong place. Him leaning in the doorway of the briefing room, coffee in hand, watching me like he'd already decided I was trouble. Late nights on stakeouts, sharing bad jokes and worse snacks, laughing far too easily for two people who were supposed to keep things professional. That night on the motel balcony, when the air had been too warm and the distance between us too small, when his hand had brushed mine and neither of us had pulled away. The first kiss that had never been part of the plan. The way I'd fallen asleep against his shoulder afterward, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I hadn't been building walls my entire life.
God, I'd been so stupid.
A quiet exhale left my lungs before I even realized I'd been holding my breath.
"You're not sleeping either, huh?"
His voice cut gently through the mess in my head.
I blinked, focusing back on the present. On the dim light. On the storm. On him.
I tilted my head slightly, lifting the glass in a mock toast. "Yeah, well. I always preferred listening to thunderstorms on some acquaintance's couch with my ex and a bottle of overpriced discount whiskey."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Ouch." Then he shook his head faintly. "For the record…Dave's not just an acquaintance. He's a friend."
I wrinkled my nose instinctively. "You have weird standards for friendship."
That finally earned me a quiet laugh. Not loud. Not forced. Just real enough to tug something uncomfortable in my chest.
I hated that it still did that.
I took another sip, slower this time, eyes dropping to the amber liquid as if it held answers. It didn't. But it gave me something to do besides look at him. Besides think about how he was still sitting there, still watching me, still existing far too close to my carefully maintained emotional distance.
Outside, the storm rumbled again. Inside, everything felt louder.
---
It was sometime around four in the morning when I finally noticed the clock on the oven.
The storm had softened to a steady, tired drizzle. The world outside felt paused, like it, too, had run out of energy to keep raging.
Inside, the whiskey bottle sat between us on the coffee table, noticeably lighter than it had been. My glass had been refilled three times now — maybe four, if I was being honest with myself.
We were still on the sofa. Talking. And somehow, at some point, the space between us had shrunk. Not gone. Not dangerous. Just...smaller. Enough that our shoulders occasionally brushed when one of us shifted. Enough that his warmth reached me without trying.
I didn't remember how the conversation had drifted here. One moment we'd been trading sarcastic comments about Dave's questionable choice in house décor, and the next—
"Remember that stakeout in Berlin?", Mark said, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "When you almost blew our cover because you laughed at my accent?"
I huffed softly. "You sounded like a villain from a low-budget spy movie."
"You're cruel."
"You're dramatic."
He smiled at that, the kind that came easy now. Unguarded.
"Okay, my turn", I said, lifting my glass slightly. "The time you tried to make coffee in the break room and somehow managed to set off the smoke alarm."
"That machine was faulty."
"You put hot sauce in it, Mark."
"In my defense, it was labeled terribly."
We were both laughing now. Actually laughing. The kind that reached the eyes.
Alcohol had a way of dissolving the careful edges. Of loosening the parts of me that had been clenched tight for too long.
The memories shifted slowly after that. From ridiculous. To familiar. To…softer.
"That night in Prague", he said quietly after a moment. "When everything went sideways. You stayed up with me until sunrise."
I nodded. I remembered. Too well.
"You didn't have to", he added. "But you did."
I swallowed, gaze dropping to my glass. "You looked like you needed someone who wouldn't leave."
The words settled between us, heavier than everything else we'd said tonight.
My chest felt too tight. Too exposed.
So of course my mouth chose the worst possible direction instead.
"And then there was the time in that stupid motel in Valencia", I said lightly, too lightly. "When we both agreed that sharing one bed was a terrible idea."
His smile faltered — not fading, just shifting. Sharpening. His head tilted slightly. "Was it?"
I exhaled a quiet, humorless breath. "No. That was the problem."
I stared ahead, the memory too vivid, too warm, too dangerous. The closeness. The laughter that had faded into silence. The way everything had felt inevitable.
When I finally glanced at him, his expression had changed. Not angry. Just… intense.
"Don't", he said quietly.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that." His voice was lower now, rougher around the edges. "Not when you're sitting this close to me."
My pulse tripped. "Why?", I asked, even though part of me already knew the answer.
He held my gaze, unwavering. "Because it's hard enough hearing you talk about us like it meant something", he said slowly. "When I'm not allowed to do anything about it."
The air between us felt suddenly too thin. Too charged.
But for reasons I couldn't explain, I couldn't make myself stop — not when the memories of that night flared so vividly behind my closed eyes, as if it had happened yesterday.
"Do you remember that night?", I asked before I could stop myself.
He didn't look away.
"Yeah", he said quietly, his voice lower now. "I remember." His jaw flexed once. "It was…impossible to forget."
Something in his gaze darkened, just slightly. Like a shadow passing over something already intense.
"I still think about it", he admitted, softly enough that it felt like a confession he hadn't meant to give.
My breath hitched — barely noticeable, but real.
I tilted my head, forcing a half-smile I didn't quite feel. "That sounds like a you problem. No one's forcing you to think about it."
A beat of silence. Then he turned fully toward me.
"That's exactly the problem", he said. "It was the best sex we ever had."
The air felt heavier. Thicker.
Instinctively, I bit down on my lower lip, my thighs pressing closer together as Mark's gaze locked onto mine — as if he were trying to take in every reaction, every flicker of vulnerability.
He noticed.
"Do you ever miss it?", he asked quietly. "Being like we were. Not the chaos. Not the fallout. But…us. The way we fit when it was just us."
I hesitated.
His voice softened. "I don't mean just physically", he added, though both meanings lingered in the air. "I mean the way we moved around each other. The way everything felt easy. Natural. Like we were exactly where we were supposed to be."
My chest tightened.
The truth hovered on my tongue — terrifying and achingly familiar.
"Yes", I admitted finally, barely above a whisper. "I do."
The word settled between us like a live wire.
Neither of us moved. But neither of us looked away either.
Instead, Mark shifted closer — close enough that our knees touched. The rough denim of his jeans brushed against the strip of bare skin the oversized t-shirt didn't quite manage to hide. The contact was barely there. And yet it felt impossibly loud.
I stilled for a heartbeat, fighting the instinct to unravel over something so small. So stupid. I straightened my spine as much as my cross-legged position allowed, as if posture alone could make me less transparent. Less breakable. Less his.
It didn't help.
Because then I looked at him. At those eyes. Those infuriating, beautiful green eyes that had once held promises they'd never kept. That had once made me believe in futures I'd had to bury.
"I was such a damn idiot, sweetheart", Mark whispered, his voice raw, almost stripped bare. "I wrecked everything. All of it. Over one stupid moment."
The words hit deeper than I expected. Deeper than I wanted.
Grief rose first. Then anger. Then the unbearable confusion that had haunted me ever since. That familiar burn gathered behind my eyes, sharp and threatening. I blinked hard. Once. Twice. Don't cry. Not now. Not here. Not in front of him.
"You cheated on me, Mark."
The words barely made it past my throat. Too fragile. Too tight. The memory of that night — his voice, his confession, the way my world had cracked open — still hurt like fresh glass.
"I know", he said quietly. "But it was only one time. You have to believe me."
A hollow, bitter sound left me — half laugh, half breath — and I hated myself for it when the tears slipped free anyway, tracing hot lines down my cheeks.
"One time too many."
Mark swallowed hard after my words. I saw it in his throat, the way the guilt sat there like something sharp.
"I know", he said again, but this time it wasn't just acknowledgment. It sounded like regret carved into every syllable. "I know what I did to you. And I hate myself for it every fucking day."
My breath trembled. The dam I'd held together for hours cracked completely.
"You have no idea...", I whispered, and then my voice broke open. "...no idea what you meant to me. What you still mean to me." A shaky laugh escaped me, bitter and wounded. "I thought we were…solid. That whatever we were building, it was real. And then you threw it away for..." I scoffed, tears blurring everything. "For that blonde disaster with the personality of stale toast."
The words were sharp. Ugly. Honest.
Mark didn't even flinch. Instead, his face crumpled in something dangerously close to pain. "You're right", he said quietly. "About all of it."
I shook my head, anger rising again through the tears. "Then explain it to me! Because I still don't understand how you could even look at her when you were...when we were—"
"Happy", he finished softly.
That single word hurt more than anything else.
"We were", he said again. "God, we were. That was the problem."
I blinked at him, confused, furious. "What?"
His gaze dropped to his hands, clasped tightly together like he was holding himself in place. "It started feeling...too good. Too real. Like something I didn't deserve. Like eventually you'd wake up and realize you deserved someone better. Someone who could give you more than I ever could."
My head snapped up. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard."
He looked up again, startled.
"You think I stayed because it was convenient?", I demanded, voice rising. "You think I went through everything with you because I didn't know what I wanted?" My chest felt like it was splitting open. "Meachum, I sat next to hospital beds and waited for test results. I watched you fight through pain and fear and exhaustion and I still chose you. Over and over again."
Silence slammed into the space between us.
"You don't get to tell me I'd leave", I said, quieter now, but more dangerous. "You don't get to rewrite what I felt just because you got scared."
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Pain flickered across his face.
"I was trying to protect you", he said weakly.
I shook my head fiercely. "No. You were trying to protect yourself."
He nodded slowly, like he couldn't deny it anymore. "Yeah. Maybe I was."
The tears wouldn't stop now.
"You broke me", I admitted, voice trembling. "You broke something in me so deeply that I don't know if I'll ever let anyone that close again. I don't know if I'll ever feel safe enough to give someone what I gave you."
Mark's head lifted sharply. "That's not true."
I let out a humorless laugh. "You don't get to decide that either."
"You will find someone", he said immediately, conviction burning behind his eyes. "Someone who earns it. Someone who deserves the way you love. Because you…you love like it's rare. Like it's sacred."
My breath caught painfully.
He shifted closer without me fully noticing it happening — slowly, carefully, like he was afraid I'd bolt. His knee brushed mine again. This time, neither of us moved away.
"I'm so sorry", he whispered.
His hand lifted hesitantly, as if asking permission without words. When his thumb brushed gently beneath my eye, wiping away a tear, something inside me fractured and softened all at once. The touch was careful. Reverent.
Another tear followed. And he caught that one too. Then another.
We were too close now. Close enough that I could see the tiny scar above his eyebrow. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, the gravity of him, the pull of everything we'd ever been.
Outside, the storm had picked up again, rain hammering against the windows, lightning slicing through the night — as if the weather itself was aware of the tension building inside.
We stayed like that, too close to pull away, too close to ignore. Our eyes locked, and it felt like the world had shrunk to just the two of us. Every heartbeat was louder than the last, every inhale sharper, every tiny shift of air around us electric.
Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted his other hand to my cheek. I kept my hands folded tightly in my lap, gripping them together as if my life depended on it — forcing myself not to reach for him, not to lean into that warmth. Our whiskey glasses, long forgotten on the coffee table, sat abandoned, witnesses to how quickly everything else had fallen away.
His gaze roamed over my face, lingering at the curve of my jaw, tracing the line of my lips, then darting back up to my eyes.
My throat tightened. I wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came out. Not a word. Not a sound.
"I'm so sorry, y/n", he whispered, just barely audible, a confession meant only for me.
Then he leaned forward, ever so slightly. My eyes fluttered shut, surrendering before I even realized it. And as his breath brushed against my lips, every thought except the memory of his mouth — the way it had always felt, the way it had always made me forget myself — disappeared. My chest tightened, my heartbeat sped, my stomach clenched. I could only feel.
His lips met mine — soft, tentative, impossibly close, a whisper of a touch that sent everything inside me into overdrive.
And then — a thunderclap, impossibly loud, crashing through the house. We both jerked back, hearts racing, eyes wide, breath stolen by the sudden sound.
Then…we laughed. Nervously. Breathless and awkward. A shared sound that broke the tension just enough to remind us we were still human, still alive.
"That was close", I whispered, cheeks burning as I looked down for a moment, trying to steady my racing pulse.
He nodded, scratching the back of his neck, the faintest hint of sheepishness in his expression.
But then…his gaze found me again. That impossible, unreadable look — sharp, magnetic, filled with all the things he never said, all the things I hadn't dared to admit. The air between us felt like it could ignite.
Before I could even think, he snapped forward. His lips met mine again— but this time the contact was hard, claiming, desperate.
I gasped. A startled, unformed sound, but instinctively, I surrendered. My hands shot up, threading into his hair, tugging him closer, needing the contact, needing…him.
His hands found my hips, strong and sure, pulling me impossibly nearer, tilting the balance of the world. Every heartbeat, every nerve, every inch of me alert and alive.
The kiss deepened, hotter, like every unspoken word, every crushed memory, every longing we'd both buried came rushing out through our mouths. I could feel it in the press of his body against mine, the tilt of his head, the way his lips molded to mine with such familiarity it was like breathing.
Then he moved — subtle at first, testing the ground — and suddenly I was straddling him, knees on either side, pressed against him. My hands in his hair, his hands on my hips, and the world outside, the storm, everything, had shrunk to just this. Just us. Just this fire, this electric pull, this collision of memory, desire, and too-long-suppressed emotion.
The kiss intensified, turning more urgent — especially when Mark traced his tongue along my lower lip, a silent request for entry. I granted it without hesitation.
I felt him shift beneath me, the solid weight of his body, the warmth of his skin even through the layers of our clothes — and all the hesitation, all the fear, all the longing of the past hours and months melted away, dissolving into that one, shattering, perfect moment.
Summary: I thought I was just walking down a hallway…until everything changed in a single, chaotic moment. And somehow, Jared was right there, making it impossible to look away.
Warnings: Nothing really, except Jared Padalecki being impossible cute.
Words: 1068
Note: English isn't my first language.
This is a work of fiction. Jared Padalecki does not belong to me, nor do any of the actions or words depicted in this story reflect real events, behaviors, or beliefs. Everything is purely imagined and created for entertainment purposes only.
@deanwinchestersgirl8734 thank you so much for your request🥰Based on this!
I had always thought I could handle a simple walk down a hallway. Today, apparently, I was very, very wrong.
It all started innocently enough. I was backstage, trying to sneak a peek at Jared without being noticed, because honestly, who could resist? He was walking with his team again — assistants, manager, the whole crew — moving confidently through the long, carpeted hallway. I had to bite back a laugh, watching him stride like he owned the place.
I should have stayed out of the way. I really should have. But curiosity — and maybe a tiny, undeniable attraction — got the better of me.
I took one careful step forward. Then another. My eyes glued to him, not paying attention to the curtain that hung a little too low on the rod in the middle of the room. I didn't see it until it was too late: My foot caught on the hem of the curtain.
Time slowed down.
The rod wobbled. Jared didn't notice yet, still striding with that confident air. I panicked, tried to step back, but my own clumsiness betrayed me — I stumbled forward, arms flailing uselessly.
And then it happened.
The curtain rod gave way with a horrible crash, the heavy drapery tumbling down in a dramatic, terrifying sweep. My heart leapt into my throat. Oh my god! I was sure I had just ruined everything.
But then — miraculously — strong arms wrapped around me. Warm, steady, unshakable. Jared. Jared fucking Padalecki.
"Whoa, careful", he said, his voice calm but amused, grounding me in the chaos as my heart pounded like a drum. "You trying to take down the whole set by yourself?"
I could barely breathe, still pressed against him, my hands instinctively clutching at his chest to keep my balance. I wanted to apologize, to explain, to do literally anything except just stand there, held by Jared.
"I...I'm so sorry", I stammered, my cheeks burning. "I didn't see—"
"You didn't see? Yeah, I noticed", he teased, but there was no anger in his tone, only that infuriating, heart-melting grin. "Next time, keep your eyes on the ground...or at least, out of my path."
I wanted to laugh, but the embarrassment was overwhelming. My entire face must have been red, my hair probably sticking to my forehead from panic. And yet…I couldn't stop noticing how close he was, how solid his chest felt beneath my palms, how safe it was to be in his arms. My brain was screaming at me to move, but every instinct in my body was saying, stay.
He adjusted his hold, one arm around my back, the other under my knees as I tried to regain some dignity.
"You okay?", he asked, genuine concern flickering across his face now. His eyes — those impossibly green-brown eyes — searched mine, and I felt like he could see right through the layers of my clumsiness, right into every flustered, panicked thought.
I nodded too quickly. "Y...Yeah. I'm fine" My voice cracked on the last word. Of course it did.
"Sure you are", he said, his tone teasing again, but softer now. He gently set me back on my feet, still keeping a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You're lucky I was here to save the day."
I wanted to tell him that yes, I knew I was lucky — but also that I had never felt more mortified in my life. And maybe, just maybe, more thrilled than I should have been, because Jared Padalecki had literally caught me in the middle of a disaster, and it had felt…I don't even know. Safe? Electric? Both at once?
The curtain lay in ruins behind us, the rod bent a bit, and a few crew members rushed over, faces a mixture of alarm and suppressed laughter. I shrank back, hoping they didn't notice how flustered I was. Jared, however, just shook his head, still smiling, and gave me a wink.
"See?", he said, gesturing vaguely at the mess. "You're not supposed to handle heavy drapery on your own."
I groaned, hiding my face in my hands for a second. "I really am the worst."
"No", he said, his voice warm, pulling me gently by the elbow so I couldn’t hide completely. "You're human. You just…have excellent timing for chaos."
I laughed, nervously, the tension of the moment melting just a little. My heart was still racing, but the embarrassment was mingled with this…strange thrill. Somehow, despite nearly destroying part of the set and almost taking Jared down with me, I felt a connection I couldn't quite explain.
"You okay now?", he asked, still holding onto me, still smiling that grin that made everything in the world feel lighter.
I nodded, finally meeting his gaze properly. "I…think so. Thanks to you."
He shrugged, but the smile didn't leave his face. "Well, what are heroes for, if not saving adorable, clumsy strangers from themselves?"
I felt heat rush to my cheeks again, both from the compliment and from the lingering closeness. I wanted to say something clever, witty, flirty — but my brain short-circuited. Instead, I just laughed nervously, my hands fiddling with the hem of my shirt.
Jared seemed to notice and chuckled softly, the sound wrapping around me like a warm blanket. "You know...", he said, leaning just slightly closer, "...next time you want to make an entrance, maybe…not through a collapsing curtain?"
I laughed again, more genuinely this time, the tension finally easing. "Yeah, lesson learned."
"Good." He gave me a quick, reassuring squeeze before stepping back, finally letting me fully breathe again. "And hey...", he added, voice a little lower now, "...don't worry. I've got you next time."
And just like that, the embarrassment, the chaos, the adrenaline — it all turned into this…tingling anticipation. Because if Jared Padalecki said he'd got me, somehow, I believed him. Somehow, I wanted to be caught again.
Part 4 of "Hunters don't do holidays (except when they do)"✨️
Pairing: Dean Winchester × fem!reader
Summary: Dean Winchester never liked birthdays — too loud, too personal, too easy to feel replaceable. But sometimes, the quiet moments matter more than the celebration.
Warnings: fluff, fear of messing things up, slown burn, soft confessions
Words: 1703
Note: English isn't my first language.
Happy birthday, Dean!♥️
All stories in this series work on their own, but trust me: Reading them back to back just hits different🤞
💫Want more hunter holiday chaos? Head to my masterlist — all stories from this series (and a few more disasters) are waiting for you.
"Ssssh…he's coming!", I whispered, trying — and failing — not to giggle. The feeling bubbled up like a little kid on christmas morning.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the bunker hallway.
I stole one last glance at the faces waiting for him: Castiel, Jack, Charlie, Jody, Alex, Claire, even Garth had somehow made it. All wearing party hats, and some gripping plastic noisemakers with more enthusiasm than usual between their fingers.
Sam stood front and center, holding the cake we'd spent hours early this morning baking: chocolate, layered generously, with flickering candles spelling out a 4 and a 7. He stared at the candles like the numbers might change if he looked at them long enough.
Then Dean appeared in the doorway. His eyes widened, surprise flashing across his face, and for a heartbeat he didn't move.
"Happy birthday!", we all shouted — the room erupting in laughter, chatter, and the collective blowing of noisemakers.
He froze, overwhelmed, but forced a smile. One by one, everyone hugged him. The warmth, the chaos, the love of found family pressing in — it was all too much and yet exactly right.
I waited, a little anxious, standing last in line. When his gaze found mine, everything shifted. Softer, steady, full of warmth I hadn't realized I'd been craving all along. His lips curved in a small, careful smile, and I felt my chest tighten.
Since that New Year's Eve, nothing had changed between us. No words. No kisses. Just fleeting touches: a brush of fingers, a shoulder grazing mine, hands lingering too long — accidents that didn't feel accidental.
I leaned forward slightly, whispering: "Happy birthday."
"Thanks", he murmured, just as quietly, before drawing me close. My cheek pressed to his chest, my heartbeat syncing with his, and his arms wrapped firmly around me, chin resting lightly atop my head near the party hat.
The laughter blurred into a distant hum. All I could hear was his breathing beneath my ear.
I stayed still, letting my mind wander: What was this between us? How did we navigate the space we keep circling but never crossing?
A soft laugh broke the moment — Charlie, grinning and holding a party hat. "You have to wear this too, Dean!"
Dean gave me a helpless glance. "Do I really have to?"
I smirked, teasing. "Nope. Totally your choice…not."
He scowled, exaggerated and grumpy, before letting her plop the hat atop his head.
I added, with a wink: "At least it won't make you look any older."
His eyes narrowed. "You're on thin ice, sweetheart."
I smiled innocently. "You're the one who is almost fifty."
He shook his head, grumbling but amused.
Charlie plopped the hat atop his head: "And there are gifts too, not just the cake Sam and her baked!"
I watched them go, a warm smile tugging at my lips, my chest light with contentment.
Later, we all sat around the table, laughter and chatter filling the room. Empty plates, empty glasses, the cake long devoured. Dean had insisted, repeatedly, it was the best chocolate cake ever.
I laughed at an unintentional joke from Castiel and found my eyes drifting to Dean. He turned a beer bottle in his hands, thoughtful, distracted. I could see the quiet calculation behind his eyes, and when he noticed me watching, he offered a small, acknowledging smile — just like he wanted to tell me that everything was okay.
Then, abruptly, he stood. "I'll be right back", he said, casual, loud enough for the table. "Just…bathroom."
Sam nodded without looking, returning to Jody. Dean winked at me, soft, sly, before disappearing down the hall.
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen clock made me pause. Concern nudged at me, soft but persistent. I leaned toward Charlie, who was picking stray crumbs from her plate. "I'll check on him", I whispered.
"Everything okay?", she asked.
"Yeah", I smiled, brushing off the worry.
I went toward the nearby bathrooms first, knocking lightly. "Dean?" Empty. No answer.
So I moved on, hesitating briefly outside his room. I rapped softly.
"Yeah?" His voice, slightly muffled.
I opened the door. He was sprawled across his bed, boots kicked carelessly onto the floor, party hat resting on the nightstand. Arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling — but when he saw me, his eyes found mine.
"You okay?", I asked, pausing, unsure.
A deep breath. He exhaled slowly. "It just got…a bit loud with so many hunters around", he said, voice soft, faintly amused.
"Oh" I nodded, a pang of guilt hitting me for orchestrating the whole thing with Sam.
"I'm…really grateful, though", he added, quick to reassure.
I smiled lightly, unsure, rocking from foot to foot, taking in his room: a jacket folded neatly on the chair, a stray notepad with scribbled lore pages peeking out.
He chuckled softly. "What?"
I tilted my head, unsure how to explain.
He patted the bed beside him, voice low: "Come here." One arm rolled behind his head, inviting.
I hesitated for a heartbeat, then another, before stepping closer to the bed. I kicked off my shoes, the soft thud against the floor sounding louder than it should have, and carefully climbed onto the mattress. The sheets dipped beneath my weight as I shifted onto one side, leaving a careful inch of space between us, my head resting tentatively against his arm — close, but not yet claiming.
The distance lasted only a second. Maybe less. His hand found my back, warm and steady, fingers spreading as he pulled me closer, slow but certain, until my body followed without resistance. My head settled on his chest, heart syncing with his. The tight knot in my chest loosened, my shoulders sinking as if my body had finally decided it was safe to rest.
He didn't move. Not a twitch. Not a breath out of place. Just the warmth of him pressed against me — steady, grounding.
Cheek against his chest, my breathing slowly falling into rhythm with his, steady and patient, but also aware — aware of me, aware of everything.
I let myself breathe him in — leather, faint bourbon, something indefinably him — and my thoughts tumbled over themselves again. How did we do this without breaking it him or me — without breaking us? Could one wrong move send him retreating behind that familiar smile, pretending it never mattered?
I remembered the weight of his lips that New Year's Eve, the way they'd pressed so deliberately, teasing yet serious — and suddenly this, right here, felt like the inevitable next step, even if neither of us dared to say it.
Dean shifted slightly, hand pressing more firmly against my back, pulling me closer as if he could read exactly what I needed, what I hadn't even known I wanted yet. Then, softly, almost a murmur: "I…don't want to screw this up."
The words carried months of unsaid things. My heart thudded harder.
"Dean…", I breathed, unsure how to soothe him, how to tell him he didn't have to protect me from us.
"I mean it,", he murmured, low, careful. "Every time something feels...good…I'm scared it'll break. That I'll break it."
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. "Dean, it's…us. It's not going to break. Not like that."
A small, almost sheepish smile curved his lips. His thumb brushed my shoulder, tracing invisible circles. "I hope you're right,", he murmured, nuzzling his face against my head.
I rested there, letting the silence settle around us. His arm was wrapped securely around me, and for a moment, his hand stayed still at my back — warm, grounding.
Then it moved.
Slowly, his palm slid downward along the curve of my spine, following the line of my body until his fingers reached the hem of my shirt. He stopped there, just for a beat — long enough for me to notice, long enough for my breath to hitch.
Careful fingers brushed beneath my fabric, tentative at first. Just his fingertips, testing, asking a question he didn't say out loud.
My reaction came instantly — a soft inhale, my body leaning back into him without thinking. That was all the permission he needed.
His whole hand slipped under my shirt then, warm against bare skin. The contact sent a quiet shiver through me as his palm settled at my lower back. He traced my spine slowly, up and down, unhurried, as if memorizing every inch — as if committing this moment to muscle memory.
His thumb began to move in small, absent-minded motions, grounding and intimate all at once. It wasn't about urgency. It was about closeness. About reassurance.
I melted into him, every thought fading except the steady rise and fall of his breathing under me, the weight of his hand against my skin — a touch that felt like a promise neither of us was quite ready to speak.
For the first time that day, the chaos outside — the laughter, the noise, the party — could fade completely. And it was just us — safe in this small, quiet space.
"I'm right here", I whispered. "And I'm not going anywhere."
He tilted his head, a relieved laugh escaping, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Good", he murmured, tightening his hold. "Because… I want this."
Goosebumps ran along my arms. I smiled into his chest, letting my fingers trace the hem of his shirt, memorizing the lines of him, of us.
"I'm old", he huffed softly. "Got more scars than good habits. More history than future sometimes. You deserve someone...lighter than that." Than quieter:"But I'm…glad you're here. With me. Even when I'm an idiot about…everything", Dean murmured, soft and gruff.
"I wouldn't be anywhere else", I whispered back, pressing closer, feeling his warmth anchor me in a way nothing else ever had.
For me, he wasn't old. He was just carrying more years than I did. And somehow, I didn't want less of him for it. I wanted all of him.
For the rest of the day, we stayed that way — quiet, intertwined, letting the world outside hum and celebrate without us. Nothing needed to explode. Nothing needed to happen.
