#dean winchester fanfiction smut

[all-alone-he-turns-to-stone]

The Most Innocent Sinner

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Summary: For everyone, she's the shy, pure, little Y/n. Dating Dean Winchester is like going on dates with the complete opposite of her. So it is a very nice surprise when Dean learns how kinky she actually is by finding her collection of sex toys.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Rating: 18+

Content warning: Sex toys, masturbation (male and female), dirty talk

Square filled: Dildos for @spnkinkevents / “Now that’s something you definitely shouldn’t try at home.” for @jacklesversebingo / masturbation for @anyfandomkinkbingo / “Unfortunately, I’m turned on by that.” for @anyfandomgoesbingo

A/n: Finding a title is so hard. I got stuck on this one for way too long. Big thanks to my friends that helped me!

From the outside, Y/n looked like a Saint. Cute, she wasn't very tall and almost sickly shy, and her social anxiety didn't help her case at all. 

Since she didn’t have many friends, Y/n spent her time at the library surrounded by stories that made her forget how alone she felt. The characters on these yellowed sheets would never judge or criticize her, it was a comfort in which she really liked to immerse herself, especially after a hard day.

It was also where she met the Winchester brothers for the first time.

For someone like Y/n, the complete opposite of popular, invisible to people even when she was in the same room with them, the Winchesters were the pinnacle of perfection. Bodies built like gods, well-defined faces, piercing eyes, they gave off a strong and dominating aura that attracted the gaze of everyone in their path. And Y/n was no exception.

The moment the two brothers walked near her table at the library, there was no longer any need to read. Her book closed by itself in front of her, as she no longer held it open, her eyes fixedly stuck on the two men. Following their directions with her gaze, she turned her head, almost hurting her neck.

The colors around her suddenly seemed more vivid. The sounds, sweeter to the ear. She strained her ear to better listen to their conversations. And it was then that the stories she loved reading so much... Became reality.

Y/n had always had a habit of making herself fade away. Not wanting to attract attention, remaining discreet and making herself as small as possible. But the moment she saw them, it was like a light bulb went on inside her, and filled her with a life she had never really felt. And she decided to change that.

She didn’t want to hide anymore.

It was an adventure awaiting her, just like in her books. Filled with villains, monsters, but also angels, laughter, food and finally, a place where she belonged. It didn't take long for her to take part in their lives, quickly becoming a full member of their families. Although she wasn’t trained to be in the field hunting monsters, her lifelong experience of extensive reading was too vital and important to refuse her help.

Initially, Y/n was assigned to research. It was perfect for her, she could show them how efficient she was at this task so they would give her more to do eventually. Quickly, she climbed the ranks in the Winchesters' trust and became closer to them.

Everything about her personality was perfect to fit with Sam's. And yet, as the months stretched into years, she inevitably grew closer to Dean. Some will say that opposites flock together, and they are not wrong. Dean was the opposite of Y/n, stubborn, he didn't hesitate to say what was on his mind and loved seeing the adorable expression that invaded her face when he made inappropriate or worse, sexual comments. Immediately, Y/n would disappear from the room almost like magic, or she would become so embarrassed that he took pity and immediately changed the subject.

Y/n had a purity that Dean never had, and it was one of the reasons why even after all this time knowing her, he was still reluctant to let her come with them on hunts. Or even to involve her in anything that could endanger her or defile this purity. If he could keep her from losing that sparkle in her eyes, he would, no matter the cost.

After a few months of dating, Y/n finally agreed to live in the bunker with them. Dean helped her move in, putting her things in a room other than his, and although not sharing the same bed disappointed him a little, he understood why. She wasn't ready, and he insisted on her comfort. He was willing to wait for her as long as it took.

“If I had known you had that many boxes, I would have brought in extra hands,” Dean huffed, placing yet another heavy box on the ground. Straightening up, he raised his arms above his head to stretch his back.

“Sorry, all my books,” Y/n shrugged and lowered her head, embarrassed.

With a quick wave of his hand, Dean signaled that it was nothing. “It only takes a little longer but it’s no problem,” he quickly said to reassure her, so she wouldn’t feel bad about having so much stuff. After all this time knowing her, he knew how important her books were to her.

Her 500 books which weighed bricks to transport…

“I'll go get another box,” she accepted Dean's answer and as she passed him on her way out, left a quick kiss on the cheek. It was Dean's turn to react, his face quickly turning red.

“Okay, in the meantime, I'm going to start…” Glancing at the mountain of cardboard, Dean sighed again. “Cleaning a little…”

Sam wasn't there. Although he proposed his help for moving her stuff in, Dean's ego was more powerful. As a boyfriend, he had to take care of his girlfriend himself. Without help. Showing her that he was there for her, and that she would always be his priority.

Dean had been in several relationships in the past. And he loved each woman with all of his soul. But each time, his work, his family or the apocalypse had forced him to leave. It had been a very difficult task each time, but he had done it.

Just the thought of leaving Y/n had the same effect as losing a limb. It was unthinkable.

Ah shit. He was in love.

Him, in love?

It was the first time.

… Wait a minute.

He was in love with her.

This realization hit him harder than he expected. Dean took a few steps back, his head spinning quickly. He was in love. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. Never in his entire life had he felt this kind of thing for someone, feelings so strong, so true. When they were together, he felt so good, like he had finally found the thing he was missing. The person he needed.

Dean took another step back, and inevitably, his legs encountered a box. He lost his balance and, trying not to cause a landslide, had to hold himself against the nearest thing… Another box.

This one was strangely and unfortunately lighter than the others and failed to stop him from doing damage. Luckily, Dean kept his balance and avoided the embarrassment of falling on his butt, but the box fell to the ground.

“Son of a bitch,” he grumbled as he hurried to pick it up. As he took it, he noticed that it was not closed properly. It was definitely not his plan to go through Y/n's personal belongings, but when he opened the box to close it better, he couldn't help but see what was inside.

And it wasn't his fault. The first item on top was a box that displayed the inscription of its contents, and his curiosity, well… took care of the rest.

“What the…” taking the item in question, Dean examined it. His hunter's eye detected every detail, inscriptions, the wear on the cardboard and even the place where the packaging had once been sealed before opening. The sticky paper seemed to have been removed so quickly, the color of the cardboard remained stuck on it. It was exactly as if its owner, eager to have the object, hadn’t been concerned by the breakage of its packaging.

SO. It was still possible that the contents were not what was written in black and white on the packaging. It was still a possibility. Dean understood, it was his duty to get to the bottom of it once and for all. Otherwise, the question would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Heart racing for no good reason, Dean placed his fingers where the paper was torn off and pulled the tab. Then, breathless, he opened the box and peered inside.

“Son of a bitch,” his mouth breathed along with the last of his oxygen. No... he couldn't believe it. As if he needed further proof that his eyes had already given him, Dean reached into the box and pulled out the object.

It was still in its bag, but an opening proved its frequent use. Both soft and very hard, it was of regular size and of a pretty pink shade. Dean didn't need to take it out of the bag to know that underneath was the little hole to get charged, the wire still in the box.

In his hand, Dean held the thing he never thought he would hold… Let alone find among his girlfriend's stuff. The sweet, pure, shy Y/n.

Scared that she would come back and see him like this, Dean quickly put the pink dildo vibrator back in its box. A thousand questions swirled through his mind and his heart still hadn't stopped pounding in his ribcage. In his eagerness and nervousness, Dean almost dropped the box, so he had to pull himself together to put it back exactly where he had found it.

And that was when he saw them.

There were plenty of them. A dozen even. Some had their original packaging, others had boxes without inscription. Curiosity rose in Dean who forgot the presence of his girlfriend and owner of these toys in the bunker. It was like suddenly he was alone in the world as he began to pull out everything he had in front of his eyes, his pupils dilating with each new discovery.

Small portable vibrator. One that looked like a butterfly, insertable and vibrant. A… dolphin? A flesh-colored dildo, including ball and base with suction. A magic staff. Purple, pink, black, the colors were added one after the other. And then suddenly...

Dean came across the largest box.

It was curiously and surprisingly big for what was inside. Dean couldn't help it. It was heavy, there was no doubt about the contents, but he had to see it with his eyes, hold it in his hands, and absorb reality.

It couldn't be that big... right?

And oh my god.

“Now that’s something you definitely shouldn’t try at home…”

Examining it from every angle, he still couldn't understand. The words “bad dragon” were forever imprinted in his brain along with the image of that purple and blue hued dildo. It was imposing, as tall as it was wide, and the different textures were strange but pleasant to the touch. And inevitably, his brain went in that perverse direction he imagined...

Her moans filled the room and the echo was carried throughout the whole bunker. Sounds of pleasure? No. Of frustration. She moaned as she tried as best she could to get the dildo into her entrance, which was still too tight for such a monster. But her determination only grew with her goal, and the idea alone of being able to have all those inches inside her was so exciting that she almost didn't need any lube.

“Oh fuck,” breathed through her lips as the head of the toy finally pierced the breach. Her head tilting back, she wiggled on the dildo to widen her entrance to accommodate the rest. Kneeling over the toy made it easier for her to maneuver her body and part her lips for guidance. And when finally the dildo was inside her, a long sigh of relief mixed with the pleasure of having succeeded hissed between her lips.

“I love the view…”

Dean hadn't missed a single thing. Standing in the doorway, he watched, admired, and nourished himself with the magnificent view before him. Kneeling on the bed facing him, she knew he was there. Even though her eyes were closed, she felt his presence, heard his heavy breathing. And then there was the rustling of his clothes every time he adjusted his position or reached for his swollen crotch.

It was one of the hottest things she had ever experienced. The desire was so strong it was palpable. The smell of sex filled the room. A moan passed her lips as she opened her eyes to look at him, her breath leaving her lungs, making the air almost unbreathable because it was so saturated.

"Oh. No."

The sound of a heavy object hitting the ground brought him back to consciousness. Then it took him several seconds to realize the voice that had spoken just before the impact, what it had said and who it belonged to. Turning towards the door, Dean's eyes were wide open, the green almost disappearing from his irises because his pupils were so dilated.

Her face was not in any better condition. As her eyes, wide with fear and shame, moved between what he was holding and the box behind him and finally settling on him, Dean could see the embarrassment quickly filling her being.

“What is this?”

Still shocked by his discovery and what it implied, these words were the first and only ones that had managed to escape his lips. Obviously, he knew what it was, and what it was for. However, he needed to hear it from her mouth. To confirm what his eyes had already understood.

His question only made her more uncomfortable.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” she muttered under her breath, lowering her head and crossing the distance between them to grab the dildo and remove it from the hunter’s hands. All this to hide the evidence that had already been consumed, unfortunately. “Please, forget about it,” she pleaded, still refusing to meet his gaze. Her hand resting next to Dean's on the dildo, she tried to take it back, but was surprised to see that he didn't want to let it go. “Dean?”

“It’s impossible,” his voice was low, almost a breath lost in the tension of the air. “Unfortunately… I’m turned on by that. And here I thought you were all pure and shy…” Taking a pause in his words only made the state Y/n was in worse. Next to Dean, she felt his breath against her cheek, and the heat of his body. It was heavy, his chest moving in time with his harsh breathing. As if he had to do everything to hold back. “I waited for you to be ready, and I'll still wait but… Y/n…” As she still refused to raise her head and meet his gaze, Dean took his other hand, the one that wasn't holding the dildo, to gently lift Y/n’s chin. “Thinking about you touching yourself with that… oh fuck, it’s hot, sweetheart.”

“Yeah?” A shy smile appeared on her lips, her eyes watering at how she was embarrassed but still... Very excited by this idea.

“Oh yeah,” Dean swallowed, his green eyes darting from Y/n's lips to her eyes, then back to her lips. Like two magnets held too far apart, but at the same time too close, it was inevitable.

Dean pressed his mouth to Y/n’s, kissing her forcefully. The dildo was quickly put aside, both needing their hands to touch the other. Dean placed his on Y/n's waist, and her around his neck. Her nails scratched the soft part of his neck, leaving red marks he would never see. It was intense, they almost devoured each other with an insatiable appetite. Opening her lips, Y/n stuck her tongue out barely, just enough to give access to Dean who was quick to push his tongue into her mouth. The kiss became languorous, messy, even, and Y/n backed into a box and almost fell. Dean broke the kiss to ask if she was okay, but she silenced him by replacing her lips on his to continue the kiss.

Their mouths didn't leave each other as clothes flew around the room, some getting stuck on boxes while others fell to the floor. Eventually, they managed to maneuver through the mountains of boxes to get to the bed. Y/n plopped down on the mattress and laughed against Dean’s mouth which only took a second to find its way back to hers. Now both were shirtless and their hands explored each other without stopping.

Finally, Y/n broke the kiss to speak.

“I want you to watch me.”

“What?” Dean was panting, his erection so painful in his pants he was afraid it would explode at the slightest touch. Like a hungry lion demanding its prey, he tried to grab Y/n's lips but she refused him access by placing her fingers between them.

“I want you to watch me use the toy…” If she was an angel a few moments ago, the Y/n he had, lying under him on the bed, half naked, was a little devil hidden under the appearance of a Saint.

Just the thought of seeing her in real life masturbating with the monster he had found made Dean gulp and push himself up so he was on his knees. His face was so red, he had trouble understanding how there could still be blood in his length.

“Are you sure? I mean, I… I can’t say no to that, fuck, but… I don’t want you to feel forced or…”

“Dean,” she interrupted, a smile tugging at her lips. “I really want to. And I know you want it too.” Y/n took a deep, slightly shaky breath before continuing. “So… Bring me the one you want me to use… And get comfortable.”

Dean swallowed and looked at his girlfriend's face. Since he had known her, they had never been this far in their intimacy. And he would never have imagined that she had this in her. Obviously he was surprised, but it was a very pleasant surprise. Like an excited child on Christmas morning, Dean rushed to the box of adult toys and once again admired all the choices presented to him. Each of them infused an image, each more erotic than the other, into his mind. For a moment, he hesitated to take the monster he had found shortly before, but decided that for now, this view was better in his mind. And he didn't want to embarrass Y/n even more than she was, what she was proposing was very intimate, very sexy, but also terribly hard to do. To open up like this, to show yourself like this...

Dean returned to his girlfriend, a box in hand. “This one,” he held out the box, knowing full well what it contained. Y/n took it, hesitated for a few seconds while staring at it in her hands. Just as Dean was about to repeat that she didn't have to, that they could continue to just makeout and that was okay, she opened the box and took out the toy.

It was a simple one. No vibration, just a flesh colored dildo with suction at the bottom. It wasn’t the biggest she owned, but it was still big, almost as big as Dean’s cock. So to see her use this, he could easily picture him in her…

Just the thought sent another wave of arousal down his pants.

“Do you need a moment, or lube or…” Dean was still standing up near the bed as she was on her knees on the mattress. For the first time, he was clueless and didn't know what to do. And yet, it was not his first time, nor the last, that he had more kinky moments with his partner. But Y/n was different, she wasn't just his sexual partner, but the woman he loved. And the prospect of getting even closer and more intimate was worth more than any sex he could have.

“I want you to watch the whole thing,” Y/n replied, lifting her ass off the mattress just enough to undo her pants and pull them down along with her panties with just one hand. In an almost expert manner, she finished undressing herself with one hand, her other never letting go of the toy. “You can sit down, you know,” she laughed when she saw Dean still standing where he was, stiff as a stick.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” he sat on the edge of the bed and turned his body towards her. It was like he was back at 15 with the most popular girl in school, ready for his first time. Nervousness filled his entire being, along with excitement, and if he wasn't so experienced years later, his erection would have disappeared or he would have come prematurely in his pants.

Dean silently thanked all the girls he had in the past that strengthened his stamina.

“How do you want me to use it?” 

Dean could see how nervous she was. It was the first time she was completely naked in front of him, and her body was shaking ever so slightly, shivers that covered her soft skin in goosebumps. But yet, through that nervousness, she was freaking sexy. Still kneeling, she was slowly stroking her intimacy with the toy, coating it with her wetness. And without asking, Dean knew she wouldn’t need any lube.

“Just… Like this, you can ride it…” The words got out of his mouth by automatism. Truth was, Dean was half there now, so excited and focused on her, a part of his mind was shut down. It was so hot, he couldn’t detach his eyes from her body, the way the toy rubbed through her lower lips, how her hips rocked back on it, and her face, so soft, so cute, so embarrassed… With eyes burning in a strong passion.

“Okay,” she whispered. Time seemed to slow down. Dean could feel his heart beating in his head and in his crotch, the intensity growing with each movement she made. Straightening up, she placed the dildo behind her, careful to align it with her entrance, and opened up her legs to let Dean continue watching. 

And he could see it all.

It was better than everything he could ever imagine.

The toy was big, but she was probably very wet and very used to it, because it didn’t take long for her to lower down on it. Inch by inch, the dildo disappeared into her entrance until it was almost completely gone. Her body was bent back, her chest glistening with sweat and the cutest moan left her lips.

“Fuck,” Dean groaned. It was too much, so he rushed to open his pants, just enough to free his aching cock. The simple touch sent thousands of electrical shocks of pleasure through his body, but still, his eyes were fixed on her. “You’re so hot, I don’t think I’ll last long,” he held the base of his cock stronger to avoid his climax.

“I don’t think I’ll last long either,” she whimpered. She had started moving already, slowly, up and down on the toy. Since she was on the bed, the succion was useless and she had to hold it with one hand. Dean could see how wet she was on the dildo, and imagined how warm it had to be inside.

Another groan whistled through his teeth.

“Hmmm,” she moaned, picking up speed. “It feels so good… Dean… Look at me…”

He didn’t notice, but his gaze was so focused on the toy and her pussy, he didn’t even look at her face. Blinking hard, he looked up, and when he saw her face, twisted in pleasure, he couldn’t help it.

His hand started moving on his cock at the same rhythm as her.

“Can’t wait to be inside of you,” Dean muttered through his rashing breath. “Must feel so warm in there, and you’re so wet, fuck, sweetheart, you’re killing me.”

As an answer, she moaned and closed her eyes for a second. But quickly, she set her gaze on him again, even if it had to be the most embarrassing thing she ever did. She wanted to watch him watch her, watch him stroke his cock, watch him cum with her. “Soon… I promise, soon, you’ll have me, you’ll fuck me as much as you want, whenever you want… I'm ah... All yours, Dean..."

"Y/n." Dean could only say that. Again and again, moaning her name as she continued moving on the toy. "Y/n..."

"Dean, I’m gonna cum, oh my god, I’m…”

It was stronger than her. Never before did she come with only a dildo in her, it always took her hands or a vibrator on her clit to reach the end. But right now, in front of her boyfriend masturbating with her, it was too much. It felt so good. 

In an explosion of pleasure, her orgasm ripped through her in a scream. She closed her eyes, her body shaking, her wetness flooding under her and on her bed. But she so didn’t care about this right now.

It took a few moments for her to regain her hearing back, and a few more moments to open her eyes. It was strong, and she suddenly felt so tired, like the world came crashing back on her. Feeling like she could sleep for a whole day without waking up.

Y/n landed her eyes on the man in front of her. Dean had his head bent back, eyes closed, mouth parted. Lower, his cock was still a bit hard, and his release was covering his hand.

“Oh,” she said sadly, realizing she didn’t see him cum. At least, they came together.

“Oh,” Dean repeated, finally opening his eyes to land them on her. “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen and done,” he admitted, a silly smile filling up his face. So he was too, drunk on pleasure.

“Yeah,” she admitted, feeling her face flush with embarrassment. Wow. They did it. They actually did it. Her joy, thought, left her face quickly as she realized something. “Fuck.”

“What is it?” Dean immediately went on protective boyfriend mode when he heard the change in her voice.

“I think I…” Y/n’s voice was small, so small and shy as she lifted herself from the spot she was in, removing carefully the dildo from her, and looked at the mess she made. “It never happened before, but now my bed… I don’t think I can use it anymore… Oh no…”

“Sweetheart,” Dean rushed to her side, quickly putting himself back in his pants even if he was messy with his release as well. “It’s alright. There’s plenty of other room in the bunker, with other beds.”

“But,” she stammered, her gaze looking down at her hands. “What if I want to… Use your bed, with you?” 

Y/n ended up looking up at him, their gaze meeting.

A soft kiss on her lips answered her question, and all of her insecurities washed away.

“My bed is yours, sweetheart. We can always use this room for your books, I’ll ask Sam to help building shelves and-”

Another kiss, this time, more powerful, interrupted his sentence. “God, I love you so much.”

Babum.

The words he never said back before.

Dean thought they would be hard to say. Impossible, even. But he surprised himself with how easy it actually was.

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

Forever taglist: @nitnat6245 @eevvvaa​​ @wickedinspirations​@fictional-affairs @awkward-and-indecisive​​ @peachyaliien @katbratsupernaturalwhore

Supernatural Tag List: @peachyaliien @sexyvixen7 @stixnstripesworld @charred-angelwings @treat-winchesterswith-kindness​ @lyarr24 @fiftyshadesgrl @this-is-me19

Dean Winchester Tag List: @akshi8278​​ @kazsrm67​​​ @wtrpxrks @deanwanddamons @thoughts-and-funnies​​​ @charred-angelwings @jensendreamland​ @deanswaywardgirl​​​ @happyt0exist @waynes-multiverse​​​ @djs8891 @mimaria420 @this-is-me1​​​ @syrma-sensei

[goldenispunk]

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ memory foam ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem .ᐟ reader

synopsis ─ soldier boy teaches you how to roll a blunt and then makes you hold it between your lips while he fucks you into insanity. just filth honestly bc this man is filthy and i love it

warnings .ᐟ cussing, light misogyny throughout (i mean,, come on), v light dirty talk, masturbation f receiving, hair-pulling, grinding, edging/overstimulation, spanking, fingering, unprotected sex p in v. i feel like these warnings have y’all opening this fic with a therapist on speed dial. if i forgot anything pls lmk!

word count ~ 7.3k (this was supposed to be a drabble 😀)

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Lithe trails of smoke crept over the horizon of your laptop screen, which called your attention toward Ben’s seated figure at the small, rounded table near the kitchen. You reached to lower your laptop screen an inch—just enough to properly reveal the schemes unravelling beneath your boyfriend’s hunched over frame. You didn’t doubt that he was currently unravelling some recent haul of self-indulgent narcotics because as much as you loved your severely traumatised, addict boyfriend, he didn’t have any other tasteful way to pass time. Well, when he wasn’t ploughing you into the mattress and pummelling your senses into an otherworldly abyss of pleasure, of course.

Ben had slipped into the apartment an hour ago with that dubious, white plastic bag in clutch—no print to identify any luxurious takeaway you’d have killed to plunge into your gurgling stomach. You’d been tempted to ask about it then, but he’d entered with such a thick swathe of broodiness cramping his brows that you’d laid off the interrogation entirely. Though, just by stealing a single glance of the bag in its own, unassuming simplicity, it could have branded itself as some sketchy stash of drugs he’d picked up from one of his regular dealers on the way home.

You honed in on the man of the hour, your unflattering nosiness taking the cake on the mental debate of whether or not you should interfere with Ben’s activities. It was a debate that had never happened to begin with because meddling in anything and everything that he did was practically your brand—no questions asked. You’d once called it a loving obsession, but Ben had called it a hounding cock block on his highs. You’d been quick to rebrand your pestering of him as your own guilty addiction, and he hadn’t had much to say in response to that. He had his addictions, and you had yours—him. Oh, he so must’ve regretted accommodating you into his life.

Your boyfriend’s sharp features were currently kneaded into a focused frown, his head tilted down to where he emptied out the plastic packet onto the table. Your chin perked with sly interest, no further surprise to be unwrapped when you glimpsed a sprawl of paper and herbs. Drugs, as expected, but nothing nearly as hard as his usual indulgences. Your attention flickered up to the blunt currently clutched between his lips—the bane of your existence—before you lowered your focus back down to the table, where his busy hands alternated between segregating the devious mess and popping out his smoking stick to dispel a pull.

You didn’t need to squint hard to confidently label said herbs as weed—once the distinct scent left his lips to shroud the modest apartment and assault your sensitive nose, it was a dead giveaway. You’d never been much of a fan of smoking to begin with, and weed might’ve been the rankest pick of it all, but it’s something you’d gradually grown tolerant of. It’s not like you had much of a say in the matter, anyway, given that your boyfriend had his lips wrapped around a cig almost as often as he had them wrapped around you. It was a relationship that had existed long before yours, so who were you to complain, really?

Besides, this was his apartment, which meant that his guilty pleasures were anything but your business. And you doubted that your complaint would manage a graze of his ears before his cock would plug your lips to shut you the hell up about it. He didn’t much like when you had an attitude about his aforementioned hobbies.

“Ah, shit!” Ben exclaimed angrily around the blunt’s body—a muffled sound that banished smoke from his pursed lips. You watched as he tossed aside the plastic packet, seizing his tempter by the throat as he thudded his palm against the table. “Fuckin’ dickless prick sold me short,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, releasing the blunt for a disgruntled exhale before his lips took to it once more like his next, dire breath.

You plugged your lips at his temper tantrum, throttling a chuckle you knew would be severely misplaced during this fit of his. You couldn’t help it, though. Ben loved to pretend that he was ‘man enough’ to be unbothered by trivial things, but it never took much to get under his skin. The irony was so palpable that you could’ve poked and prodded at it with ridicule. “What’re you doing?” You called to him with an accentuated chirp to your tone—you’re curious, oblivious, not probing.

Ben’s eyes lifted from the table for a second to glance in your direction, where you sat comfortably cushioned against the headboard of his bed. His glare hovered for a few measly seconds, holding no adoration at this particular time. It made you utter a mental damn. At most, he’d give you a wink or a scheming narrowing of his eyes that spoke all sorts of dirty he’d have loved to work you through. But he merely turned back to the task at hand, freeing the blunt from his tightly-wrung lips.

Yeah, women are the moody ones, you remarked mentally. What a chuckle-fest.

The supe gave a hefty exhale, smoke streaming out in a slow gust that told you a somber story of a shit-filled day. His whole demeanour was off-put. A good girlfriend would’ve asked him about it, but a smarter one—like yourself—knew err on the side of caution. You’d long since learned not to pester him about his emotions because, to quote Ben: ‘only pussies hold hands and waste daylight wailin’ about this ‘nd that. Me? I ain’t strokin’ anybody’s cock with some me too bullshit. You gotta act the man and suck it up.’

Yeah, you weren’t going to open that can of worms again.

Without sparing you another glance, Ben jerked his head in your direction. “Get over here,” he demanded distractedly. “It’s ‘bout time I teach ya the hustle o’ this shit.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the lung cancer to you,” you poked light-heartedly, but you shifted your laptop aside to scamper across the mattress regardless. Unfortunately, you were the type to spend any given chance at your boyfriend’s side, and it didn’t matter how trivial the activity was—it was all about the quality time. Ben was overly tolerant of your clinginess, so much so that you almost thought he enjoyed the attention more than you did. But that wasn’t anything he’d ever admit to, were it true to begin with.

You ambled across the open-plan apartment towards his smoke-enveloped figure, and upon reaching the table, you pulled out the chair opposite him to take up his company. All the while, Ben’s attention remained fixed on his concoctions, never once straying from the table to acknowledge that you’d joined him.

“Why would I need to know how to do any of this, anyway? You know I don’t smoke,” you asked once you sat yourself down, hand swivelling through the air to disperse the suffocating haze of the weed, lingering under your nose like an intoxicating fart. You watched his free hand sort the dried and shredded weed into evenly-sized piles with one of your ancient loyalty cards—a card you’d lost a few weeks back. The bastard must’ve nicked it from your purse. And knowing him, he’d probably used it for plenty more than sorting weed.

“No,” he agreed, “but I do. Besides, it’s somethin’ every fine woman such as yourself oughta know. It’s not usually what women waste their time learnin’, but I’m sure I could have ya mastering this shit in no time. You’re a surprisingly quickly learner,” he murmured busily, pausing only to secure the blunt between his lips once more.

You didn’t know whether to feel offended at that observation, or to accept it with the knowledge that Ben didn’t usually hand out compliments—even backhanded ones—outside of, well, being inside of you. You dismissed the thought with a flick of your eyes, but soon, you were drawn to his face once more. You could have grown jealous with the amount of time his lips spent wrapped around that paper-wrapped crap, but you’d long since laid off the visuals. He enjoyed your pouting way too much—always finding a way to ridicule you for it.

“Why the sudden insistence that I learn this crap?” You asked.

After a deep pull, Ben retrohaled the smoke off to the side, conscious not to direct it onto your intolerant senses. “Cause it sure hits the spot when your girl can slip you a win after the day’s been a fuckin’ ball-buster,” he mumbled.

“Or,” you countered, head tilting with a pretence of consideration as you watched him sort the piles of weed into small plastic bags. “Here’s a thought—and just humour me, would you? You could make yourself one,” you finished, hands coming forward to fold onto the table as your eyes flickered up to Ben expectantly.

He lifted his head to fix you with peeved eyes, the card’s rim stilling against the last herded pile of weed as his free hand plucked the stick from his lips. “The hell you think I been doin’ all this time?” He challenged pointedly. The blunt’s ignited end pulsed with heat—as if to emphasise his words. “Is it too much to ask that you fix me a goddamn escape after a long fuckin’ day?”

“It is in that tone, Mister,” you scoffed, leaning yourself across the table in an attempt to pluck the blunt from his fingers, but he was quick to catch you at the wrist. Your lip quirked at the force with which he restrained you, your eyes slurring up to his with a heavy, seductive whisk of your lashes.

Ben always caught the intention behind your every act of defiance. He enjoyed it, even, despite the permanent hint of dour in his expression. “Hands off my shit,” he warned, his pretty green eyes drilling into yours to emphasise his point. “Don’t make me fuck the nerve right outta you—you know better.”

You took your lower lip into an amused bite, enjoying the way you so easily seemed to rile him up. Yeah, your boyfriend was a Supe, but it was moments like this that made you feel like you held all the power—and you revelled in it. ‘Nobody controls me’, your ass. You had Ben wrapped around your finger. He knew it, too, he just wouldn’t admit it because what man wants to admit that he’s pussy-whipped? No, he’d rather bathe in denial by fucking you senseless each night, smothering your head into the sheets and coaxing his name from your foul lips so that he felt he had some semblance of control over the way you made him feel.

You succumbed to his possessive grasp, leaning your body further across the table as your head tilted in cheek. “Do I know better?” You absolutely did, and so did he. But part of the fun—part of what made this dynamic between the two of you so riveting, is that you pretended to act stupid, and Ben eagerly indulged it as an opportunity to condescend you and further inflate his toxic ego. And something more.

The supe’s lip quirked in amusement as he glared you down, but the sentiment didn’t reach high enough to mould his eyes into kindness. “Gonna play it like that, hm?” he murmured, bringing the blunt back to his lips before he leaned further into your proximity, his lips brushing against yours with the tease of a kiss. But he didn’t follow through with his unspoken promise. Instead, his lips parted only to huff the smoke directly into your face.

Your nose scrunched at the scent, your free hand lifting from the table to shoo away the smoke. “Ben!” You protested, but his grip on you didn’t budge until the intrusive fog thinned out into the rest of the room. You gave a light cough at being a forced second party to his smoking, and that’s when he finally released your wrist—more like discarded it in a careless toss. You retreated with a huff and sat yourself back down. “Dick!”

“Pussy,” he retorted through a shit-eating smirk, but he quickly came to realise that the amusement was wholly one-sided when he glimpsed your ruffled brows. There were very few times you could have convinced him that his actions weren’t funny. “Ah, come on,” he drawled, attention lowering back to the weed as he suckled on the smoking stick once more. “You know ya love it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, bite me,” you murmured lightly, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his work. You could have chosen to pout a little longer, but you’d have been naive to settle down with somebody like Ben and not expect him to pull a nasty stunt now and again. Besides, you did like him mean. The subtle glow that beamed briefly within the crook of your thighs was testament to that.

“You ever roll a blunt before?” Ben muttered, eyes downturned to where his hands began prepping an irregularly squared piece of paper. The question was sheer stupidity—so much so that you felt the the weight of the frown on your brows as you parted your lips to answer him with far too much eager spunk. But Ben pulled the cancer stick from his lips and interjected without missing a breath.

“Just pullin’ your leg—‘course ya haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the fuckin’ Mother Reverend of the Church of Holy Smokes.” At that jab, his eyes lifted to yours with a smugness that wound his lips thin.

You gave a dismissive roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you hummed, your arms unfolding to rest your hands against the table. “You can keep shitting on me, Benjamin, but let’s not forget just how ancient you are. Once your light’s snuffed out, old man, maybe—just maybe, I’ll consider learning how to smoke, and it’ll be your ashes I probe in that damn ashtray.” Oh, how the roles would reverse.

Ben neglected the piece of paper he’d been gripping and straightened himself from the table. He leaned back into his chair with a gruff chuckle, his gaze raking you over with a light air of amusement. He plucked the blunt from his lips and hovered over the table as he gave a compliant cock of his head—a gesture that said, yeah, I could get behind that.

“Just make sure you put the tray somewhere I can get a good view of your ass,” he retorted with a brisk wink before he pressed the cigar’s inflamed nose into the ashtray loitering beside his hand. “And the tray better not be this ugly fuckin’ thing. Get me somethin’. . . quaint—none o’ this modern day lifeless shit and a half that’s got fuckin’ pussy power or some ball-less, feministic propo shit like that scribbled on the side.”

You narrowed your eyes mischievously. “Only you will demand everything your way even in death,” you chuckled, then you tilted your head inquisitively. “So you’re telling me that if I had to get my breasts casted with clay to make two matching bowls for your ashes, you’d have a problem with that? Is it too modern for you?”

Ben’s brows hoisted up a look of consideration, then his lips pursed with content acceptance. “Baby,” he drawled. “You do that and I’ll be back to fuck you in your dreams every. goddamn. night,” he promised.

“I guess that might help me not to forget you,” you retorted cheekily.

“Damn right,” he mumbled cockily. “Can’t forget a dick as givin’ as this one, anyway—and you’d be kiddin’ yourself otherwise. Little cock-slut like you? You were made to memorise every inch of my dick like a butt-print in a shitty velvet sofa.” He birthed a grin so condescending that it barely left room for you to breathe.

Smug, obscene asshole, you scoffed silently, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind his claim, and you had countless memories to serve as evidence. Ben knew that—it was the singular thing that warranted his sheer audacity to boast. For lack of better words, you flashed him the finger before bundling yourself back up, arms crossed against your chest as a ruffled gesture for him to continue his little project.

He made an amused noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before shifting in his seat and guiding his hands back to the concoction before him. “C‘mon, take a look,” he urged, plucking up some of the shredded weed between his fingers and gingerly placing it onto the squared paper. He took a moment to prod along the scattered herbs until a coherent line was formed atop the material. “This right here,” he said, prodding the paper, “s’called rollin’ paper. Gotta wrap it around the weed real nice and tight, like the foreskin of a sexually-abstained father of the church. Or some creakin’, ol’ geezer.”

“So like you, then?” You interjected, and you could’ve sworn you heard the snap of his neck as his eyes darted up to scorn you.

“Callin’ me old when you’re the one who can’t walk after one night in my bed is a li’l comical, don’tcha think?” He retorted, eyes lowering to where he rolled his thumb along the ball of his index finger to dislodge the clinging weed scraps. “Man,” he laughed in disbelief. “You got helluva mouth on ya.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called?” You chirped sarcastically, rubbing your lips together as though smearing some chapstick along the edges. You knew it was a stupid, bratty punch to throw, but you thought it worth it if it would coax any sort of reaction from Ben—and it did.

He glanced up at you from beneath hitched brows, pushing out a chuckle so forced, it could’ve starred the backtrack of some poorly made sitcom. But the faux amusement in his expression was dropped in an instant, his chin making an impatient jut in your direction—like the firm finger of a mother’s chide. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Your eyes widened in mock as you muttered a “yes, sir,” and turned your attention back to the table, your heading craning with far too much curiosity for your liking. Your eyes trailed every whisk and wander of his skilled fingers as he prepped another paper like the last. “Does it matter how much weed’s in a single blunt?”

Cautiously, Ben moved back to the first paper, his lips subconsciously jutting into a focused pout. It was something he did often without a notice, and you couldn’t help but savour the scene with a subtle grin. It was adorable, but for the sake of preserving the clueless tradition, you never said anything about it. You knew he’d find some way to get butt-hurt over you pointing it out, and then you’d be stuck with him forging some permanent, stoic expression to fend off the horrors of being called adorable.

He anchored the topmost corners of the rolling paper with his middle fingers before grabbing the bottom corners between his thumb and index finger, finally folding the square in half. “‘Bout a gram or two’ll do,” he finally replied. “But the paper’s already sized, so it’s just gotta be enough to fit in it. . .” he murmured busily, trailing off as he focused his attention onto carefully lifting the assembly from the table—determined not to spill any of the contents and further rob himself of the stock he’d been sold short on.

“Now,” Ben cleared his throat with utmost enthusiasm, his eyes momentarily lingering on the wrap before they flickered over to you with a scheme glinting in their green depths. Just what the hell was he up to now? “We gotta wet this baby real good, so why don’tcha stick out that tongue o’ yours for me, yeah? Lend an old man a helpin’ hand once in a while.”

He held the makeshift blunt tenderly between his thumbs and index fingers as he presented it in your direction with an annoyingly smug furnish to his handsome features.

Your eyes widened in surprise at his request. “You do it,” you told him through a chuckle, pressing your index finger against his nearest hand to gently nudge the dissembled blunt back in his direction. “You’re the pro of the fucking cancer sticks, so you show me how it’s done. Like you said.”

Ben cocked his head in slight disappointment, a smirk pitching up the corner of his lips as he withdrew the blunt with a light huff. “To think you’re usually all I can do it myself, Ben, I don’t need your help, Ben,” he mocked deeply, which caused your face to contort with a hint of offence.

“I don’t sound like th—“

“Yeah, you do,” he cut you short, the smirk on his lips playing into a full-blown grin as he drank in your affronted pout. “You and your fuckin’ feminist high,” he scoffed, bringing the paper up to his lips. “Now, stuff it and watch, ‘cause I’m only gonna show you once—and I expect ya to nail it off the fuckin’ bat.”

You hitched a brow at his subtle threat. “Or what?” You challenged.

He left that question unanswered—verbally, at least. But he fixed you with an intense glare as his tongue slipped past his lips to drag a slow, accentuated line along the edge of the paper, and you knew that to be answer enough. A promise—and hardly one of a good time when he was calling all the shots with the intent to punish you. Still, you felt your core jolt at that singular gesture, your thighs discreetly pressing together with the memory of that very movement that must’ve become etched into your folds by now. That teasing bastard, getting you all hot and bothered just for the sake of it.

When he reached the end of the jagged material, he drew the line back up one more time before his tongue retreated back to the concealment behind his lips. He lowered the concoction to the table, gaze still trained on you. Then, with a beckoning gesture of his chin, he said, “get over here.”

You obliged silently, quickly—guided by your arousal more than your own will, if you were being honest. Your chair screeched in protest as you pushed yourself up from your seat and slipped around the circumference of the table towards Ben’s seated frame. You’d barely reached his side when he freed a hand to eagerly outstretch and receive you, his large palm snaking along the small of your back to hook around your waist. He pulled you into his lap, legs spread in a wide v to comfortably accommodate your frame onto his.

As you settled yourself onto his lap, you made a point to dramatically shimmy your ass into the crook of his legs, causing him to grunt as you ground yourself against his prominent manhood. His free hand snaked over your thigh to settle at the tender, inner skin with a warning squeeze, his lips coming to press against your ear.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured lowly—a gruff sound that sent a jolt directly to your already-compromised core. And it was hard to ignore your arousal with the added stimulation of his stubbled jaw grating the sensitive skin of your cheek.

You turned your jaw partially, causing his soft lips to trace a seductive line along your cheekbone. “Always am,” you murmured in return, a cheeky grin beaming through as your gaze flickered down to his lips. Those darn lips. A taste you’d never get sick of, despite your tendency to grow bored of things rather quickly. Maybe you were no better than Ben—a shameless addict infatuated with the highs, only, your highs were being fondled by him.

For a moment, Ben entertained your play with a second of silence, and you were almost hopeful to feel his lips snag onto yours, but instead, they retreated from your jaw and left you in a state of hot disappointment.

“Pay attention,” he ordered, removing the hand he’d burrowed at your thigh to frame your jaw firmly. He turned your head forward and downwards, forcing your attention onto the makeshift blunt gripped in his other hand. His thumb trailed to your lips, kneading the tender skin aimlessly before slipping his hand from your jaw entirely. “Stick your tongue out.”

Obediently, you did as told, your tongue slipping through until you felt too ridiculous to go further.

“Atta girl,” he praised, your waist now straddled by both his arms as he held the corners of the makeshift blunt in his fingers and lifted it to your dangling tongue. “Now, I want you to lick it, just like I showed ya—and don’t crap out on showin’ it a good time, yeah?”

You gave a small nod and leaned your head down to meet the paper with your tongue, starting at the left corner. When the tip of your tongue made contact with the sheet, you could feel the cool, lingering trace of Ben’s saliva. It felt so primal, but you knew that he was enjoying every second of it—you lapping up his taste like an eager mutt, so you decided to give him one hell of a show.

You pressed your tongue against the paper more firmly now, and you began to drag a slow, sensual line toward the other corner, making sure to deliver a quick flick over Ben’s waiting thumbnail. He made a hald-amused, half-entertained noise, but waited patiently as you retraced the line back to the starting point.

Pulling back your tongue, you smacked your lips triumphantly. “All wet now,” you said.

“Bet you are,” he chuckled lazily, fingers moving to seal the paper and twist the ends into a reputable blunt. He brought the finished product up to your lips, urging the nozzle between them. “Be a good girl and hold onto that for me.”

You pulled your lips inward to deny the entrance of the blunt, turning your jaw to reject the offer. “No, thanks,” you said, but Ben wasn’t having it.

You felt his hand stroke up the curve of your thigh before forcing way beneath the hem of your shorts and underwear, where his fingers stroked a rough line through your folds. You gasped at the feel of his cool fingers playing at your hot core, and before you could process his foul play, his other hand was quick to push the fresh blunt between your parted lips.

“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he murmured against your ear, delivering a harsh squeeze to your clit. Your lips tightened around the blunt and you moaned into the smoking stick, eyes screwing shut as your head collapsed back into the crook of his neck. He pressed a hasty kiss to your temple, and you knew that it was more of a branding than a gesture of adoration. You were his to cherish, exploit and discard, all at once.

“What, you gonna tell me you didn’t see that comin’?” he chuckled lowly, the mocking sound vibrating against the crown of your head. “Been actin’ the brat this entire time, just hopin’ I’ll shut you the fuck up, huh? Yeah, I heard ya—loud and clear, baby.”

Your lips tightened around the blunt as Ben brutalised the pace of his fingers between your folds, vigorously toying with your clit like it were the worn strings of the guitar he couldn’t seem to master the tuning of. Your lips tightened around the blunt as his finger prodded at just the right spot, an explosion of pleasure slinging your thighs into a weakened and sprawled mess. All control over your body seemed to retreat as you slumped further into his strong frame, which cocooned you like it were your last hope at survival. Oh, you were done for, all right.

“You like that, huh?” Ben cooed into your ear, his free hand sliding beneath your tank to grab ahold of your breasts. He palmed both in a rough, careless motion, then settled on one with a teasing pinch to your nipple. The combined stimulation of his toying at both ends rendered you so speechless that you couldn’t even salvage a coherent moan, so you laid there in complete arrest, succumbing fully to your boyfriend’s mean ministrations. “What, nothin’ to say now? Not even a fuckin’ please or thank you? I know chivalry died when I was buried on ice, but I didn’t think the women had lost their manners, too.”

In all honesty, you could barely comprehend your boyfriend’s words through your numbed haze. Your vision slurred into darkness as your eyes fluttered closed, your saliva beginning to seep into the blunt’s contents as your lips clutched it like a lifeline. Ben released your breast, but the weaving of his fingers down below didn’t stutter. You felt his free fingers graze both your temples in sequence, where his knuckle pushed back the foremost strands of hair that had slipped the keep of your ears. Your heart fluttered an inch at what you thought to be an intimate gesture—which he gifted very few and far between. But knowing the type of man Ben was should have clipped your wings of hope and had you grounded from the get-go.

Suddenly, his hand trailed through your hair and fastened through as many strands as he could collect. Then, with a smooth roll of his wrist, he twined it into a harsh grip, your neck arching at an angle you couldn’t have achieved out of free-will. A weak protest slurred within your throat, which made Ben utter a sound half way between a low laugh and a scoff—the sound so demeaning it flushed your cheeks red. His exploitation hurt—but at the same time, it felt so good, so much so that your body did anything but pull away from his touch.

“Now this is a view I can get behind—you, all pretty and practically fallin’ apart on my fingers,” Ben murmured, his head lowering to your ear so that the sharp button of his nose nuzzled at your temple. “Fuck, I could take you right here, right now,” he continued sultrily. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to give you exactly what you’ve been cravin’ all fuckin’ day? All you gotta do is ask. Nicely, you know, stroke my cock with your good-doer attitude. That achievable for a brat like you, hm?”

For all the questions asked, you couldn’t offer one damn answer—not with your lips plugged by Ben’s newest fix. You moved a hand to reach for the blunt, eager to pave way for the word that would lay your urges to rest for the night, but the hand he’d buried between your legs were quick to come up and seize your wrist in disapproval. A hot, disgruntled tut from Ben streamlined your ear, but all you could focus on was the sudden barrenness between your legs, a cold neglect left in the wake of his hand.

You weren’t afforded the opportunity to mourn that loss for long before he had both your palms pinned flat onto the table in front of you, the hand in your hair tugging further so that your upper body became suspended within a ruthless game of tug and war. Only, the two contestants—both his hands—were playing for the same team. Ben’s. The advantage was far from yours.

“Dirty stunt,” he hummed almost admirably, his nose tracing your jaw to place a single, devouring kiss over the arch of your neck. You felt the way his lips lapped at your skin in a large motion, like he craved to garner every inch of you in that single touch. He solidified that point with a harsh nibble, the sort that would pucker your skin for a good few minutes, before he brought himself back to your ear. “You don’t get to use your words for this, baby. Your right to an opinion has been worn out for the day, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough of all your fuckin’ chitchat. You wanna get fucked, you’re gonna show me just how much y’want it,” he husked with a dramatic pause, then added in a low murmur, “with your body. Got that?”

With your head practically immobilised by his grip, you echoed a muffled mhm. Your response seemed to be satisfactory enough because he relented his hold—just enough to relieve your pipes so that breathing came with a little more ease.

“Atta girl. It’s gets my dick salutin’ when you’re all obedient,” he praised. His claim was firmly backed by the bulge you felt growing beneath you. It pressed between your thighs like a brash beckoning, and it was enough to cause all the heat that had dissipated between your folds to re-emerge in full force. “Well? The hell you waitin’ for?” He asked in a tone a lot louder—and firmer—this time around.

You pushed out a clueless noise, which made Ben shift a thigh beneath you. Suddenly, the bulk of his leg was hoisted up between your own, the blunt force striking your core at just the right angle that sent a jolt up your body. You gasped a breathless sound into the blunt, your teeth burrowing into the softening paper, and your eyes screwed shut with the pleasure currently coursing your entire being.

“Get that body o’ yours movin’, or we can call it a disappointin’ night,” he instructed. God, you couldn’t come up short after all you’d endured thus far, so instinctually, your hips began to roll against his thigh at a jagged pace, seeking out the only stimulation you could manage in your stilted position. “Yeah, that’s it,” he cooed. “All yours for the takin’, if you’ll hold out long enough to see fuckin’ rainbows. A lot like bein’ on a high, ain’t it? Got my own li’l addict in the makin’.”

He was right. Actually, you thought this felt a whole lot greater than sniffing a line that would simultaneously have you losing your sanity for a few hours. Desperate whimpers began to stew in your chest, polished with so much passion that the sounds felt saturated, almost animated. And Ben, he was devouring every second of it. You couldn’t glimpse enough of his face to say that, but going off of everything you knew about him, and how mean he liked to get with you, you absolutely knew that you were something akin to his own personal heaven right about now. Oh, he’d forsake every personal belief to follow the religion that was you—your undoing.

Almost as though your body had grown frustrated with all the prolonged teasing, your high came on at a rapid pace that made you chest heave in desperation. You felt the arousal bundle into a tightly-knit ball, just yearning to be yanked at by the singular thread that would make it come undone. But the satisfaction was plucked out of reach within seconds when Ben released the grip on your hair to grab at your thigh, forcing your hips to still against his leg. And just like that, the fire within was snuffed out.

Your lips fell loose in exhaustion, the blunt you’d been so loyal to finally making an escape and toppling into your lap. “Ben,” you pushed out frailly, the disappointment heavy on your brows.

“The nerve o’ you,” Ben scoffed, utterly dismissive of your feeble protest. He released your thigh to dip into your lap, and shortly after, he pulled up with the blunt in clutch, wasting no time in pressing it back between your lips. You fumbled with the paper for a few seconds before you finally took it in, but you knew your boyfriend would have something to show for your disobedience. “Yeah, you are a brat,” he said, the hand pinning your wrists suddenly tightening as he pulled your arms to one side, his other hand hooking around your inner thigh.

In one large and effortless motion, he managed to sling you over his lap, releasing your wrists so that you were able to grasp the legs of his chair for support. You clutched the blunt between your lips a little tighter, fighting the villainous pull of gravity, and stifled a moan at the sudden spank that struck the curves of your ass. The aftermath of that contact had your body contracted with a mixture of shock and painful arousal, air blowing from your nostrils like harsh gusts.

“Fuckin’ quiverin’ already?” He chuckled, his large palm smoothing up the fabric of your shorts until you felt every inch of your ass dimple under the cool air of the room. You felt utterly exposed. “Baby, I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

Oh, you were so fucked.

His palm came down for another assault, this time louder than the last. The raw contact echoed through the apartment, narcissistically suffocating the whimper that rattled your chest. Tears began to hoard along the rims of your eyes, but you blinked enough to scatter the moisture. You didn’t need to give him another kick out of this—some lingering stubbornness wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck, all that noise o’ yours is makin’ me lose count,” Ben scoffed. He rubbed soothing circles over your aching skin, which no doubt glowered an angry red that should have made your boyfriend feel some ounce of sympathy. But then the next words left his mouth, and you knew then that the Supe had no concept of remorse. “Guess I gotta start right at the beginning.”

You braved yourself against the rest of his spanks, your legs drawing together more and more with each touch—not from a place of pain, but from hot, embarrassing enjoyment. The slick within your folds was hard to ignore now, and it seemed to have snagged Ben’s attention because he let up on the harsh punishment, his fingers finding way beneath your shorts and drenched undies. You felt his fingers play at your slick, dragging a line all the way down to your yearning entrance.

“It’s a damn oil slick up in here,” he chuckled, his thumb teasing circles at your hypersensitive clit. “Whaddya say I give her some love, hm?” His finger dipped an inch into your entrance, as if offering a measly taste of his proposal. You rocked your hips back into him as a reply, urgently seeking out the length of his fingers. He gave a low chuckle, and to your shock, actually indulged your plea. Maybe it was your reward for finally playing by his rules.

You weren’t going to fucking question it.

Your back arched by instinct as you felt his fingers prowl into your entrance, your hands clutching the wooden legs of his chair as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The full force of multiple of his fingers should have coaxed forward some fleeting sense of pain, but you’d been so incredibly aroused for so incredibly long that your entrance welcomed him in like an open-house party. He pumped into you as deep as he could, an appreciative grunt leaving his lips as he revelled in your velvety warmth. His other hand came to wrap around the front of your neck, offering some much needed support as your strength began to collapse with each pump of his fingers.

Your whimpers became more frequent and dishevelled as he picked up the pace, his fingers curling at just the right angle. Every. Fucking. Time. Ben knew how to do the job well—a tactic that had you coming back time and time again, begging for more.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good f’me,” he husked out, his own voice slightly abraded by exertion. The subtle breathlessness woven through his words spurred you on even further, making you feel some type of special with the knowledge that he was giving you his all. Just to see you break. Just so that he could put you back together with cherishing kisses.

It only took a few more pumps of his fingers to have your eyes clenching in wait, your lips throttling the blunt as his fingers curled right into your blooming bundle of pleasure. And then he struck it head on, causing an explosion of colour to invade your vision. For a few seconds, you couldn’t comprehend anything beyond your own ragged breaths, your ears ringing with the overwhelming aftermath of your high. You felt your juices trickle from your entrance, and you heard the squelching as Ben slowly retreated from your entrance.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he chuckled with a minuscule, congratulatory pat to your ass. “That was one o’ your best runs yet. Think ya can handle one more round?” Ben murmured, releasing your neck to rub a soothing line down your back. You didn’t honestly think you could, and you felt the way every inch of your body ached in an answering protest, but something else tugged your chin into that subtle permission, and then the Supe had you hoisted up in his arms bridal style as he carried you to the bed.

He laid you onto the mattress rather gently, but the caution was instantly discarded as he flipped you over and tugged your hips sky-high. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts and undies, and he couldn’t have yanked them over the curves of your ass at a faster pace. Your garments were tossed to some other corner of the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ben freed his stoic erection. You heard him huff a breath of relief, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him whisk across his shaft with a hasty pump.

You met his eye patiently, making a point to pout around the blunt so that he couldn’t miss the visual image of your dedication to this wretched thing. It made him smirk with satisfaction, a hand coming forward to hook around your pelvis and tug you back an inch. You grunted at the rough yank, turning your head forward as you settled yourself into your folded arms. You felt his tip nestle between your ass before dipping down to glide with ease into your slicked entrance. Both his hands took up firm grip at your pelvis, his large palms fanning across your navel as he pummelled into you with a guttural noise.

“Fuck,” he spat, his length retreating only to return with a force more brutal than a last. His hands shifted across your ass, delivering a hard spank before they slunk up to the small of your back. There, he pushed your stomach into the mattress, and you burrowed further into the material with every possessive thrust of his hips. “You’re just the fuckin’ release I needed after this shitty day—and god, you never disappoint,” he breathed out.

You whimpered in response, pressing your forehead into the sheets as your fingers curled into the bedding. God, this man was overstimulating—he seemed to forget that your frail body was no match for his super-abled one. Or, he simply revelled in that fact. Either way, you were done for.

The blunt’s body quirked against your lips as you practically smothered it against the mattress, but you could hardly be arsed about that now. Ben’s figure came to hover over you, his clothed chest pressing into your back. His hands came up beside your head, frantically searching for yours, and once he found them, his fingers threaded between yours. He held you firmly as he spread your hands out in front of you, trapping you below him as he continued to drive you into the bed. The worn bed frame was creaking so loud that it was almost absurd, and you half expected one of the neighbours to blare a shut the hell up from the top of their lungs. But the only noises to be heard were the gruff moans spewing from Ben’s lips, and your own muffled whining.

The mattress wasn’t anything as fancy as memory foam, but you were sure that by now—with how brutalised Ben’s pace within you was—that the mattress would never forget. You supposed you both had that in common.

──────────────────────

a/n — i’m not gonna lie, i was starting to think this piece would NEVER see the light of day good gawd i think i have commitment issues. anyhoo, if you are a pro at making blunts, mind your business! 😭 i did a quick google search and rolled with it (pun unintended), so if something’s inaccurate you can blame google pls and ty LMAO. i’m just a non smoker girly trying to bring the drug-addled fantasies of loving soldier boy to life, as best as i possibly and very limitedly can. if this fic traumatised you im sorry (also you’re welcome). y’all know the drill, it’s 2 am—if there are typos; no there’s not.

this fic now has a complementary c.ai bot .ᐟ

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts

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© bluemerakis — do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I Could Have You

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Love Confessions, Smut (p in v, oral both receiving), light angst, soulmates, sex pollen, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: Dean is hit with a lust spell, and it doesn't seem to only be effecting him. No one's really sure why, and Dean refuses to give in to the curse, so you'll just ride this out.

You'll defiantly be able to just ride this out.

Author's Note: I had a lot of fun with this one, I hope you enjoy it!

Title from Normal Fucking Rockwell by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 6k

You’re losing your mind.

Your skin is on fire, your back is flat on the cold bathroom floor, and you’re moaning and whining and bucking into the air but nothing is fixing this. Nothing is relieving you, not your fingers or the pillows or the toy a very red-faced Sam had bought you. Nothing is going to save you, because only one, stupid, handsome, selfless idiot can, and he’s suddenly too good to just fuck you.

Hell, that idiot is the only reason this is happening. According to Sam and Bobby, Dean got hit with a sex spell in Colorado, you started whimpering for him in South Dakota, and you’re not allowed to have sex with him for… reasons.

Reasons no one seems willing to fully share with you, but reasons.

You know Dean wants you. You’ve known he wants you. Neither of you have ever been able to do something about that—never going beyond flirting and lingering touches and stares—but you’re certain he feels the same way. Maybe not the exact same way, because you want whatever Dean offers you, his body or mind or heart or very soul, but you know he’s attracted to you. And if the countless little pieces of evidence you’ve hoarded in your brain—winks and smirks and long, apperceive scans of your body—weren’t enough for you to know, this was. You’d heard Dean roar your name from outside Bobby’s cabin as the Impala door slammed. You’d seen the feral, lust-blown expression on his face as he’d charged at you. Sam had tackled him to the ground as you’d grown a little dizzy with need, and Bobby grabbed your wrist, dragging you upstairs. Away from Dean, from the cure, from his big hands and soft mouth and huge-

“You’re gonna need to stay in here.” Bobby had muttered, refusing to meet your eyes as he shuffled out of the room. “Least until we get Dean’s head right, or figure out what the hell is going on.”

It’s been almost a day, and they’ve made almost no progress. From Sam’s last update, all they’re certain of is: Sex spell, you and Dean, no other options except you and Dean.

“What do you mean no other options,” you’d said, leaning up to frown at Sam. “Did Dean-“

“No.” Sam shakes his head, giving you a sheepish expression. “I mean, Bobby and I suggested it, but he said no.”

“Oh,” you’d mumbled, falling back down on the mattress. “Why?”

Sam had shrugged, leaning into your line of vision. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

“No, Sam, what the fuck-“

“That’s why.”

He’d stood up and left, and you hadn’t had a clue what the hell he was talking about. Sure, you didn’t want to have sex with him, but he was like a brother to you. Dean, somehow, wasn’t. Dean was Dean. And it wasn’t like you’d say no to a random, no-strings attached hookup right now-

Something had tugged in your gut, and you’d realized—staggering to the toilet and vomiting up your lunch—that you could not do a random hookup. You wanted Dean. You needed him. You might die if you didn’t get him, and it had to be him, and he must feel it too, but when you’d asked Sam he said no.

“No?!” You’d rolled over on the floor to glare up at him, wishing you could find the strength to surge up and punch him in his stupid, apologetic face. “What do you mean No?!”

“Dean, um,” Sam had sighed again, and if he kept doing that you were going to kick him in the balls. “He made us lock him in the safe room. He won’t come out until we cure him.”

“Why did he-“ You’d cut yourself off as it hit you, another, softer wave of sickness rolling over your body. The sickness lived in your heart. This sickness was made of the tragic reality that Dean might want you, but he didn’t want you. Maybe that was why he’d never made a move. Maybe he was attracted to you physically, but couldn’t see you like that, and didn’t really want to try to.

Maybe Dean was disgusted by the idea. Maybe he hated that his body found you hot, because he thinks of you like you think of Sam.

“Oh,” you’d rolled back onto your stomach, and prayed Sam would leave soon so you could go back to humping the floor. “Okay.”

Sam had said your name, waiting until you hummed an acknowledgment to continue. “We’re going to fix this-“

“I know.” You’d let out a long, slow breath, curling into your own body. “We always do.”

They would fix this. And then you’d have to look Dean in the eyes, and find a way to be okay with his rejection. Teach yourself how to not turn into a pining dumbass, chasing after someone who obviously didn’t want you. You wouldn’t lose him, he was your best friend, but you’d also have to learn to pretend it didn’t feel like your heart hadn’t just been ripped out of your chest and stomped on.

And now you’re here. Hoping Sam and Bobby will fix this soon, crawling into the empty bathtub to try and sleep. The bed is too warm, too intimate, to inviting of fantasies that will never be reality. Daydreams of Dean’s hands on you, trailing over your skin and setting of little sparks as he maps your body. Those same hands pushing open your thighs, two of his fingers teasing over your pussy, his mouth wrapping around your nipple as he started pumping and scissoring and crooking inside you-

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and you yank your own fingers out of your cunt, wiping them on the towel as you speak, your voice far too hoarse. “Yeah, Sam?”

“Not Sam.” Bobby grumbles, his voice slightly muffled through the door. “You decent?”

You toss a towel over your body, having long abandoned clothing. “Yep, is everything-“

You cut yourself off as Bobby pushes the door open, his face angled up to avoid you.

“I said I’m decent, Bobby, you can look.”

He grunts, and you sit up a little straighter, making your voice a little firmer.

“It’s weirder if you don’t, you know.”

Bobby nods, his gaze slowly dropping to yours as he sits on the toilet, bracing his arms on his knees. “Sorry.” He mutters. “Ain’t tryin’ to make it uncomfortable. Just not lookin’ to see one of my, uh-“

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your head back on the tile. “I get it. Must be weird seeing Dean as well.”

“Eh.” Bobby shrugs. “I’ve walked in on him with lady company before, this ain’t new-“

“But it’s new with me?” You ask, raising your brows, and Bobby glares at you.

“I didn’t help raise you girl. And you’re just as important to me as those boys, but you’re also a girl. I mean, not a girl, but I don’t got those parts-“

“Jesus, Bobby.” You mumble, bringing your knees up to your chest. “I’m teasing. I know what you mean, I promise, just,” you swallow, shaking your head slightly. “Sorry. I’m tired.”

Bobby rolls his eyes, but his voice becomes a little softer, and far less panicked. “That ain’t nice, kid, you’re gonna give an old man a heart attack.”

“You’d be fine. I know CPR.”

He gives you a flat look. “We both know you ain’t in any condition to give me CPR.”

You wave him off. “I’d call Sam.”

“He wouldn’t hear you, he’s down in the panic room with-“

Bobby cuts himself off, and you roll your head to the side, giving him a bored glare.

“You can say his name, Bobby.”

“Fine.” He grunts. “Sam’s down checkin’ on Dean. He,” Bobby frowns at the air. “He still ain’t listenin’ to reason.”

You hum, hoping Bobby doesn’t notice how you’ve moved the towel between your thighs, just for something. “Reason?”

“We don’t have anythin’ to cure this except, uh, that way.” Bobby mutters. “And he’s still insistin’ we keep him chained up.”

“Ah.” You swallow. “Awesome.”

Bobby says your name, and it’s gentle. Like he’s consulting a child who’s had a nightmare, instead of a grown woman who was just finger-fucking herself in a tub. “You don’t gotta pretend this ain’t hurtin’ you.”

“I mean, it doesn’t feel good-“

“Not the spell.” Bobby says, and you frown at him.

“What-“

“Dean. He’s bein’ a fuckin’ dumbass, and you don’t need to act like he’s not.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “He’s not what?”

“Killin’ you.” Bobby grunts, scanning over your face. “Rippin’ your heart out and take a big fat shit on it.”

You grimace. “That’s gross, Bobby-“

“Truth ain’t always sunshine and glitter-“

“It’s not the truth!” You snap, your voice suddenly harsh as something wilts and twists in his your chest. “I’m fine! I get it! Dean doesn’t want to do that, and that’s not his fault.”

Bobby leans back on the toilet, holding your glare with his own. “Why do you think you and Dean are the only idjits gettin’ hit by this? Why isn’t Sam humpin’ pillows and leavin’ stains on my walls?”

You feel a rush of heat from that thought—the image of Dean fucking into his hand flashing through your mind and leaving a mark between your thighs—and your voice is almost a squeak. “Because Dean’s the one that got hit?”

“Sam says he was in the line of that bitch’s fire too. But only Dean got,” Bobby makes a vague gesture over you. “This.”

“I don’t-“

“And Sam ain’t in love with his fuckin’ brother, so he was safe.”

You flush, gaping at Bobby for a long, wired silence, and when you speak your voice is a squeak.

“I- I’m, I’m not in love with Dean. I mean, maybe I have a crush, or something, but that’s, that’s not love-“

Bobby gives you a flat, disbelieving look. “You feel safer ‘round him?”

“Yeah, but I-“

“You laugh at all his jokes?”

“Maybe, but he can be funny-“

Bobby mutters your name, shaking his head. “I love that boy like a son, and he ain’t half as funny as he thinks he is.”

You frown. “He’s funny-“

“He can be,” Bobby shrugs. “But his jokes ain’t all winners. And you laugh at every single oneof ‘em. And,” he sighs, rubbing his beard. “He laughs at all’a your jokes.”

“Hey.” You scowl. “I’m a riot-“

“Didn’t say you weren’t. But even you can miss, girl. And he never seems to care.”

“So?” You shuffle on the floor, desperate not to starting grinding on the air in front of Bobby, but getting more and more wet from just the mention of Dean. “We’re friends, friends laugh at each other’s jokes-“

“Do friends get connected by sex spells ‘cross state lines?”

“I dunno,” you mumble. “Never been hit by a sex spell before.”

“You weren’t hit by one,” Bobby snaps your name, starting to sound exasperated. “Dean was. And that’s my damn point. Sam and I, we,” he sighs, giving you a long, confusing look. “We got it. We know what’s goin’ on.”

“Fuck,” you sit up, glowering at him. “Why didn’t you lead with that-“

“Cause you ain’t gonna like it.” Bobby grunts. “It’s an old location spell. Back in the day rich assholes would cast it on their highest eldest sons, so he could find his,” Bobby cringes, his last word pushed through his teeth. “Mate.”

“Mate?” You repeat, letting out a dry, huffing laugh. “What are we, fucking dogs-“

“Soulmate.” Bobby mutters, giving you a look that might have been sympathetic, or kind, or pitiful, but you’re suddenly a little dizzy and can’t really think or see.

“That’s not,” you shake your head. “No, Bobby, soulmates aren’t real-“

Bobby says your name, his voice stern. “You should know better than to say somethin’ like that in our line of work. Sam called Cas, and he said they’re real, but population increases or somethin’ made them ‘logistically impossible’, so they aren’t on the shop line no more.”

“But- But wouldn’t we have like, I don’t know, noticed? If that was true?”

“You shoulda.” Bobby shrugs. “Cas seemed pretty shocked you hadn’t. Said he had assumed you knew, because the pull is like a magnet or some shit. Spell’s only an enhancer, to move the train along.”

“So why-“

“You hopped in right after Dean got back from hell.” Bobby mutters. “Dean’s soul mighta been fucked enough not to recognize you. Spell mighta jumpstarted it.”

“Oh.”

“Yep.”

It’s a few minutes before you speak again, and Bobby waits patiently as you spiral. Down, down, down in your head, trying to rationalize how this could possibly be true. It couldn’t be true. There was no way it was true. Sure, you’ve liked Dean since you first met him, from the moment he introduced himself with a cocky grin, smirk, and fake name. You liked him even more when you called him out on his fake name, and he’d just chuckled, figured out you were a hunter, and offered to buy you a drink. You’d liked him when that drink had turned into a long, sleepless night of only conversation, and when you’d joined him and Sam on the road. And you’d kept thinking of him like that, and you thought of him all the time, but that didn’t mean anything. You didn’t love him. It’s not like you feel better when you wake up in a motel bed and he’s next to you, or a smile always tugs at your lips whenever he so much as looks at you, or the thought of him being in alone or pain makes you physically ill. It’s not like, if he grabbed your hand and told you he was done with hunting—the only life you’d ever both known—then asked you to join him in a boring, easy apple pie life you’d immediately say yes and kiss him, because you’ll go wherever he goes and he’s the only person you’ve ever really-

Oh.

You might be in love with Dean.

You might be soulmates with Dean.

“What, um,” you swallow, watching Bobby carefully. “What did Dean think? Of this?”

“We have told him yet.” Bobby’s jaw ticks, holding your gaze. “We ain’t sure he’ll-“

“Yeah.” You whisper, turning your attention back to the ceiling. There’s a little crack on it. Jagged and split through the white paint, easy to stare at and get lost in. Helpful in pretending this doesn’t hurt like a bitch. “Okay.”

Bobby mutters a promise of at least trying to talk some sense into Dean, but you both know his words are empty. Because Dean won’t believe this. It won’t be a matter of you and Dean, it will just be Dean, believing something like a soulmate could never happen to someone like him. He’ll insist they’re lying, or Cas is wrong, or all of this fucking bullshit.

“You ever wondered about aliens?” He’d asked you once, leaning against the Impala as you lay on the hood, watching him from an upside-down angle.

“Just like, in general?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess,” you’d tilted your head at him. “Why?”

“I dunno, just curious.” There had been another moment of silence, then, “You think they’re real?”

“They have to be right?” You’d reached over your head, grabbing his chin and tilting it up, until he was staring at the night sky. “I mean, look at that, De. It’s huge.”

He’d chuckled, swatting your hand away. “Where have I heard that before-“

“Eat me, Winchester.” You’d rolled your eyes, and his shit-eating grin had grown. “No. Shut it.”

He’d raised his hands in surrender. “Didn’t say a thing.”

“Uh huh.” You’d let your own attention trail up, over the vast darkness above you, splattered in infinite stars that you think—if you really tried—you’d be able to grab and hold in your hands. Maybe offer one to Dean. He’d deserve it.

You were silent for a while longer, you watching the sky, Dean waiting for you to come back to earth, and when he’d spoken again his voice was soft.

“You think you’d want to go? If they were?”

You’d looked back to him with a frown, and found him already looking at you. “What, aliens?”

He’d nodded, and you’d furrowed your brow in thought.

“Maybe. I’ve never thought about it before. I kind of like Earth.” You’d rolled onto your stomach, swinging your legs around to rest in Baby’s open window as you looked down at Dean. “What about you?”

“Nah,” he’d held your gaze, pulling himself up to sit at your side. “Not now.”

“Not now?”

“I would’ve when I was younger, if I coulda taken Sammy with me.” Dean had let out a dry chuckle. “But I’m not that lucky.”

He wasn’t that lucky. Dean didn’t get to be abducted by aliens, because he wasn’t lucky. Because saviors and little lights to guide you forward don’t just drop out of the sky.

But you didn’t drop out of the sky. You’d been on the ground, and tangible, and very, very real.

You feel real, to yourself. You didn’t feel like a possibility, or a myth, or a lie.

And you might love Dean.

And you know that, the longer you don’t get to at least see him, touch him, breathe him, the more you go mad. The harder it becomes to speak to Sam and Bobby when they check on you, the less you allow them to even say the word Dean, because it makes you writhe and moan and everyone just gets very uncomfortable.

So if Dean’s too much of a righteous, noble, self-loathing buttface to do something about this, you will.

You wait until the house is dark and quiet. Until you hear Bobby mutter a goodnight through the door—about an hour ago you’d started whining every other breath and fucking the edge of the bathtub, so Bobby wasn’t coming into the room anymore—and Sam walks in backwards to make sure you’re not dead and have enough food and water. Like you’re a caged animal.

You do feel a little like one. You feel like someone’s sucked everything rational and careful out of your brain and replaced it with Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean, you need him or you’ll die. He needs to need you, or something worse than death will happen.

And you’re willing to risk that, that small possibility of Dean looking at you—bare and wet and pleading for him—and still turning you away, because at least you’ll see him.

You need to at least see him.

It’s shocking easy to sneak around the house. For two seasoned, well-respected hunters, neither Sam nor Bobby seem to wake up as you crawl down to Dean, despite the floorboard creaking under you movements and the downright pathetic whimpers that keep escaping your mouth. It takes all your focus to grab the key to Bobby’s panic room, unlock the door, and push it open.

It’s dark. Pitch black. But you know Dean’s in here, because every nerve is trying to fly off your body and into the shadows. To Dean.

“What the hell are you doing,” Dean groans your name from the back of the room, and you feel molten. “You can’t be here-“

“It’s not your panic room, Dean.” You mumble, pushing yourself up on the wall and fiddling around for the light switch. “I can be wherever I want-“

“Not here.” Dean snaps. “Go.”

You shake your head, and the lights blind you as you flip them on. It takes a moment to adjust—blinking and hugging your body in a desperate play to not leap across the room to Dean the moment you see him—and when you do a high whine escapes your mouth.

Dean looks as feral as you feel. He’s just as naked as you are, just as drenched in sweat and flushed, and—if the proud, massive cock between his legs, standing at full attention and twitching as he scans over you, is any sign—just as aroused.

“Dean.” You whisper. “Please.”

“You need to leave.” He grunts, his fists clenched at his sides. “Now.”

“I don’t want to go-“

“Yes, you do.”

You frown. “You don’t get to tell me what I want, Dean. I want to stay-“

“No,” he hisses, and you might come just from him looking at you like that. Primal and wanting, with a gleam in his eyes that feels like a promise. “You don’t know what you want-“

That gets you to scoff. “Fuck off, asshole-“

“See!” He makes a dramatic gesture, then flinches back from himself. “I, I can’t let you do this. You don’t want me,” Dean mutters your name, running a hand over his face. “The spell wants me. Doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, the spell does want you, you idiot!” You take an unsteady step forward, and he steps back. “Because I want you!”

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes, I do! I need you, Dean, and I think you need me-“

“Doesn’t matter what I need.” He grunts, bracing his body and you take another step. “Go back upstairs.”

“Did Bobby talk to you?”

He scowls. “Bobby’s wrong. That’s- No.”

“Because it’s me?”

“Of course not,” he snaps, and it’s too quick. “Because that, that’s not a thing. People would be runnin’ around, selling soulmates in little bottles if they were real. And we’d have known by now-“

“We do know now.” You whisper, swaying slightly in the middle of the room. “And Cas says-“

“Cas is wrong.” Dean mutters. “I don’t, there’s no way that’s true. Not for me.”

His beautiful, deep eyes look so sad. Glossed over and weighted down of years of that being the truth. That things like that, like this, don’t happen for Dean.

You’d really love to be the first exception.

“What about for me?”

“What are you-“

“What about for me, Dean.” You watch his jaw clench, his nostrils flaring. “Does it get to be true for me?”

He doesn’t answer, and you push on.

“If it’s true for me, it’s you.” You talk another step forward, and this time he doesn’t flinch. “Just you.”

“It’s just the spell.” He mutters, and you don’t think he’s convincing himself. Not when his throat bobs and his eyes darken. “You don’t want me, baby, not really.”

You almost fall over from that. From Dean calling you baby, and saying it the exact same way he says your name. Low and rolling and lined with something soft.

“I do.” You hold your ground, raising your chin. “I want you, Dean Winchester. Fix this.”

He shakes his head, barely a jerked movement, and you start to feel a little faint.

“Dean. I need you to look me in the eyes,” your voice starts to rise, growing pleading and frantic. “And tell me you don’t want me. Say that you wanting me is just the spell, and I’ll go. I promise. I just need to you to fucking say it, Dean, just fucking say you don’t want me or need me or love me-“

He moves before you even realize what’s happening. Almost leaping onto you as his mouth crashed into yours, his hands cupping your face as he walks you back, back, back into the wall and growls down your throat. And you’d been wrong. His hand on you don’t feel like small bursts of electricity. They’re like lighting. Dragging something you hadn’t known existed to the surface, and setting off a storm of need in your body.

“Course I want you,” one arm snakes around your waist, pressing your right into his erection. “Always fucking wanted you. You’re smoking hot,” he starts to kiss over your face, his words slightly muffled against your skin as you cling to his body. “Funnier than I am, and smart as hell. You feel like home and smell so good and, fuck, I’ve lost sleep thinkin’ about how it’d feel to get lost in you. I’d have to be fucking blind and dumb not to want you,” Dean grunts your name, returning your mouth to yours with a painfully soft, gentle, featherlight kiss. “But I’m not-“

“If you say good for me,” you mutter, leaning back to glare at him. “I’ll punch you.” He chuckles, and it’s dry and low, rumbling from his chest into yours. “I’m not-“

“You are.” You whisper, offering him a small, slightly broken smile. You need him to get this. You might start crying if he doesn’t. “You’re good for me. And I want you. I love you.” Something flashes in his eyes, and you don’t care if he believes you. He doesn’t have to believe you. He just needs to get it. “No spell, Dean. I’m here, and I’m yours. Take me.”

Your nails dig into his skin—attempting to leave a mark of him if he turns you away—and his breathing is ragged. Heavy and hot, fanning across your face as he stares at you, just stares at you, why is he just staring at you-

“Dean-“

This kiss is brutal It’s teeth and tongue and bruising lips, like he’s trying to move into your body. His hands are everywhere on you, squeezing your ass and palming your tits, rolling your nipple between two fingers before groaning down your throat when you moan.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters your name, his hand on your ass glides onto your pussy, playing with your folds and flicking at your clit once, twice, three times and you feel fucking high- “So wet for me-“

“For you,” you whimper, nodding stupidly as Dean presses him thumb down on that bundle of nerves, rubbing slowly. “Fuck, Dean, all for you-“ 

“Need to taste you,” he growls, pulling his mouth fully back, watching you grind onto his hand with a dark gaze. “You gonna let me taste you, baby? Let me eat that pretty pussy-“ 

You’ve barely nodded before he’s on his knees, one arm still around your waist to support you both as he dives into your cunt. 

Oh.

He’s good at this. Really, really fucking good at this. You can’t really think anything that’s not Dean, or make any noise that’s not a moan kind of good at this. He’s ravenous and starved, his nose bumping and pressing into your clit in an impossibly mind-numbing rhythm, his tongue plunging in and out of your cunt until your squirming above him, desperate for more.

“Dean,” your hand tug at his hair, and you don’t know if you’re trying to push him deeper or pull him away. “Shit, Dean, I’m gonna cum-“

He groans against you, his eyes opening to watch you come apart above him, and you think he might be getting off on this.

“Please,” you whimper. “God, please, I need to cum-“

Dean bites your clit, and your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave. It’s all bliss and relief and a high, bright haze of Dean, and then you’re falling down.

Dean’s pulling you down. Onto his lap as he leans back, moving you to straddle over him as his cock throbs between his legs.

You want to touch him.

You push back on him, just enough for his grip to loosen, and take him in your hand. He’s huge. And pretty. Dicks aren’t supposed to be pretty, but Dean’s is, and it might be because every part of Dean is pretty. Every part of him is impossible pretty, from his cock twitching in your hand as you run your thumb over the slit, to his lidded eyes and parted mouth as he watches you with wonder.

“Shit,” he moans your name, and fuck, even that was pretty. “What are you doing to me-“

“Handjob,” you whisper, placing your free hand lightly on his chest in a silent request for him to lay back. “I think.”

Dean huffs a laugh, leaning back with a smirk. “Ya think? You sure you know what you’re doing with that- Fuck-“

You hum around Dean’s cock, your lips wrapped around the base as your tongue swirls around his shaft, and his groans are sinful. The fire in your corse hadn’t lessened by any means from your orgasm, but it grows unbearable as you move Dean’s hand to your hair and let him guide you up and down. Let him set the pace, moaning when his hips jerk and he hits the back of your throat, and squeezing his thighs in silent reassurance that you’re good. You’re really, really good. You’re grinding onto Dean’s knee as he fucks your face, playing with his balls with your free hand and devouring every bit of slightly slurred praise that falls from his mouth.

“Fucking hell, baby, you always been this good at sucking cock? You’re, shit, you look like a wet dream, look like an angel, fuck.” He hisses at your teeth graze over him. “You look so good like this. Mouth stuffed full of cock, desperate and wet for me-“ You roll your hips against him, and Dean tugs you fully up, smirking at your swollen lips and glossy eyes. “Careful,” he warns, sitting up as his thumb swipes a little bit of drool from your cheek. “When I’m cumming tonight, I’m cumming in you, baby, got that?”

“Yes, please,” you whimper. You’re on the pill anyway. “Dean-“

“C’mere.” He tugs you into his lap with careful hands, scanning over you with a small shake of his head. “Son of bitch, you’re gorgeous. You’re sure you-“

“I’m sure.” You grind against his cock, never looking away from him as the head of him bumps your clit. It goes on for too long, Dean just watching you fuck yourself on his lap with his hands bruising your hips, and you start to whine. “Shit, Dean, need you-“

Dean surges forward, kissing you long and deep and slow, and keeps his brow pressed to yours as he looks down to where you’re moving on him.

“Hold on,” he mutters, and you follow the order without a second thought.

Your arms wrap around Dean’s neck just as he lines himself up, and you almost scream when he pushes into you.

“Shit,” he looks back at you, eyes wide. “Are you-“

“Don’t stop,” you moan, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “Fuck, it feels so good, Dean, don’t stop.”

He nods, kissing the side of your head, and slowly moves into your aching pussy until he bottoms out with a long exhale.

“Gonna, fuck-“ He groans as you squeeze around him. “Can’t do that, baby, I won’t last a minute-

“Sorry,” you mumble against him, playing with the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Didn’t meant to-“

“It’s fine.” He grunts, still not moving. “Just, fuck, you feel so good. So warm,” he groans, pressing his face onto the top of your head. “So tight and warm, feel so good-“

“Dean, please-“

You gasp as he gives one, short thrust upward.

“So good,” Dean growls in your ear, making another small, dizzying movement that presses him right up against that spongey spot deep inside of you. “Ready?”

“Ye-“

You squeal as Dean rises to his knees, keeping himself sheathed inside you as he falls forward, his hand splayed on your back and holding you carefully against him. His face is resting between your breasts, his cock angled so deep inside you it might drive you insane if he doesn’t start to fucking move, and his eyes stay yours as you only watch each other for a long moment.

He’s asking permission. Dean’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving, because he’s offering you one last chance to turn him down. 

You move one hand to hold his face, wrapping your legs around his waist and squirming around him in silent encouragement.

It snaps something in him. Dean grabs your hand, moves it onto the back of his neck, and lowers you fully onto the ground so you’re caged between him and floor. He scans over you for only a second, a small, cocky smirk crawling onto his face, leans down to give you one last, almost sweet kiss.

A soft moan leaves you as Dean traces his tongue over your lips, and his low growl is the only warning you get before he starts to fuck into you like an animal.

It’s sloppy and wet and loud, skin slapping against skin as Dean abuses your cunt, and fuck you’ve never felt better. You feel full, split open on his cock and right where you belong, alive in a way that seeps right into your soul and ignites your blood into a holy fire of Dean. Groaning your name on your skin and touching you with calloused, big, expert hands. Watching you as you unravel beneath him, scraping your nails over his back and making needy sounds that only spur him on.

You’re going to fly out of your body. Dean’s muscles are ripping above and around you as he fucks you into the floor, and his mouth is mold perfectly onto yours. Neither of you seem to care to breathe, or speak, or do anything but nips and suck and lick at each other. Trying to get impossibly closer, to drag the other over the edge so you can fall with them. You grind up into Dean, and Dean bites your lip. Dean rolls his hips as he bottoms out, making your mouth fall open for his tongue to plunge down your throat, and you scrape and claw as his chest until he groans, and you manage to slip one hand down to play with his balls.

He wins he swats your hand away and starts to rub small, firm circles on your clit. He’s unrelenting, and watching you with an affection that feels a little misplaced for the carnal hunger on his handsome features.

“Always want you,” he mutters your name, pressing his thumb flat against you. “Cum for me, baby.”

Your vision blurs as you find release, and it feels like heaven. Like stars and fire and water and light under your skin, in your blood, like a halo around your head that’s all just the pleasure Dean’s is still wringing from your body. Your pussy is fluttering and gushing around his cock, and it sends him over the edge with a roar, his hips slamming home as he paints the walls of your cunt white.

And when you’re both spent and Dean rolls you over—carefully adjusting you to be right on top of him, his body a barrier between you and the now-cold floor—you feel good. Really, really good. Fucked out and high, nothing trying to burst out of your skin or eat at your stomach. You feel better than you might have ever felt in your whole life. The only warmth in your body is heat you’re trading with Dean, and you feel good.

“We, um.” You trace over his tattoo, looking up at him under your eyelashes. “We should probably talk, or something-“

“Or something.” He agrees, grinning down at you. “Don’t feel like it’s a rush though. Sammy and Bobby will find us in the morning. Right now,” Dean kisses your brow, squeezing his arms around your body. “You’re all mine.”

You can be all his. It’ll be really, really easy to be all Dean, because he hasn’t said he loves you, but he does. You know he does. It lives in how he’s still touching and holding you, still talking to you like you’re his best friend and not a mistake, and running his hands through your hair mindlessly.

And you’ll have a lot to talk about later. A lot to fight about, and fuck about, and laugh and cry and scream about.

But right now you just have to be Dean’s.

And that will be really easy.

End Note: Bobby Singer you are fifty times the father John Winchester could ever HOPE to be.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery

[alexsoenomel]

POV: Texts from Dean

[theshamelesssimp]

When you're trying to find plot but you keep seeing porn without plot

[zepskies]

Headcanon: Wearing His Clothes

Pairings: Dean Winchester x F. Reader, Beau Arlen x F. Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

AN: I haven't done one of these in a while! This one was requested by the lovely @luci-in-trenchcoats. 💜

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, spiciness/implied smut

Headcanon: How Dean, Beau, and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to you (getting caught) wearing his clothes.

Dean Winchester

Ugh, what a cocky SOB. 😆 (And yet, not the cockiest of them all.)

You've been doing it for weeks now, without comment from him.

But every time he sees you in one of his undershirts, getting ready for bed, it's always accompanied by a little once-over. A curve of his lips. A smirk, if you will.

He likes the look of you.

He likes that you're his.

And he likes the fact that you feel comfortable enough to steal his clothes.

He also likes welcoming you into bed next to him, with a hand running up your back, or venturing under whatever undershirt you've decided to slip on to feel the warmth of your skin.

"'S this mine?" he asks. You give him a quirking smile.

"You know it is," you say, with playful challenge.

Dean accepts that with a hum and leans in for a kiss as payment.

Sometimes that one stolen kiss leads to another, simmering with heat. And he’ll take great pleasure in taking back his shirt, casting it to the floor and rolling you underneath him on the bed.

But it doesn't stop at his undershirts. You steal his plaid ones if you want something to comfortably drown in when you're doing research, or just lounging in the bunker. The material is soft from several hundred washes. (The red and black one is one of your favorites.)

Rare though it is for him to wear hoodies, it's rarer still, because Dean can never even find one in his side of the dresser.

That's because you're keeping it hostage on your side, buried under your lingerie. (Even if he tried to find the hoodie, odds are he’ll get distracted.)

It gets to the point where he can hardly find anything of his.

His brows furrow as he rucks through his drawers for something clean to wear, while clad in only his most threadbare sweatpants.

"Damn it, woman. Where are my shirts?" he grouses.

You bite your lip and pretend to keep reading your book. You're already safe in bed, covered up to your chest by the blankets.

"I don't know. Have you done your laundry?" you ask, smiling to yourself. Dean catches you, with a suspicious brow raise.

He climbs into bed and snatches the covers away from you. You yelp at the suddenness and try to grab at them, but it's too late.

He discovers that you're wearing one of his newer shirts, which he had to buy to replace the ones he just can't seem to find.

"Are you kidding me? This is Theft in the First goddamn Degree!" he exclaims, even though he's close to laughing at the way you're already giggling. He manages to pin you underneath him on the bed, and he has half a mind to take this shirt back as well, by whatever means necessary.

And yes, tickling is one of those means.

"Sweetheart, for the love of God. Why do you keep taking my shit?" he asks, in a way that's half-serious in his frustration, but also half-teasing.

You shrug shamelessly, still smiling. You run your hands up his bare arms and shoulders, and back down his chest.

"I don't know. It's comfortable," you say. But your eyes lower as your face begins to warm with a blush. "Makes me feel safe...like you're always with me."

At that, the tension in Dean's shoulders eases. His smile can't help but soften around the edges as he looks down on you, now with fondness. After a while, he lets out a deep sigh.

"All right," he says.

You grin, because you know he's given up. You lean up for a kiss that successfully distracts him.

Dean still gets annoyed sometimes when he can't find a specific item of clothing in his drawer, but now, all he has to do is go over to your side of the dresser.

There he knows he'll eventually find what he's looking for.

Beau Arlen

Heh, in this episode of “Whose Hat is it Anyway”...

Beau's wardrobe reminds you of a cowboy in modern times.

Lots of browns and beiges, lots of slacks and buttoned-down shirts tucked in with an army of belts to choose from (even though the man only owns a few pairs of boots). Not to mention a slew of jackets that often pull the look together.

But being that he's new to Montana (specifically, Montana winters), you like to buy him sweaters. Cable-knits and soft ones in earth tones that you think bring out his eyes.

Beau accepts whatever you get him and graciously wears them. He trusts your judgment on what looks good on him, and he appreciates the way you think of him.

It's just one of those ways, however small, that you show that you care and that you're looking out for him.

One night while he's working late, however, you find yourself trying to reorganize the closet. The man is "organized chaos" at best, and you find one of his sweaters on the floor. It's a nice burgundy one that you bought him recently.

Ooh, so soft, you think, while feeling the fabric between your fingers.

You don't know what possesses you, but you decide to slip out of your pajamas and try it on yourself.

SO damn soft, you realize, as you practically drown in the sweater. It hangs about to mid-thigh.

Then you see one of his beige Stetsons hanging on the wall. A sneaking smile curves your lips, before you slip on his hat.

To complete the ensemble, you dig into the recesses of your closet and find a pair of your old cowboy boots. You go out into the bedroom and check yourself out in the mirror with a growing smirk.

"Hey there, darlin'," you try to impersonate your boyfriend's subtle Texan twang, and even his mannerisms by winking at yourself, tipping the hat forward.

You giggle at your own silliness in this moment, but alone in your own house, who freakin' cares? You should feel free to dance naked through the whole damn place if you feel like it.

So you spin on your heel and do a little twirl in your boots.

"Who's the sheriff now, huh?" You mime a pair of guns with your hands and shoot at your reflection. "Psh, psh!"

But that's when you catch sight of one Beau Arlen, leaning against the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed. An amused grin is plastered to his face.

You freeze in shock, still with your "gun hands" held up.

"Oh, don't stop the show on my account," Beau says slyly. He gestures at you. "Please, continue."

Your hot blush spreads from your cheeks and quickly begins to travel down your neck. "Uh...I was just...you know, cleaning the closet. You're very messy, you know!"

Beau snorts and draws closer. Those green eyes of his take in the full sight of you, down your bare thighs and cowboy boots, and back up to your embarrassed face. You bite your bottom lip on reflex.

"You know, I like what you got goin' on here," he says, waving a hand down your form. "But it's just...it's missing something."

He takes his badge with the gold star off his belt and pins it to your sweater.

"There you go. Perfect fit," he says, even as his hand slides up the slope of your back. You find yourself pulled further into his orbit as you try (and fail) to stamp down a smile.

"You're late, you know," you remind him. Beau bows his head and presses a kiss into your neck. You feel his smirk there.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff. Gonna arrest me, or let me off with a warning?" he teases. His other hand comes up to adjust the hat on your head. You smirk and cling to his arms over his dark brown jacket. It's one of his nicer ones.

"I think I can let you off," you play along. You lean up to skim your lips across his cheek, and closer to his ear. "But only for good behavior."

He has to chuckle then. "I can accept those terms..."

Beau's hands slip under your stolen sweater and begin to slide it up your body, inch by inch.

"Though I'm gonna need you to keep the boots on," he says lowly, just before he claims you with a searing kiss.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Oh, here we go. 😅

As with most things, it's a point of pride for Ben.

He'd prefer you be too fucked out to move, let alone put on clothes after he's finished with you.

On the rare occasion that your body doesn't feel too much like warm molasses after a few hot rounds with your boyfriend, you like to at least grab one of his discarded shirts to cover yourself.

If he still has energy, he'll take that as a challenge. He'll try to slip his hands underneath whatever shirt you've found and divest you of it, so he can start devouring you again.

However. Ben does like seeing you in his clothes, in a possessive, claiming way.

There are days when you just want to be swallowed up in one of his large, comfortable shirts as you lounge about the house.

Ben sometimes watches you putter around, cleaning, working, cooking, reading, or watching TV in nothing but his clothes. He wonders if you're even wearing panties. You could be bare faced with a severe case of bed head, but his eyes will still occasionally follow you.

His expression doesn't reveal too much, but he likes it. (And because you know him, you know it too.)

Maybe he'll catch you as you pass by, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You startle with a yelp, but then you grab onto his arms and smile.

"Can I help you, sir?" you tease.

"Think you can just walk by me, looking sexy as fuck?" he remarks. He steals a slow, thorough kiss. You cup his face and bring him back in for more, tenderly stroking his cheek.

"You know why I like wearing your stuff?" you ask. Your smile hints at teasing.

Ben arches a brow. "Why?"

"Because it keeps you looking," you reply. And you reach a hand around to slap his ass, for good measure.

Then you saunter away from him to get back to what you were doing.

Or at least, you try to.

Ben grabs your hand and pulls you back towards him, back into the cage of his arms, where he falls back into the trap you've so often laid. And he finishes what you started.

AN: Well, then. 😂 I hope you guys enjoy this! Who had your favorite reaction: Dean, Beau, or Ben? 😘

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[deansbeer]

diet pepsi ⎯⎯ DEAN WINCHESTER.

⎯⎯ you and dean finally cross the line from best friends to lovers, giving in to the undeniable passion between you.

YAP SESH! this is dedicated to my girl BREEZY @titsout4nicholas <3 i know i know, it took me 4ever to get it out, but it's here !!! i wanted it to be a soft smut type FIC, so i'm sorry if it isn't the usual filthy smut yall were expecting.

WARNING(S) smut | F!READER | four-year age gap | semi-public sex | best friends-to-lovers trope | loss of virginity | overstimulation | fingering | use of protection (condom) | car sex. ୨ৎ EIGHTEEN PLUS! ADULT CONTENT | minors do NOT interact.

୨ৎ JENSEN'S LIBRARY.

୨ৎ gif creds @sensitivehandsomeactionman !

YOU WATCH THE RAINDROPS RACE DOWN the impala's window, counting each one that reaches the bottom first. the gentle patter of rain against metal and glass creates a soothing rhythm that matches your heartbeat. dean pulls into an empty rest stop, the headlights cutting through the darkness and reflecting off the wet pavement.

"wait here, i'll be right back," dean says with that signature smile of his before stepping out into the rain.

you pull dean's worn brown leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, gunpowder, and his cologne. he'd draped it over you earlier when you'd started shivering. being dean's best friend means knowing all his little gestures of care — the way he shares his jacket, checks the salt lines twice around your motel room, brings you your favorite snacks.

through the foggy window, you watch him jog to the vending machine, his boots splashing in puddles. the blue glow illuminates his face as he feeds quarters into the slot. a few moments later, he's sliding back into the driver's seat, water droplets clinging to his hair and eyelashes.

"here you go, sweetheart," he says softly, pressing the cold diet pepsi can into your hands. "your favorite."

"you remembered," you smile, touched by the simple gesture. dean remembers everything about you — how you like your coffee, your favorite songs, the way you scrunch your nose when you're thinking hard about something.

"'course i did. what kind of best friend would i be if i didn't?" he winks, starting up baby's engine. the familiar rumble surrounds you both.

dean drives down empty backroads, streetlights casting intermittent golden glows across his face. you share comfortable silence broken only by quiet classic rock from the radio and occasional sips of your soda. these are the moments you treasure most — just you and dean and the open road.

"you're special to me, you know that?" dean says suddenly, glancing over at you. "my baby."

your heart flutters at the endearment. coming from anyone else, it might feel patronizing. but from dean, it feels like being wrapped in warmth and safety and belonging.

"you're special to me too," you whisper back.

dean reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. you lace your fingers through his, marveling at how perfectly they fit together. maybe someday you'll be ready to cross that line between friendship and something more. but for now, this is enough — sharing quiet moments in his beloved impala, drinking diet pepsi, and knowing that no matter what supernatural threats you face, you'll face them together.

the rain continues as baby carries you both through the night, towards whatever adventure awaits. but in this moment, you're exactly where you want to be — by DEAN WINCHESTER'S side, his best friend, his baby.

as the downpour continues, creating a steady rhythm against the impala's roof. dean turns onto a secluded side of the road, the trees creating a canopy overhead. he kills the engine and turns to face you, his eyes dark and full of longing. next thing you know. you're both in the backseat of baby.

you swallow, your heart pounding in your chest as he leans in, gently brushing his lips against yours. you part your lips, letting out a soft moan as his tongue explores your mouth. your hands find their way to the short spiky strands of his hair, tugging softly as the kiss deepens.

dean pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. "you sure about this?" he whispers, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand.

you nod, looking him in the eyes. "yeah. i want this. i want you."

he kisses you again, his hands roaming over your body, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. you arch into him, your body on fire with need.

dean breaks the kiss, his breathing heavy. "we can stop anytime you want," he says, his voice gruff.

you shake your head, your hands pulling at the hem of his shirt. "i don't want to stop. not now. not ever."

he helps you out of his worn brown leather jacket, your shirt and expertly unclasps your lace bra, his eyes darkening as he takes in the sight of your bare upper body. he leans down, his lips finding your breasts, his tongue teasing your nipples. you gasp, your back arching as pleasure shoots through you.

dean's hand travels down your body, his fingers finding the waistband of your jeans. he looks up at you, waiting for your approval. you nod, biting your lip as anticipation builds.

he slowly removes them, his eyes never leaving yours. he kisses you deeply, his hands exploring your body. you moan into the kiss, your hands gripping his shoulders as he touches you in ways you've only ever dreamed of.

dean's fingers find their way inside your tight pussy, your body clenching around him as he finds your sweet spot. you gasp his name, your body trembling as pleasure builds.

"oh, de," you moan softly, a little out of breath from the intensity of it all.

he increases his pace, his thumb circling your clit as he brings you closer and closer to the edge. you cry out as you come undone, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

dean waits until you come down from your high before removing his own worn out faded jeans. he quickly rolls on a condom, his eyes never leaving yours, as if he wanted to devour you whole. he entered you slowly, carefully, giving you time to adjust. you let out a soft gasp, your pussy clenching around him.

you wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him closer as he starts to move. he moved within you, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. the impala rocked gently beneath you, the rhythm of your bodies matching the rhythm of the car, and the sounds of soft skin slapping fill the air. you clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulder blades.

you cried out his name as you come undone, your pussy convulsing around him. dean follows soon after, his body trembling as he releases deep inside you. he collapsed on top of you, but made sure he wasn't crushing you underneath his body. his breathing was heavy, holding you close, and wrapping his arms tightly around you.

the two of you lay there for a long time, tangled together in the backseat of the impala, the silence broken only by the sound of your breathing. the world outside the car slowly came back into focus, the dark trees blurring in the distance. you looked up at dean, his face softened in the dim light.

he smiled down at you, a gentle, loving smile. "y'okay?" he whispered, pressing gentle kisses all over your cheeks, nose, and eyelids.

you wrap your arms around him, nodding. your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. "'m perfect," you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear.

he kisses you softly and pulls back to admire you again, his hand coming up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. "you're amazing, baby," he whispers back, his eyes full of love and adoration.

you snuggled closer to him, his body warm and comforting. in that moment, in the backseat of the impala, surrounded by the quiet still of the night. you both lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, the rain continuing to pour outside. and for the first time in your life, you feel truly content, truly happy. you know that no matter what comes your way, you'll face it with dean by your side.

you're finally his. his baby. his girl.

[hintsofhoney]

Ladies With Experience

Paring(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: When Dean makes an off-handed comment about "preferring ladies with experience", you try (and fail) to not let it get under your skin. You're a virgin, but you've done just about everything else, and when you talk to Dean about it, he offers to be your first. He's your best friend, and you've been in love with him forever... who are you to deny him?

Tags: smut, first time, virgin!reader, dom/sub dynamics, dom!dean, p in v, oral (female receiving), spanking, fingering, not-so-innocent reader

Word Count: 5k

A/N: As always, thank you to my loves @wayward-dreamer and @makeadealwithdean for beta-ing. Would be nowhere without you two 🥰

You can also read me on Ao3!

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

“Anyways, let’s say you’re right, fine. Who would want virgins?”

You know Sam didn’t mean it like that , and you felt stupid for letting it bother you. For letting this case bother you.

“You got me,” Dean replied with a shrug. “I prefer ladies with experience.” 

And there it was, like a punch straight to the gut. You hated that it hurt you as much as it did. So what, you’ve never had sex. But you’ve done almost everything else. You knew what you liked and what you didn't. You’ve been around the block a few times with the various sex toys in your nightstand drawer. It’s not like you weren’t experienced at all . But that didn’t make Dean’s words hurt any less. You swallowed down the burger and fries from lunch that were threatening to come up, before standing up from your seat at the small motel room table. 

The brothers looked at you, eyebrows raised.

“I — bathroom,” you managed, before quickly making your way there, slamming the door shut behind you. 

Staring at your reflection in the dirty bathroom mirror, you let the tears fall. Silently, you wiped them away as Dean’s words echoed in your head, and you hated that you loved him. Hated that you’d never be ballsy enough to admit it to him, especially now.

Something like five minutes passed and you knew you didn’t have long before one of the boys — likely Sam — would come knocking to check on you. You flushed the unused toilet so they wouldn’t suspect anything and turned on the faucet, splashing your tear-soaked face with cold water before using a hand towel to wipe it dry. When you emerged, the guys were packing up their duffels.

“Did you find them?” you asked, hopeful.

Dean checked his gun, before flipping the safety on and stuffing it in the back waistband of his jeans. 

“I sure as hell hope so, ‘cause if I’m about to crawl through the goddamn sewers for nothing —”

“They’re down there, Dean,” Sam replied, giving him a pointed look. He turned his attention to you, and if he had noticed anything off, he hadn’t let his face show it. “You coming?”

You grabbed your gun off the dresser and holstered it in reply.

Six hours later, the three of you were sweaty, panting, and splattered in blood after a close fight with dragons in the sewers. Thankfully, you hadn’t had to wade in any actual sewage. You hadn’t said a word to either brother since you had gone to the bathroom six hours ago, and to keep them from growing suspicious of your sudden silence, you opted to take a nap in the backseat of the Impala on the way back to the motel. 

You stirred awake as Dean pulled into the parking lot, barely conscious enough to catch the end of the brothers’ conversation.

“I’ll get her,” Dean said. 

Sam nodded and got out of the car, gently closing the passenger side door before heading inside. 

You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the sleep in them as Dean’s face came into focus. He was looking at you over his shoulder, one arm resting on the top of the front bench seat. 

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

It took a moment for the feeling you had been filled with prior to your nap to come back to you, his words from earlier echoing in your head. I prefer ladies with experience . You shot him a cold glare.

“Alright. What’d I do?” he asked, turning in his seat to better angle himself towards you. 

The question caught you off guard.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You haven’t said a word since we left for that hunt, Y/N.”

“How do you know Sam didn’t do something?”

He replied with a knowing look.

You stared at your hands, clasped together in your lap, and muttered, “It’s nothing. Stupid.”

“C’mon, talk to me,” he urged.

You hated this. How easy he was to talk to. How you had always been able to tell him what was on your mind.

But not this . You couldn’t tell him this. 

You shook your head. 

“Hey,” he said softly, shifting in his seat. He was fully turned around now, reaching out to tilt your chin up, forcing you to look at those green eyes. “Talk to me,” he repeated, no room for argument in his words.

“I can’t,” you whispered. You wanted to throw up. He was your best friend, and you were utterly, irrevocably, head-over-heels in love with him. He preferred girls with experience, and you had none. Not in the way that it mattered. And he had known that, thanks to a late-night stake-out game of Never Have I Ever . 

His jaw clenched. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

You briefly met his gaze. You couldn’t hold it for long. 

“Was it something I said?” he prodded. 

You stared at the buttons of his open flannel, your eyes quickly darting up to meet his in silent confirmation. 

He sighed, pulling his hand away from your face and folding his arms on top of the backseat, resting his chin on his forearm.

“Do I at least get a hint?”

“Dean, I —”

“C’mon, Y/N. You’ve never not told me anything.”

“Why are you pushing this?”

“Because I can’t stand not talking to you.”

Your heart leaped at that confession, however innocent it might have been. 

“I’m talking to you now, aren’t I?”

“Because I’m making you. You would have silent treatmented me into next week.”

You didn’t respond.

He sighed again, defeated. “Y/N, c’mon. Please? Whatever I said, I’m sorry. I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

“You didn’t mean that you ‘prefer girls with experience’?” you retorted quite sassily. The question tumbled out before you even had time to think of the implication that came with asking it. 

Dean opened and closed his mouth like a damn fish. 

“Thought so.” You began to move to make your way out of the car, when Dean reached out and grabbed your wrist.

“No,” he finally said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“It’s okay if you do. I told you, it was a dumb thing to be upset about.”

“No, it’s not. I didn’t stop to think about how this case might have been affecting you. You know I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, right?” 

You swallowed, nodded. His hand felt like fire around your wrist.

“But for what it’s worth, I wasn’t serious. I don’t prefer anyone one way or the other. Sex is sex. If anyone’s willing to have it with me, I consider myself lucky.”

“Romantic,” you quipped.

A smile tugged at his lips. “I could show you, y’know.”

You almost threw up right there in the backseat. Your eyes grew wide.

“What?” you croaked.

“Well, if you’re worried about not having any experience… I just mean I’d be happy to, y’know. Show you the ropes.”

“… Of sex?” Really, you thought it was cute that he had this misconception of you. You knew about the ropes. You’d just never been tied up with them. 

“Of whatever you want.”

“You think I want to have sex with you?” It came out harsher than you meant it to, like part of you still thought you could hide the fact that you were in love with him. Like if you just joked it off it would go away, and you wouldn’t have to cross this line with him, even though you so badly wanted to. But you had to protect yourself, your heart. 

You didn’t miss the flash of hurt in his eyes.

“No, that’s not what I —”

You suddenly felt the need to clarify your question.

“No, I — I didn’t mean it like that either.”

Dean’s face morphed into one of confusion. “…So you do want to have sex with me?”

Your cheeks flushed red, and your throat bobbed. “Uh…”

“Forget it, stupid question, you don’t have to an—” 

“Yeah,” you answered, your voice barely above a whisper. Fuck it. Who were you to hold yourself back from the one thing you’ve been wanting for years? You cleared your throat. “Yeah, I really, really do.”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Seriously?”

“Oh, cut the shit, Dean. Like you’re surprised. Everyone wants to have sex with you.”

He scoffed. “ Everyone , Y/N, really?”

“There are literally smutty fanfictions written about you,” you replied, reaching into your back pocket for your phone, dead set on proving your point. 

“Gross. And Becky doesn’t count as everyone.”

“Actually, Becky only writes for Sam.”

You realized what you said at the same time he did, and he eyed you suspiciously.

“Why do you know that?”

God dammit. “I don’t. I mean — I — like, she obviously loves Sam. So, like, she wouldn’t write porn about you. Obviously.”

“Uh huh…” There was an uncomfortable silence for a beat or three. And then, “How much smut have you read about me?”

Your face felt like it had just been rinsed with fucking lava, and you knew it probably looked as red as it, too. 

“None!” you exclaimed, way too quickly. 

Dean smirked. “You do really wanna have sex with me,” he remarked, like he couldn’t believe it.

“Trust me, the urge is fading by the second.”

His grin disappeared almost instantly. “Would it help if I told you that I think about fucking you all the time, too?”

“Well, I don’t think about it all the —”

“Y/N.” He said your name like a warning, and the tone of his voice settled right in your core. 

“Yeah,” you squeaked. “Yeah, that helps.”

“Good,” he smirked, before grabbing his phone from beside him. 

“Uh… What are you doing?” You watched as he scrolled for a second, pressing a button before putting the phone to his ear.

“Telling Sammy to beat it.”

Your eyes grew wide. “What!?” you whisper-yelled. “No! Just — we can just do it back here!”

He gave you a pointed look. “I’m not taking your virginity in the backseat of my car, Y/N.”

“Why not!?”

“Because we’re not sixteen, for one. And for two… I wanna make it special.” He rushed the last bit out, like he was embarrassed to say it. And he should be. You cringed as you heard it. 

“Oh my God,” you began.

“Shut up.”

“You did not just say that.”

“Shut up. Sam, answer your phone, God dammit!”

“I have done, like, almost everything else, you know. In the backseats of many, many cars. You don’t need to make it special for me, Deano,” you teased. 

“For the last time, shut your mouth, or I’m gonna shut it for you,” he said, the look he gave letting you know he wasn’t in the mood to play. No, he wanted to fuck you. Beyond that, he wanted to dominate you. And you were more than happy to submit.

You might have been a virgin physically, but mentally? Mentally, you’d probably give Dean a run for his money. 

Sam didn’t answer. Naturally. He was probably in the shower, but you were kind of grateful because as much as you wanted Dean, you didn’t want to make Sam uncomfortable. Or worse, give him any reason to give you the talk . Because he totally would. After trying his brother two more times, Dean decided it would be better to just get a room of your own, and you were much happier with that decision. 

You watched as he unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping aside, gesturing for you to go ahead. 

“Ladies first.”

“You mean you’re not gonna carry me over the threshold?” you joked. “Thought you wanted to make this special .”

He gave you an unamused look, and you shot back a sarcastic closed-mouth smile before you were being swept off of your feet and over his shoulder faster than you could process.

“Dean!” you squealed, as he carried you through the doorway, kicking the door shut behind him before practically throwing you onto the bed.

He was hovering over you seconds later, his face a few inches from yours, and the mood shifted from playful to serious.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

You nodded, your fingers coming up to play with the collar of his flannel.

“If I tell you something, you promise you won’t make fun of me?” you questioned, your eyes glued to the plaid pattern on his shirt.

“Promise.”

“I was kinda… holding out for you.” You drew your eyes up to meet his.

“Seriously?” he asked, half laughing. You could tell it wasn’t because he thought it was funny. It was because he couldn’t believe it.

You swallowed nervously, nodding again as you stared into those green eyes, and you hoped that this meant as much to him as it did to you. Something told you it did.

“I wasn’t kidding, you know,” he said.

You tilted your head in question.

“About making it special for you. I know it’s like, the grossest thing I could have possibly said but, you deserve so much better than me, and so if —”

“There’s no one better for me, you idiot.” And you almost told him everything. That you’ve been in love with him ever since you met one summer at Bobby’s, back when you were just kids. That everything felt like it led up to this moment. That you wanted him to fuck you and make love to you all at once. That you didn’t want this to be the only time he did. But instead, you grabbed his face in your hands and pulled him towards you, your lips meeting in a kiss that felt like it could have powered an entire country’s electric grid. 

He deepened it, and the two of you were nothing but tongues and teeth and lips — it wasn’t sexy. It was hungry. Starved, more like. Like he had been thinking about kissing you just as long as you had been thinking about him. 

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling his hips down towards your denim-covered core, down until you felt the hardness underneath his jeans pressed up against the spot where you needed him most, down until you couldn’t help but grind against it. He moaned as he kissed you, so you did it again. And again. And again. And —

“You need to stop that.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command. You noticed that your arms were above your head, his hands pinning your wrists against the mattress. You don’t know when that happened, but you weren’t complaining. In fact, it spurred you on. 

You smiled mischievously and rutted against him once more. 

“What’re you gonna do about it, Winchester?”

He dropped his forehead to yours, steadying his breaths.

“I can fuck you like it’s your first time, or I can fuck you how I actually want to.”

“And how’s that?”

He took a shaky breath, like he was actually having a hard time controlling himself. You felt a sense of pride shoot through you at that.

“Like the fucking brat you are.”

You almost came from that alone. 

Wanna know some common misconceptions about virgins? That they don’t have kinks. That they don’t watch porn. That they don’t have a plethora of sex toys  in their nightstand. That they sit and crochet in their convent dorm room all day. Sure, you were years past the age when girls typically lose their virginity, but you were no saint. In fact, you enjoyed being quite the opposite. And you enjoyed being put in your place. 

“Do your worst.”

It was like something in him snapped. His eyes were lust-blown and hungry and you didn’t miss the way his jaw ticked, and then he was undressing you so fast that you could’ve been part of a quick change act. He muttered something about a light system as he took off your clothes, and you nodded in a way that let him know that you already knew how all of that worked. 

When you were down to just a black lace bra and panties, he paused as his fingers hooked under your waistband. He stared at you, his expression serious, and you knew that he was going to give you one more warning. One more opportunity to say, “Actually, I’d like to have a totally normal, non-kinky, first time experience, please.” But that wasn’t what you wanted. 

“You sure you know what you’re asking for?”

You rolled your eyes. “I trust you. Put me in my goddamn place, Winchester. You’ve only been wanting to do it for the past two hours.”

“Oh, I’ve been waiting to do it for a lot longer than that, sweetheart.”

“Really?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah,” he replied, huffing a small laugh before pulling off your panties in one swift motion. His hands came to rest on your bare thighs as he locked his eyes with yours. “Any hard limits?”

You shook your head. “I trust you. I mean, like, don’t pee on me or —”

“Not gonna happen. But… most everything else?”

“Dean,” you began, looking at him pointedly, “I trust you. If it helps, I’ve used like, toys on myself before. And I don’t mean just a vibrator, I mean like… well, you get the gist.”

“So I don’t have to go easy on you, is what you’re saying?”

“Put me in my place,” you repeated.

“Alright,” he replied, his hands gripping the underside of your thighs as he roughly pushed them apart, “but just so we’re clear, that’s the last order you’ll be giving tonight.”

Your throat bobbed and you nodded. “Yes, Sir.” 

You meant it as a joke, but it didn’t come out that way. No, the title came out in a way that made his jaw clench and his eyes darken and it stoked the fire raging in your core. 

Dean didn’t waste any more time talking after that, his tongue moving through your folds seconds later, drawing gasps and soft moans from your lips. You arched into him, your hands in his hair, silently begging for more. It wasn’t the first time a man had gone down on you, but it was the first time it felt like this . 

He pinned your hips down to the bed with one hand splayed over your abdomen and then his tongue was inside you and “eating you out” didn’t come close to describing his ministrations. He was devouring you like his life depended on it, like the sounds you were making were a goddamn Zeppelin song that he wasn’t anywhere near done listening to. And then he added a finger, and then another, and it didn’t matter how many times you had imagined him doing this while you had your own fingers inside you — nothing would have prepared you for how good the real thing felt.

“Oh — fuck,” you gasped, and he chuckled into your sex and you had to actively think about not coming on his face and ending this whole experience early. 

“You’re close,” he observed, flicking his tongue over your clit as he continued to pump his fingers in and out, and it was so fucking hot how he just knew that. It was like he had been fucking you for years, the way he knew your body, your tells.

You nodded. “Mmhm,” you confirmed, unable to form words with the way the coil in your abdomen was tightening. 

“Hold it,” he ordered.

Your eyes shot open, because it wasn’t the command you were expecting, and you tried to lift your head to shoot him a cold glare but you couldn’t. And he just kept pumping, flicking, licking, chuckling — fucking asshole.

“Mm — fuck — please!” you cried out.

“When you come tonight, it’s gonna be on my cock. So hold it.”

You didn’t think you could. You had played this game with yourself and your vibrator and your self-control was majorly lacking and God his mouth and fingers felt so fucking good and you were there, the coil wound so goddamn tight, it would take nothing for you to let it snap, and then — 

He stopped.

He pulled his mouth away from your core, his fingers out of your pussy, and you were writhing underneath him, because you had been right there and you needed him to be touching you again right the fuck now.

You whined.

He spanked your pussy. Not hard or anything, just enough to see if it was okay with you, and fuck, was it. 

“Stop whining,” he demanded. He positioned himself so he was hovering over you again, his face inches away from yours as he stared into your eyes. “Or I’ll give you something to whine about.”

You were curious as to what that something would be, but sensed that right now wouldn’t be the best time for that question. You nodded instead.

“Good girl.” He smiled when he said it, like he knew exactly what those two words would do to you. 

You squirmed underneath him, it had been too long since he’d last touched you. Too long being thirty seconds at most, but still. It had felt like hours.

“Has anyone ever told you,” he began, dipping his head to place a soft kiss on your collarbone, “that you are very,” another kiss to the other side, “very,” one more to the middle of your chest, “impatient?” He slowly pulled down the left cup of your bra, your breast spilling out of it. “Makes me wanna take my time.” 

His eyes stayed glued to yours as his head moved down to your hardened nipple, taking it into his mouth at a goddamn snail’s pace. You arched your back, and he let you this time, chuckling at how easy it was to make your body react. His other hand slipped underneath you, unclasping your bra in a way that reminded you that he had a lot of experience doing so, and you refused to water the seed of jealousy that had sprouted from the thought. It didn’t matter that he had done this a million times. All that mattered was that he was doing it now, with you. 

He pulled your bra off and threw it haphazardly over his shoulder, and you were suddenly very aware of the fact that you were completely naked, and he still had 87 fucking layers on, the outermost of which was still speckled with dragon blood, and it’s not that you were anywhere near clean, but you certainly didn’t want those clothes touching your bare skin.

“Dean?” you rasped, and he pulled away from your nipple to give you his full attention.

“You okay, sweetheart? Do you want to st—”

“No! God, no. It’s just —” you sighed, exasperated. This was dumb. You were going to stop him for this? Your eyes landed on a spot of blood on the shoulder of his flannel. Yes, yes you were, because that’s gross. “It’s just that your clothes are covered in monster blood and I’m like, totally naked, and I don’t want —”

He chuckled like you were the most adorable thing he’d ever seen. “I gotchya, baby.”

Baby. Baby ? You tried not to overthink the pet name as he climbed off the bed to take his clothes off, watching you the entire time. Sweetheart, you’d been called a million times. He called everyone sweetheart. But baby? Baby was his car, and no one else. Unless, that’s what you were to him now. His, and no one else’s. You filed the thought away under “Things to Think About After You Lost Your Virginity to Dean Winchester”.

He was in nothing but his boxers now, his cock already hard underneath them, and you bit your lip as he hooked his thumbs under the waistband and slid them off. And then, there he was, exactly like you’d imagined him but also better, because this was real and happening. You gaped at him, at his size. He wasn’t any bigger than the fake one you had in your nightstand, but that one was nine inches and you could never fit it all the way in. He was perfect. All of him. 

“You okay?” he asked again, crawling back onto the bed.

“Mhm,” you managed, gulping.

He was on top of you again, his forearm holding up his weight as his free hand came to grab your thigh, hooking it over his hip and leaning down to kiss you. You could feel him against your core, his cock moving between your folds as he moved his hips, teasing you with it. 

“Dean,” you breathed.

“Hm?”

“I want…” you couldn’t find it in yourself to finish your request.

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered.

You decided you liked “baby” better. 

“Please.”

“I thought you wanted me to put you in your place?”

You shook your head. “N-next time. Just, please .”

His eyebrows shot up, and you realized what you had said. 

“Next time, huh?” he asked, with that shit-eating grin of his. 

You rolled your eyes. He stopped moving, the smile wiped off his lips as he gripped you underneath your chin, somewhere between rough and gentle, the look on his face telling you he wasn’t messing around. 

“Roll your eyes at me again, and next time I’ll really do my worst.”

You bit back a smile, and you just knew he was thinking, Brat. But you asked your question anyway.

“But not this time?” There was a devilish gleam in your eyes. You were tempting him, and he knew it.

“Do you ever get tired of being such a brat?” 

“Dunno,” you shrugged. “Do you ever get tired of it?” 

His jaw tensed, and he forced a sardonic, closed-lip smile. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Hm. But not this time, right?”

“Y/N —” he warned.

“Afraid you’re gonna hurt me? Scare me? What’s really keeping you from putting me in my place… Sir?”

For the second time that night, something in him snapped. You yelped as he flipped you over and grabbed your hips, dragging them upwards so your ass was in the air and your chest was on the mattress. Four hits to your cheeks came down in quick succession, and when you reached your hand behind you to block them, it was quickly pinned to the small of your back. Three more hits followed, accompanied by a pathetic, “Ow!” from your lips.

“Color?” he questioned roughly.

“So fucking green,” you replied, dazed.

Seven more hits followed, each one harder than the last, and you didn’t think there was anything better than the sting you were feeling right now. There was nothing more you wanted than for him to mark you up like this.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he commented. Five more hits. 

“Oh, fuck!” you cried out at the last hit, one that felt like it reverberated through your entire body. One that definitely left a handprint behind. 

“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. He spanked you four more times. “You just wanted me to mark you up, is that it? Think of me every time you sit down for the next few days, hm?” Three more. 

“Mmph!” Your cries were muffled by the comforter. 

“Yeah, I can tell. Look at this fucking mess.” He dragged his fingers through your soaked folds. “Jesus Christ,” he said under his breath, and then he was flipping you back over. He nestled himself between your legs, his tip teasing your entrance. His expression softened as he stared into your eyes. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah,” you replied breathily. 

He slid into you slow and easy, your mouth open in a silent moan as he bottomed out. 

“Good?” he asked.

“So fucking good.”

When he started to move, you thought you were going to die. In a good way. In a way that made you decide right there and then that when the time did come, this was how you wanted to go out. 

“Harder,” you encouraged, and he obliged. “Faster.”

He was properly fucking you now. Hard and fast and dirty. Your legs were wrapped around his waist, your heels digging into his ass, forcing him to go deeper. His head was buried in your neck, your nails were clawing up his back, and the room was filled with moans and pants and expletives that put a sailor’s mouth to shame. 

“Shit, baby,” he panted into your neck. “God damn, you feel good. So fucking tight.” He sped up his thrusts, and the bed was squeaking so much that you thought it was going to fall apart underneath you, but you were too far gone to care. He reached a hand down in between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, circling it expertly. You were on the precipice of your release in seconds. And then —

“Come. Soak that fucking cock, baby. Come for me.”

And you screamed loud enough to get both you and him kicked out of the motel if they cared enough as your orgasm ripped through you. He fucked you through it, his pace only faltering moments later, right before he pulled out and painted your stomach white. It looked like a Jackson Pollock on your abdomen. Kinda hot, actually. 

“You okay?” Dean asked, looking down at you as he finally caught his breath.

“More than,” you smiled.

He mirrored the look on your face before crawling off the bed and heading to the bathroom. He came back moments later with a damp washcloth, gently cleaning his masterpiece off of your skin. When he was done, he threw it across the room, aiming for the bathroom, and it landed on the tile in front of the toilet. He laid down next to you, pulling you into his chest as he pressed a soft kiss into your hair, and you wanted to ask so many questions, all at once. What were you two now? How long had he been wanting this? Would there be a next time? Instead, you opted for —

“You know in fanfictions, they write you as a submissive most of the time.”

He snorted. “They’re half right.”

“A switch?” you asked, surprised. “Lucky me.”

He chuckled softly. “Sorry about your ass.”

You shrugged. “I was asking for it.”

“Oh, you were definitely asking for it. Still, I… I dunno. It was your first time, I didn’t want to get too —”

“It was perfect, Dean.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, smiling, dozing off already. “Yeah.”

[samsno1]

warnings: sub-ish!dean, breeding kink (whoops!)

sorry, i'm a sucker for sub dean, dont blame me

He was mesmerized, looking at where your bodies connected, as your slick made his dick shine under the poor lightning of the motel. He refused to tear his eyes away from it.

You were gripping him so tight and so good, the way you clenched around him making him practically whimper in your ear. You were eager to take more out of him, his noises bringing even more arousal to your hazy mind.

He held your hips strongly, his fingers squeezing everytime you grinded your hips back on his. His head was burried in your neck leaving wet kisses and dark hickeys where he could. Dean was desperate for you.

"You feel s'good" He panted and you groaned. He sounded high, drunk on your scent and the smell of sex that filled the room. "So warm and so, fuck- and so tight, God, please"

He sobbed, your hands roaming his back, one of them going up to his hair. You tug on it, making Dean let out a high pitched groan. Your mouth comes closer to his ear.

"Tell me what you want baby" Your voice deep with desire. A shiver runs down his spine and his hips falter slightly at your slight dominance. "You wanna fill me up, hm? Go around telling everyone that you were the one who fucked a baby in me?"

Dean moaned at that, one of his hands unconsciously went to rest over your belly, gently pressing over it. You had to supress a moan as the weight of his hand made his cock seem to be deeper.

"G- Please, please, I'll do anything" He lifted his head to leave a sloppy kiss over your lips, his forehead glued to yours "I'll fill you up so g-uh good, please baby"

You kissed the side of his mouth, not giving him the satisfaction of an actual kiss. "Do it Dean, just be a good boy and make me cum first" You ordered as your hand caressed his cheek and he viciously nodded, his thumb almost immediately going to circle your clit.

"Y-yes...I will, thank you, thank you" He thanked you and started fucking into you harder, stimulating your clit to make you orgasm so he could get his reward afterwards because, after all, he would always be your good boy.

So, yeah, another drabble. I have a couple requests pending and I apologize for that, life's been kicking my ass lately and I've got no motivation to write whatsoever, enjoy the drabbles while I come back to normal LMAO

[godjustkys]

THEME: it's just hate sex with dean..

CHARACTER: male reader x dean winchester

NOTE: as promised, dean winchester one shot. also!! requests are open.

WARNING: breeding kink,, clothed sex,, dirty talk,, degradation,, slight dacryphilia,, hair pulling,, short and not proof-read :(

“..hhhfuck—” dean breathed out lowly, grasping onto the table's edge for dear life. his back was arched slightly, forehead pressed against the wooden surface itself.

dean was bent over a table, and you were fucking him from behind. your hands holding his hips firmly, thrusting in and out at a steady pace. sure, it was stable, but it wasn't fast enough for dean. he wanted you to be rougher. “Don't be a bitch, dean.” you cooed gently, pushing one hand up dean's spine, the action more sensual than anything. “let me hear you.” in response, the other just gritted his teeth, letting out a small frustrated groan. how could he let this happen? he hated you, he hated every single bone of your body.

“you- fuck like a virgin.” dean mumbled out, his tone bitter. “this your first time? you experimenting, huh?” he quipped, lifting his head up and turning it to the side, looking at you out of the corner of his eye. You let out an amused scoff in response, suddenly pushing your hips forward, the action harsh and quick. it made dean stumble, knees buckling for a moment, his grip on the edge tightening. he turned his head away immediately clenching his jaw.

“don't try to taunt me, dean. you're the one taking my cock like a damn slut right now. i can feel you clenching around me,” you spoke, leaning forward, your chest just above his back. “shh-shut the fuck up, you son of a bitch—” dean responded with a strained voice, his face twitching in annoyance. or maybe from the fact that he was holding back so many sounds. he pretended like he didn't like what you said, but god, he only got harder. his abdomen tensed too. fuck. “listen to yourself right now..” you muttered, your lips right next to his ear. “the little gasps? yeah, you love this,” your tone took a more confident edge.

dean hadn't even realized that he was gasping, letting out soft breaths that soon evolved to pants. “Mmhhm—” he let out an agitated groan that turned into a humourless chuckle. “you- keep telling yourself that-” he choked out. “oh, I don't need to. you think I would've been able to get you into this position if you didn't want it? aren't you a big, strong hunter?” you teased, moving one hand to the back of his neck. soon enough, you gripped his hair, pulling his head back. “so, tell me,” you urged him, pressing a kiss to his throat. “tell me how much you want this. how much you want my cock, how good you feel right now.”

dean kept quiet, his breathing laboured and heavy. his eyes fluttered shut as you continued kissing his throat, eyebrows stitched together. “go to hell.” he spoke as he tried to squirm out of your grip. “no, no dean,” you pressed gentle kisses against his skin again, making your way from his throat to the nape of his neck, letting go of his messy hair. “not what i asked for,” the moment you said the word 'asked' you thrusted in deeper, as if enunciating your point, making dean squirm even more. “but I'll let it slide.” you breathed out, eyes boring into the back of his head.

“shhh..shit. fuck fuck fuck-” dean groaned out, his eyes screwed shut. “you're a bastard-” he said before letting out a mewl, of all things. you let out a small chuckle, letting your pace increase - you couldn't torture dean for long, you were starting to feel bad with all his jittery squirming. “mhm? what else?” you inquired softly, so innocently, as if you weren't pounding him from the back. dean could take this, of course he could. But then, both of your hands moved back to dean's hips, grip firm, as you pulled him against you. essentially, making his ass meet your pelvis.

“hhn!” he gritted out, his fingers curling up around the edge of the table. “d- don't you manhandle me.” he protested weakly, his thighs tensing and hips stuttering. “that's not manhandling, dean. d'you want me to, though?” you asked gently, keeping your pace steady. of course, no response from the man under you. he'd be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn't curious as to what manhandling felt like, but he didn't have it in him to ask for that. let alone from you, someone he loathed. he's chastising himself for even letting this happen. his pride - wounded.

as dean continued his silent treatment of sorts, you decided for him. why the fuck not? gotta have some fun in a way, right? you pulled out, only momentarily, as you flipped dean over to his back with ease, earning a small, barely even audible yelp from the hunter. you pushed your way back in with slight resistance, dean's abdomen tensing as you did, his hands scrambling to grasp at something. well shit, his hands couldn't reach the table's edge anymore. and reaching for the edge above him would be uncomfortable. you noted his actions, realising immediately that he didn't want to touch you.

“damn, not even gonna put your hands on me?” you asked with a slightly offended tone, shifting on your feet to find a better, more comfortable angle. “c'mon..” you groaned out, one hand gripping dean's still clothed thigh, the other moving up to grip his jaw. “you want to, right? fuck your ego, dean. just do it.” you urged, your face so close to his. his vision was slightly unfocused, his toes curling just a bit. the thought was so tempting. his mind was starting to get lost in the pleasure you were providing, his skin tingling under your touch. “ain't happening.” he managed weakly, his face a.. a scowl? seriously?

“what a bitch,” you muttered in disbelief. “i've already got you where I wanted to, what's the point of giving me attitude, hm?” you pressed, the sound of your (unbuckled) belt buckle getting progressively louder due to your thrusts getting deeper. the slick sound of your cock going in and out of dean's hole progressing in volume, too. dean almost bit his tongue while trying to contain his noises. he wasn't going to give it to you. “baby, you've gotta be more compliant than that..” you cooed gently, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips that dean didn't return. he wanted to. fuck you were so hot. soft groans escaped his throat, his lips pressed to a thin line as his hands gripped at literally nothing.

“how 'bout we make a deal, hm?” you suggested suddenly, your thrusts slowing down but not stopping. that grabbed dean's interest. “you stop holding back.. and I won't mention this, ever again.” he shot you a skeptical look. you? not talking about this? what a joke. “i promise.” you added, your tone almost pleading. “i just gotta know how good I make you feel. that's enough for me.” you breathed out, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin of his thigh. “i'll kill you- if- if you don't keep that stupid promise.” dean threatened, albeit with a shaky voice. he was far too easy to deal with.

finally, after what seemed an eternity, one of dean's hands found their way to your shoulder, the other reaching to hold onto your waist - or more so your shirt. due to his newfound compliance, you could give it your all without him trying to hold back. you pushed your cock all the way in, because you hadn't yet. safe to say that the man you were currently fucking the living daylight out of didn't know you weren't bottoming out. “Ah!- motherfuckerrrr-- mmhh—” he whimpered out in a broken voice, his hand moving from your shoulder to the side of your neck. his face was scrunched up, eyes shut tightly.

what heavenly sounds. you let a smile creep up onto your face as you kissed him, passionately, this time dean reciprocating the kiss even if he was a bit late. he let out deep grunts every time you thrusted in, your mouth just devouring the damned sounds. you didn't waste a second, pushing your tongue into his mouth and swirling it against his. dean's breath stuttered, almost feeling overwhelmed, his thighs aching beyond belief. when you pulled away from the kiss to catch your breath, dean spoke up. “are you fucking trying to suck out my soul?” he seethed, panting heavily.

“somethin' like that, yeah.” you breathed out, your eyes locked onto his neck as your hand that was on his jaw just ran over his torso. eventually, it ended up at the hem of his shirt. you simply pushed the shirt up to his collarbone, dean's facial expression shifting to a more confused one. the moment your mouth landed on his nipple, he forced himself to hold in a girlish shriek. he wasn't used to his nipples being played with. both of the latter's hands gripped at your hair, in an attempt to ground himself but also pull you away if needed. “wh- what the fuck, man?” dean got out, his voice strained, maybe a pitch higher.

the sensation of you sucking on his nipple and pounding into him ruthlessly made him let out continuous moans, his voice breaking more with each other. eventually, he let out a sob, his fingers tightening in your hair, the stinging pain making you groan against dean's skin. you could feel his thighs trembling against your pelvis. you didn't stop though, as dean made no protest. but what you took notice of was his whiny moan of your name. it made your gaze shift to his face. god, it made you wish you had a camera just to take a photo and hang it on your wall. his eyes welled up with tears, just barely, his mouth agape, drool on the corners of his lips, all pretty, just for you. you trailed up kisses from his chest to his face, the action more gentle than you anticipated but oh well. “fuck, you're such a slut.” you mumbled against his cheek, your eyes closed as you got lost on the bliss that were dean's sounds, his hopeless squirming and trembling. “takin' me so well, like you were made for this.” you continued. “were you?” you inquired, your tone too sweet compared to your words.

a fucking whimper was what you got in response, his hips shamelessly rocking against yours, as if seeking friction. he wasn't getting enough? “you tryna get off, huh?” you leaned back up, gazing down at him. “ugh, I wanna breed you.” you rasped out, too lost in your own fantasies. “just imagine it, me filling you up, to the brim. with my cum. mine.” dean's face contorted an almost concerned facial expression. the worst thing was was that he didn't even hate what you said, he wasn't against it. he might've actually liked it. he pulled you down as his hands remained in your hair, still, his mouth latching onto your neck as he sucked hickeys onto your skin. you hummed out a sound in response, twitching inside dean. he only continued making sounds against your skin. he seemed desperate to have some sense of control.

dean kept his head buried into your shoulder, as the numerous and various moans, whines and whimpers escaped his lips. he was trying so hard to catch his breath, his thighs tensing around your waist. “who knew such a deep voiced hunter would make such girlish moans?” you teased mindlessly, your only focus now to just breed the fuck outta him. it was at this point that dean didn't even bother responding, frantically holding you close, his hands trembling. oh god you were too much. not that he'd admit that. the more you continued thrusting into him, the more he cried out. yes, cried. sure, tears weren't rolling down his face, but they were there, you knew they were. you could recognise it, the way his voice got high pitched and so eager.

eventually, the overwhelming heat that was pooling in your lower stomach was getting even stronger, and you were close. not even warning dean, you gave harsh thrusts, the other's body twitching helplessly in response as he gasped. you came inside with a groan, your hands holding dean's waist so severel that it might've even left bruises. dean let out a sharp hiss before it turned into a mewl, once again, and he couldn't help but get even more turned on by the liquid that was inside of him. he came, untouched, his arms wrapping around your shoulders as his blunt nails dug into your shirt. he was sweating, his head lowered.

“this ain't 'nough.” you mumbled weakly, starting to move again. goddamn it, dean was in for a night.

[inlovewhithafairytale]

POV: Dating Dean Winchester....

[ant0niepax]

Honestly I love how I upgraded from Wattpad to tumblr, less cringe but still cringe to keep it entering

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are. 

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference. 

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

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@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

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@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn

[thirdsaltyhunter]

If I Catch You

Summary: Dean chasing you through the halls of the bunker in a ghostface mask, what more do you need

Warning: SMUT, if I catch you I f*ck you trope, mask k*nk, choking, praise, edging, manhandling

A/N: did I forget to post this yesterday cause I was to busy partying... yes but hopefully you'll enjoy this enough to forgive me

You had always loved Halloween even despite being a hunter. It brought back the happy memories from your childhood, when there were no worries, the monsters were only people in masks and the good guys always won at the end of every scary movie. Dean shared your appreciation for the holiday. Even before you and him started dating, you would often spend Halloween nights curled up on motel beds, watching horror marathons with all the snacks and sugar you could handle. Sam on the other hand didn't see the appeal. Sometimes he would join you in your movie watching, but it was mostly to appease you and avoid ridicule from Dean.

This year you and your boyfriend had the bunker all to yourself. Sam had chosen to spend the night with Eileen and leave the two of you to your festivities.

The empty bunker allowed the perfect opportunity for you and Dean to play out a fantasy that you had talked about a few nights before, when you were cuddled up bingeing the Scream franchise.

"Ghostface is hot," you blurted randomly in the middle of the movie. You mostly said this to see his reaction, but there was a hint of truth to your statement.

"Why?" he said in utter confusion. He paused the movie and looked down at you in his arms.

You shrugged. "I don't know masked men are just hot."

"Masked men?" he tried to hide the hint of amusement.

"Oh yeah, it's a real popular thing now. I can show you all the thirst trap videos."

"Yeah I don't need to see that."

You laughed at his look of disgust before he continued.

"So what your saying is that I need to get a Ghostface mask, hm?" he said with a smirk.

"I mean I wouldn't mind, have you chase me through the halls in it." You tilted your head back to face him, your lips almost touching.

"What happens when I catch you?", he asked with a devious smile, his hold on you tightening slightly.

"You'll have to find out," you responded, your voice sultry and teasing.

"I think that can be arranged."

One costume store purchase later and you found yourself in only a set of sexy underwear, standing in the empty hallway. The concrete floor was cool under your bare feet, but your racing pulse kept you from being cold.

Dean had given you a head start before he would try to come and find you. Your excitement was growing. He wasn't going to chase you, if it came down to a sprint race, Dean would win every time. No, he was going to hunt you. You knew this made the game more even, but you also knew that he was crafty and smart. Though in all honesty you wanted to be caught, you were just going to be a little tease before you let him find you.

You had just rounded the corner by the kitchen, when the power went out, causing the bunker's red emergency lights to come on.

Nice touch, you thought.

You heard his voice echo through the hall, signaling that he was coming to find you. Your adrenaline was pumping. Not out of fear, you knew Dean would never hurt you, but out of anticipation for what would happen when he found you.

You slipped into kitchen looking for a spot to hide. Unsatisfied with the spots, you head to the library. You hid in the far corner behind one of the shelves and waited. You listened for his footsteps but heard nothing, years of hunting had trained him to be light on his feet. When you finally heard his voice call your name he was much closer than you expected. He purposefully stepped heavy coming up the stairs from the War Room, his boots thudding against the stone.

You took the opportunity to dart out the door in the back of the library. The bookcase blocked you from his view, but he definitely heard the door shut. You bolted down the back hall, heart pounding as you rounded the corner just as the door opened behind you.

Quietly you slipped into one of the bedrooms and hid under the bed. You listened until his footsteps passed the door and went down the hall. Crawling out from your hiding spot, you checked to make sure the hall was empty before sprinting the opposite direction.

As you ran past the next hall you saw him rounding the other end. You picked up the pace, knowing he had seen you. You turned the next corner and stopped, pressing your back against the cool tile wall to catch your breath. When you decided the coast was clear you went to move to the next hall, when an arm wrapped around your middle, you back pinned to his chest.

You tried to wriggle from his grasp just making it free when you stumbled. You caught yourself, but his hand caught your ankle dragging you across the polished concrete floor and pulling you under him.

He rolled you over and you came face to face with the black eyes and long mouth of the mask, illuminated by the red glow of the lights. This was the first time you had actually seen him in the mask and it was even hotter than you imagined. When he pinned your hands above your head you knew you weren't getting away.

"Gotcha," he growled.

"What are you going to do with me now?" you said through panting breaths, partially from running, partially from how incredibly turned on you were right now.

"You'll have to find out," he responded before using one hand to pull his belt from his jean and loop it around your wrists.

Ok that was hot.

When your hands were secured, he stood up scooping you up off the floor and tossing you over his shoulder, delivering a quick smack to your ass before walking toward your shared bedroom. It wasn't often that he manhandled you like this and you were loving every second of it.

When you got to the bedroom, he tossed you onto the bed and straddled your legs. He hooked two fingers into the belt around your wrists.

"You want this to stay on?" he asked.

You nodded eagerly. Even being dominant and aggressive, he never wanted to push you limits, solely focused on giving you what you wanted.

"Stay," he ordered, getting up from the bed to strip down to his boxers, leaving the mask in place.

You watched him with lust blown eyes, your chest still rising and falling rapidly as you admired his body. He moved to the end of the bed, grabbing your ankle and pulling you to the end. Your underwear was pulled down your legs and tossed over his shoulder. He wrapped you legs around his hips and you could feel his clothed erection. You moaned grinding down on him until his arm crossed you hips, holding you still.

He ran two finger through your slick. '"So wet for me. Is this just from me chasing you?"

You nodded again.

He lowered to his knee, his masked face coming level with your dripping cunt. Two of his fingers dipped into you, immediately curling into the spot that made your back arch and your knees weak. Your head fell back letting the pleasure wash over you.

From the box under the bed, he pulled out your vibrator. He planned to torture you tonight.

"Don't cum until I'm inside you. Do you understand me?" he said turning the toy to the lowest setting and pressing it to your clit.

"Yes," you moaned, hands gripping the sheet above your head. You didn't know how long you were going to last. You were already on the edge of release and he had hardly touched you yet.

As you got close he removed the vibrator, running his hand up your thighs and squeezing your hips to sooth you. You whined and looked at him between you legs. You tried to give him your best puppy eyes, but you couldn't see his expression. You only were met with the blank stare of the mask and the vibrations returning to your sensitive cunt.

He continued teasing you, edging you another four or five times. You hated it and loved it at the same time. It amazed you how he knew exactly where to keep you on edge, or at least it would amaze you, if there was a single part of your brain that could think straight.

"Dean," you whined again, desperate for release.

"Beg for it," he responded sternly, fingers dipping inside you again.

"Please, fuck me." You squirmed, you didn't know if you wanted to get away from he sensation or fuck yourself on his fingers.

He sped up his motions and leaned over you body until he was face to face with you. You could just barely see his eyes, but you knew he was watching you fall into ecstasy.

"Please," you begged.

He removed his fingers and dropped his boxers. His cock was thick and dripping precum, edging you had teased him almost equally as much. He pulled your hips even closer to the edge of the bed and hooked your shaking legs over his shoulders. His hands gripped your hips firmly as he slid into you, filling you completely.

He watched your face as your head fell back in pleasure, a loud moan escaping your lips.

"That's my girl," he praised, running his hands up and down your sides, desperately trying to keep himself together.

He started thrusting into you, slow, but so deep you could hardly take it.

"Look at me," he said, his hand came up to circle around your throat to put your attention back on him.

Your eyes opened to watch as he fucked you. You could see a blush of exertion creeping down his neck from under the mask. He gently added pressure to the sides of your throat as the speed of his hips increased.

Your hands reached for him as you got closer to falling apart. Noticing how close you were, he started to circle your clit with his thumb. You came with cry of his name, your hand gripping his forearm, his hand loosening from your throat, causing you to feel almost high.

He planted his hand beside your head as his hips stuttered and he came with a deep moan. You both stilled for a few minutes, panting and trying to regain your bearings.

After a moment, he gently pulled out to go get a towel to clean up your combined mess. You squirmed from the sensitivity as he wiped you down. He whispered an apology before tossing the rag and undoing the belt from your wrists.

Finally removing the mask, he ran a hand down his face and smiled down at you. It was funny to see him have that boyish grin after playing the sexy, dangerous slasher for the past hour. He lifted you up to place you at the top of the bed against the pillows.

"That was awesome," he said, laying down beside you and wrapping you in his arms.

"Yeah it was, I fucking love you." You laughed and buried your head in his neck.

"I love you too sweetheart, and I love that I can do things like this with you."

You nodded in agreement before you started to feel how worn out you were.

Both of you were exhausted from your activities and quickly fell asleep, deciding to take a nap before settling down for a night of Halloween movies and junk food.

[take-it-on-the-run]

Not A Lot, Just Forever

Dean Winchester x Pregnant!Reader

After throwing up morning after morning, the reader discovers her illness isn't what she initially thought.

Word Count: 4.1k

Tags: Pregnancy, unexpected pregnancy, brief description of motel bathrooms, vomiting (repeated), self-blame, mention of reader's mother dying in childbirth, mention of childbirth related deaths, anxiety, brief loss of consciousness, Dean is a sweetheart and will make a great father.

Characters: Dean Winchester, Pregnant!Reader, Sam Winchester, Castiel

@ghostlyaccurate requested: "Hii! I'm not sure if I already sent you this request, or if I sent it to someone else (oops🤭) but could I request a Sam Winchester and/or Dean Winchester x reader (your choice which one of them, if not both sepperately) where he helps reader deal with morning sickness, though he only finds out she's pregnant on the third day in a row that he's with her while she throws up. Ty!!"

Read it on AO3!

A/N: Adrianne Lenker title. I really really loved this request! I feel like writing the pregnancy trope is a sort of hard task to do, so I hope I brought it justice. I love love loved writing this, and I hope you enjoy reading it! Thank you for the request @ghostlyaccurate, and I promise I'm trying my damnedest to work through my inbox <3. Every mistake here is completely and 100% my own and of my own doing. (P.S. can you guess how hard it was to find "aesthetic" pictures of a bathroom and pregnancy tests for the pictures for this fic?? I think the ones I found actually work pretty well! Another thing, what happened to the yellow text color? I use it to tag fluff fics, and it's gone :( ).

Dean Winchester Masterlist | Supernatural Masterlist | Main Page Masterlist

Your head hung over the foul toilet bowl of whatever motel you, Dean, and Sam were holed up in, and a rancid smell invaded your nose. In earnest, you didn’t have the slightest idea where you were. The past couple of hours had been filled with a slight fever and the constant need to use Dean as a pillow. Halfway through the drive between towns, you convinced him to switch out driving with Sam so he could join you in the back seat.

The worn tile of the bathroom floor offered you minimal comfort, and the fact you’re supposed to be up for a case in two hours made your stomach churn over again. Ditching your normal avoidance of motel bathrooms, you gripped the edge of the toilet and emptied your stomach again.

“Y/N?” Dean’s groggy voice called out from behind the door, “Are you okay in there sweetheart?”

You squeezed your eyes together, cursing yourself for being loud enough to wake him up. Sneaking out from his arms was a feat enough already, trying to suppress the sound of you losing your guts at four in the morning wasn’t going to happen; even in a perfect world.

“No,” you groaned as he softly opened the door, “I feel like shit De, and you know how much I hate throwing up. And how much I hate motel bathrooms.” You whined. Your hair was falling to the front of your face and you were cursing whoever decided a bathroom didn’t need a working air vent.

Dean hummed softly, pulling the hair back from your face and holding it with one hand as he sat behind you on the floor. He pressed his lips to the back of your head softly, and gently traced shapes on your collarbone as you laid back on him.

“Just breathe, I’ve got you if you need to go at it again.” He said softly, cradling you in his lap as you tried to breathe. He ran his hand through your hair as your breathing started to hiccup less, and eventually, he sat you on the closed toilet lid to get you water.

You felt ashamed to be keeping him up at this hour. Your phone clock read 5:13 AM, almost an hour past when you’d originally gotten up. He already doesn’t get enough sleep as is, and here you are sitting, waiting for him to get back like you aren’t able to take care of yourself.

“Here you go, drink slowly. Did you use the mouthwash I gave you?” He asked as he handed you his water bottle. He stood across from you, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. You nodded softly, gratefully gulping down the contents of the bottle.

The bags under his eyes were already enough to make you feel guilty. Hunters were used to running on minimal sleep, but with you around, he’d just gotten into the six-hour range. He rubbed his face, inhaling like he normally did when he was trying to make a decision. You didn’t want to go out for the case. You barely wanted to move your body to get back in bed and salvage what little sleep you could before life kicked you back into gear.

“Do you want to stay here while Sam and I talk to the family?” Dean asked as if he could read your mind.

I love you so damn much. You thought, bowing your head with a sigh of relief. You didn’t want to be the one to bring up staying in; neither of you ever wanted to admit you needed breaks, but if the other one was to bring it up, it made the process easier.

You nodded, pushing yourself to your feet as he opened the door for the two of you, “yeah, I think that’s best for all of us. Don’t need me puking in the victim’s bathroom as you guys ask your questions.” You tried to joke as you and Dean crawled back into bed, tucking yourself into his arms, and splaying your legs haphazardly on top of his.

The next morning wasn’t any better.

Sam and Dean had come home late from questioning the family, and you were barely aware of them unloading the Chinese food they brought for you. Dean sat with you against his chest, still half-dressed as an FBI agent, as you wolfed down the egg rolls he got. You found yourself starving when they offered you food, but now you regretted eating anything at all.

You found yourself hung over the toilet again, but thankfully only had to put up with one round of saying goodbye to your lunch. You were able to get yourself up and over to the sink, where you repeated Dean’s routine from the morning before.

You leaned against the counter in the small kitchen, Dean’s water bottle filled with tap water in your hand. You turned to dump the rest in the sink when the creak of a floorboard behind you had you spinning on your heel in record time.

“Jesus Christ, Dean. Why are you up?” You asked in a hushed tone, placing your hand over your racing chest.

“I could ask you the same thing,” He crossed the small room and came over to embrace you in his arms, “did you get sick again?” He asked innocently, but the combination of those words, and the pitiful shift of his eyes was enough to make you feel like a child. You were a grown woman, you knew damn well how to take care of yourself much before the Winchesters were in your life.

You huffed in annoyance, pulling back from Dean’s chest. You felt your face begin to heat up, and it felt like anything Dean could say had the chance to send you over the edge.

“Yes, I did. Right now, I feel like my body is too hot and too tight for my bones, and I also feel like anything you say is going to make me hit the roof. Even if it’s nice, I just don’t think my brain can take in any more words without wanting to jump ship.” You said you rubbed your temples. Things like this had happened occasionally in the past, and before Dean, you figured it was just because you were a rigid person. One night a particularly bad migraine had led to you yelling at him because he offered to get you some medicine. Instead of just leaving you to stew, like every other partner did, he simply asked you to explain what you were feeling. No judgment, no interruptions, and he’d do whatever you said would make you feel better in that moment.

Now, whenever you felt overwhelmed, he did the same. He’d swallow any sarcastic comment or solution to your problem and listen to you. No matter what was bothering you, at whatever hour of the day, he was at your side, doing what you asked of him without hesitation.

He just nodded, pressing his lips to your forehead before he led you back to the bed you two were sharing for the case. His body threw off heat like a bonfire, and your normally freezing hands were appreciative of that. In this moment, however, it felt like you were burning from the inside out.

You adjusted yourself between the sheet and the comforter, so the two of you could still touch without pressing your skin together. Dean waited for you to still before he made himself comfy, and he gently ran his fingers through the ends of your hair.

“Is this okay right now? Do you want me to leave you be?” He asked, in as soft of a voice as he could. You hummed, smiling at the tingling sensation running through you. Comfort, and a warmth that wasn’t burning to the touch, crawled up your back, and into your head. You tried to focus your eyes for a couple of seconds more, but without your control, they forcefully fluttered shut.

“Y/N.”

Sheet tangled between your limbs, and you could see the light through your closed eyes. Opening them, you find an unexpected sight. Instead of Dean, or Sam, standing at your bedside, the trench coat-clad angel you’d met five years ago stood awkwardly, waiting for you to fully wake up.

“Cas,” you rubbed your eyes as you sat up, “what are you doing here? Where’s Sam and Dean?” You asked.

Cas sighed and sat at the end of your bed. He shot you a quick look, before focusing his eyes on the blank wall in front of him. He tapped his fingers on his legs, a habit he picked up from Sam.

“Dean called me and told me you were sick. I came in, and told him I’d try and cure whatever… ailment is afflicting you.”

You smiled at the way he spoke, and the fact Dean went out of his way to try and help you out, but there was something off about Castiel’s demeanor. You sat up and touched his arm to get his attention.

“Cas, what’s wrong? Did something happen that I should know about?” You asked softly.

“I think you’re pregnant, Y/N.” He looked at you, and there was a rift of guilt lingering in his eyes.

A course of confusion and shock coursed through your body before you felt a rotting pit settle at the bottom of your stomach.

“Why would you… think that, Cas?” You felt a tightness taking over your throat, rubbing your hand across your neck to try and loosen it.

“I can sense life forms. Human ones, at least. It was hard to tell with Sam and Dean here, but once they left I was able to confirm my suspicions.”

Your hand traveled to your lower abdomen before your mouth spat out a request without thinking.

“Pregnancy tests. Can you get me some, please? I just,” you ran your hand across your forehead quickly, “I want to confirm, using non-magical means.”

Cas nodded, “of course. I’m going to assume you don’t want me to let Dean know?”

You nodded your head before swinging your legs over the side of the bed. Deep down, you knew Cas was right. You were late by a few days, but you’d chalked it up to the illness that’s kept you on the bench for this case. You didn’t usually react as poorly as you’ve been to an illness, even when you’d gotten a terrible case of Pneumonia.

Getting up from the bed, you walked into the bathroom as Castiel vanished to get you a couple tests. Looking to the mirror, you’re met with a form of you that was a little scary; purple, slightly-puffy eyes, smeared makeup that hadn’t been washed off from days before, and your skin was breaking out in places it hadn’t before.

Dean hadn’t said a word about it, but even someone as blissfully ignorant as him had to have noticed the way your face wasn’t looking like your own.

Dean.

You’d have to tell Dean you were pregnant, with his child. That you’re going to be parents.

What if he didn’t want to be a father at thirty-six?

Children weren’t one hundred percent out of the question, but they were longer down the line in hunters’ lives. If you were lucky enough to get out of the life unscathed and find someone who would want to settle down with, you’d likely be creeping into your mid-forties, at best. Mary had gotten lucky with John, but now they’d both been taken away by the thing they’d spent half of their marriage avoiding.

What if you weren’t ready to be a mother at thirty-five?

For you, it wasn’t the question of wanting to have kids, but you never saw you or your boyfriend backing out from hunting anytime soon. To add on, you’d heard of many nasty births that ended in fatality for the infant or the mother, including your own. Every time you and the boys were on a case involving a child, you’d be extra reckless. Dean picked this up within the first couple of times you’d almost gotten yourself killed to save a kid, and you explained your fear to him. The fear of a mother not being able to welcome her child home in her arms, or the child not seeing his mother again, and their fate lying in your hands. You’d already ripped apart your family, and you tried your damnedest to keep as many together as possible.

A ruffle of feathers and a sharp knock on the bathroom door snapped you out of your thoughts.

“You can come in, Cas.”

Wordlessly, the angel stepped into the small motel bathroom holding a plastic bag. He pulled out three different pregnancy tests and set them on the counter.

“The woman working there said I should get a couple just in case one doesn’t work like it should.” He said as you picked up the first test. “I’m telling the truth, but I understand you wanting to confirm this to yourself.”

I know Cas, you thought, but you didn’t say a word. Instead, you stared at him, waiting for him to leave the bathroom, but he had a blank look on his face and didn’t move a muscle.

“Cas, I’m going to need you to leave the bathroom for me to do this.”

“Oh, sorry. Of course. I forgot how ‘hands-on’ human tests can be. I apologize.” He said blatantly before stepping out of the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

Fuck me.

That’s what got you into this in the first place, dumb ass.

After twenty disgustingly long minutes in the decrepit motel bathroom, you walked out holding four positive tests. Cas was sitting on Sam’s bed, staring out the window, but immediately stood up and crossed the room to you. You handed him the tests, and he placed them on the table between the two beds.

“How do you feel?” He asked. Another thing he picked up from his years on earth was the ability to know when to ask what questions.

You felt blank. Void of answers and solutions to the situation at hand. Whether or not to turn left, or right.

“I… don’t know what to do, Cas.” Your voice broke along with the tears you were holding back, and a sinking feeling of hopelessness began to dig its way through your head.

Neither you nor Dean are ready to be parents. What if Dean’s angry? He would never kick you out of the bunker. The bunker is the only real home any of you have had in a long time, but is it safe? Is the world safe enough to bring a baby into? A Winchester baby, who would no doubt be a target from birth. What if the baby doesn’t make it to full term? What if this baby kills you like you killed your own mother?

“Y/N,” Cas placed his hand on your shoulder, “I’m going to ask you to take a breath.” He drew his hand up and waited for you to inhale. Taking in a shuddered breath, you followed the flow of his hand, stopping your heart from running up your throat.

“Thank you.” You said, sitting down on your bed and grabbing the pregnancy tests off the nightstand. Two pluses, two double lines. You and Dean were careful and used a condom whenever you found extra time together, but somehow God decided that rubber wasn’t going to work as intended.

“I think I’m going to just lay here,” you tuck yourself under the bed sheets once more, the tests shoved into your pajama pants, “and wait for Dean and Sam to get home. I’ll get him out of this stuffy ass room and tell him in private. Sam shouldn’t have to witness if we- if we argue. I know it makes him feel awful.”

“That’s a smart plan. You need to take this one step at a time and do it carefully. I know Dean cares for you deeply, but if you need someone to support you, all you have to do is call for me.” Cas squeezed your shoulder reassuringly.

“Thank you, Cas.” You yawned, pulling your body further under the covers of the bed. Castiel smiled slightly, before turning away and disappearing with a familiar rush of wings flapping.

Your body was covered head to toe in sweat, and the bed sheet you wrapped around yourself was thrown onto the floor. No light entered the room, and the time on the alarm clock read 1:43. Your stomach churned in a familiar way, and as you got to your feet you finally noticed neither of the boys were in the room.

You clambered to the bathroom, phone in hand, trying to call Dean. One hand braced on the toilet, and the other tried to thumb down to his contact. There wasn’t any time to think about the fact you were carrying a baby inside of you, the baby whose father is missing in the middle of the night with no calls or messages.

They always call. You thought before you set your ringing phone on the floor to throw up for the first time that morning. The phone rang, the sound slowly driving you insane each time you redialed Dean’s number between dry heaving into the bowl.

Your hair was sticking to your forehead, poorly swept away and held back by a rubber band you found on the sink. The heat, the pain, and the fear of losing contact with the Winchester brothers combined with the reality of you being pregnant was finally built up enough to break the swarm of emotions you barely choked down when Cas was in the room earlier.

Eyes burning, you slumped against the sink cabinet and brought your phone to your ear as you called Dean once again. You let out a sob, tears rushing down your face and neck, leaving behind a slightly burning trail. Your breathing became uneven, the sound of your own heart drumming through your ears drowning out the ring of your phone. Letting your phone slip to the floor, you brought your knees to your chest and folded your arms as a nest for your forehead.

Neither of the boys called within the twenty minutes you were in the bathroom, your phone was now close to being dead, and no muscle in your body wanted to obey your brain telling them to move and do something. You weren’t a weak woman, you took the cards you were dealt and tried your best to win, but sometimes all you could do was fold.

“Y/N? Y/N?”

A hand pulled your face from your knees, and you could barely see with the light of the bathroom now on and blinding you. A warm hand rested against your cheek while another briefly touched your forehead.

“Help me get her up, Sammy,” your eyes fluttered closed and you felt two arms hook under both your arms, laying them over shoulders as your feet lightly dragged across the floor.

“I’ve never seen her this bad, Dean.” The voice you now recognized as Sam said. Your legs were swept up from under you and you were laid on the bed you’d crawled out of.

You felt the tests still pressing in your pockets, and you thanked whatever greater being was willing to listen. There was no way you wanted to Dean to discover that information on accident.

Dean.

The other voice was Dean.

You moron, who else would it be?

The bed next to you dipped down, and you felt a gentle hand tuck a few stray hairs behind one of your ears. The sweat covering you was sucking every inch of clothing to your skin, and all you wanted to do was peel either of the pair off.

“I thought Cas was going to come here and help her out,” you heard his voice straining as he spoke, and you felt your heart snap in two.

You moved your hand, as heavy as it felt, and squeezed the first part of him you touched.

“Sweetheart,” you could feel Dean’s breath as he hovered over you, “you’re scaring me here.”

“Cas…” you gave out a heavy cough, “he came. He helped me figure out what’s been happening.”

A glass of water was brought to your mouth, and you took every drop of it. After swallowing the cup, your eyes finally were able to open. You were greeted by a worried Dean hovering very close to you, and a worried Sam crossing back from the kitchen holding Dean’s water bottle.

Sam set the bottle on the bedside table and sat on his bed, facing you and Dean. Dean’s attention was solely on you. His hands grabbed both sides of your face and brought his lips to your forehead, before resting against it.

“Hey,” you said, chuckling slightly, “I didn’t mean to scare you, De. You, or Sam.” You sat yourself up in bed.

“Did Cas tell you what’s wrong?” Sam asked, looking at you expectantly.

“He did, but… is it okay if I talk to Dean? Alone?” You asked softly.

Sam shot Dean a look, which Dean promptly returned with one that had Sam standing up, and walking into the hall.

Orange rays of light shone from the window of the room, and you could just barely see the sun climbing on the horizon. Dean moved to hold you in bed while you gained the composure to tell him you were both parents.

“Dean…” you breathed steadily, trying to even your heartbeat that was ramping up once more, “I have to tell you something-”

“I kinda gathered as much sweetheart,” he said lightly, lines forming around his forest-lorn eyes beautifully.

“- it’s important. I mean, it’s going to change our lives, for the rest of our lives.”

Dean’s face became more serious, pulling you to face him as he crossed his legs.

“You know you can tell me anything, Y/N.”

Do it, now. Just say-

“I’m pregnant.”

The air hung heavy around the pair of you as you handed him the tests in your pocket, and you could see the clocks turn in Dean’s mind as he stared down at them.

“But we used a rubber?” He said, and you could guess where his thoughts were wandering.

“We did, but you’re the only person I’ve been with for years, Dean, I need you to believe me when I say that.” You said reassuringly as you could without sounding like you were lying.

His face broke into a small smile, and he brought his thumb to trace over your lower cheek, “I know, sweetheart. I trust you with my heart, I just know not to use that brand anymore, seems like their effectiveness is questionable.”

You laughed, tears drying in your eyes as you pushed at him playfully, “Dean! You gave me a heart attack, you son of a bitch!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry okay!” He laughed, capturing you in a giant bear hug and rolling you on top of him. You looked down at him and brought your lips down to his.

“You’re going to be a father,” you said, beaming at him while smiling the hardest you’d ever in the longest time

“You’re going to be a mother,” he replied, smiling just as hard. Your face fell slightly, and the word mother finally kicked into your head. “Hey,” Dean said as he saw your face shift, somehow remembering the story you told him all those years ago, “Remember, we’ve got an angel on speed dial, and you know how hard it is to take out a Winchester.”

Your heart warmed at the statement, the baby inside of you was just as much L/N as it was Winchester. You loved Dean with your heart, as did he love you, and now the two of you were going to brace the dangerous world you’d spent years protecting with the amalgamation of that love.

You brought Dean’s hand to your stomach as he brought his other hand to your face. His calloused fingers were gentle on your skin, and small crinkles formed around his eyes as he smiled, holding his hand at your stomach as you gazed back at him.

A knock sounded at the door, making you turn your head around before you and Dean burst into laughter, and told Sam he could come back in the room to tell him the news.