#dean winchester lemon

[prettykittycastle]

love your writing! can you do something where the reader and dean are sharing their sex experiences and she tells him that she’s never squirted before and he makes her? & them being friends with like a lotttt of flirting and sexual tension

Alright

Summary: Dean offers to make the reader squirt for the first time.

(The reader is AFAB and uses she/her pronouns. The ethnicity/race is any.)

(Content Warning: Fingering, slight dirty talk, multiple orgasms, slight choking, squirting, overstimulation)

It was pushing midnight and me and Dean were still going hard, drinking and laughing our asses off about a multitude of things. He was drinking his usual whiskey while I chose to stick to a nice, cold beer. Sam had already decided to call it a night early and went to bed the second we came from our case. Surprisingly, the case we worked was actually pretty easy to figure out, the only problem was actually fighting and killing the monster. It took a lot of effort but we were able to do it with minimal injuries. Me and Dean decided that such an easy case should be rewarded with a peaceful night of drinking and laughing.

"I didn't mean to. I had no control over it," Dean defended himself, laughing along with me at his story.

The conversation had somehow switched to the topic of embarrassing sex stories.

"I was cumming every where and it just landed wherever. I didn't mean to cum in her eyes or her nose."

"Oh my god, Dean. That's horrible!" I told him, can't help laughing harder.

"If I'm horrible, then so is she. She once squirted in my face and it landed in my eye."

I couldn't hold back the next wave of laughter that came from my throat and I had to place my beer bottle on the bunker table before I accidentally waste it.

"So what about you?" He asked, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"What about me?"

"Squirted in a guy's eye? Something else?"

"Oh, never," I chuckled, shaking my head. "I've never squirted before."

Once I felt that my laughter has simmered down, I picked up my bottle and and was about to drink when I noticed the look upon Dean's face and his silence.

"What?"

"You've never squirted? Ever?"

I shook my head and sipped my beer.

"Why not?"

"I don't know. It's just never happened. I don't know if I can."

"Lots of women don't know until they get with someone who can fuck them good enough," he stated, downing the rest of his whiskey, looking at me with a look that I've never seen on him before.

Me and Dean tended to sometimes have our moments of not knowing whether or not we would be good together but we would always sort of ignore it and pretend it never happened. Don't ruin a good friendship, is what I always tell myself. The look in Dean's eyes is making me think that perhaps it might be worth trying to experiment with him just to see.

Clearing my throat, I try to ignore the tingling in my core that his look is giving me. "Well, I guess I haven't found that person yet." I took my bottle and drunk the last of my beer, feeling my body getting hotter and hotter, the longer he looked at me.

"If you want, I could see if I can make you... Just to see if you can."

Oh fuck. He wants to make me squirt. Just the thought of it is making me soak my panties.

I was about to open my mouth and tell him yes when he suddenly stood up from his chair and took a few steps to stand in front of me, his clothed crotch being right at eye level with me. Even through the thick jeans, he was wearing, I could see the growing bulge of his dick and I so badly wanted to-

"(Y/N)," he said and I looked up at him to see the look on his face become even more intense.

I stood up, my head stopping at his chest, and decided to say fuck it and grabbed his flannel, pulling him down to my lips. Surprisingly his lips were extremely soft and they tasted like the whiskey he was drinking, but the way he kissed me was something out of this world. The way he moved his lips against mine made the tingling inside me quickly grow to a small burning and I could feel my panties getting more soaked.

Pulling away from my lips, he lightly wrapped his hand around my neck and I looked up at him to see that the usual happy green eyes of his were now full of pent-up hunger. "Get on the table, sweetheart," he ordered, his voice deeper.

"But, Dean, we-" I was cut off by the feel of his hand giving me a light squeeze, making me gasp.

"Get on the table, now," He demanded and this time, I didn't hesitate to do as he said.

Still holding my neck, he began kissing me again, moaning against my lips.

"Dean, Sam could wake up-" I tried to say, pulling away.

"Then let him see." He continued kissing me, slipping his tongue into my mouth. I could feel one of his hands unbuttoning my pants and unzipping them, before I felt the tips of his fingers dip into them, under my panties and to my center.

"D-Dean," I moaned into him, feeling him lightly rubbing my clit.

"You're so fucking wet," he groaned, rubbing me faster.

He placed one last kiss on my lips before taking his hand off my neck and moving it down to my pants. Still rubbing my clit, he used his other hand to pull my pants down, the hunger he had was evident in his hurry-ness to take them off. When the pants were at my knees, I helped him out by kicking them the rest of the way off. I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride in knowing that he was this horny for me.

"Fuck, (Y/N)," I heard him groan. "You really are soaked."

I looked down to see the crotch of my panties was almost soaked through by my wetness. Any other time I would have been embarrassed about it, but not tonight. Tonight, all I’m thinking about is Dean’s face between my legs.

"It's all for me, sweetheart," he asked, grabbing the edge of my panties and yanking them down my legs.

"Yeah," I told him, kicking the panties off my ankles and to the floor. "I wanna squirt for you, Dean."

My words did the trick for him and he quickly dropped to his knees and moved his fingers from my clit and replaced them with his tongue.

"Oh," I moaned loudly. He didn't waste time and quickly began circling my clit with the tip of his tongue while he inserted a finger into me, my walls gladly sucking it in.

"Fuck, your pussy's tight," He told me before sucking my clit into his mouth and thrusting his finger in and out of me.

"Oh God, Dean," I moaned, looking down at him. His hungry eyes looked up at me as he moaned and sucked on my clit, the vibrations making the burning inside me grow. I could see my juices running down his hand and leak onto the table.

Shit, I'm close, I thought, feeling the burning in me getting hotter fast. Letting out another moan, I reached down and grabbed the back of his head and pushed his face into me, grinding onto him and feeling his finger go deeper into me.

"Yes, yes, yes," I whimpered, grinding harder on his face.

I suddenly felt another finger squeezing into me, and he thrusted both of them faster into me. I could feel his finger tips curling inside me, hitting that special spot inside of me that made my eyes roll back.

“Oh fuck, Dean. I’m gonna cum,” I moaned, the burning getting hotter with each thrust.

“Cum, babygirl,” he said against my clit, and again, I followed his demand and came. While my body was rocked with waves of pleasure, Dean kept thrusting his fingers into me, his fingertips hitting my G-spot over and over, and I could feel the small stinging of overstimulation beginning.

“Dean,” I whimpered, trying to close my legs, but he kept his fingers in me. He suddenly stood up and wrapped his hand around my neck again, squeezing it slightly. The feel of his strong hand squeezing me made the fire that’s started in my body burn harder and almost too much for me.

“Dean, please,” I pleaded with him, not knowing whether I wanted more or wanted less from him, and put up a hand against his chest to push him away.

“Let it happen, sweetheart,” he told me and I could see a cocky look in his eyes. 

Before I could ask what he was cocky about, the most amazing pleasure washed over my body, taking my voice and breathing away. It was so good and so strong, I could barely keep my eyes open. I could feel my pussy gushing juices all over his hand and onto the table.

“Feels good, doesn’t it, sweetie,” I heard him say, but his voice sounded suddenly distant.

I could feel him still thrusting his fingers in and out of me and I lowered my hand to try to move his hand away. The pleasure was too much and I felt like if he kept going, I might actually pass out from the pleasure. 

With one last thrust, he slowly took his finger out of me and let go of my neck. I felt him caress the side of my face and I looked at him to see him licking his fingers clean of my juices. 

“How was it,” he asked, taking his fingers out, a small grin on his lips.

“I think we both know the answer to that,” I replied, about to move off the table, but stopped when I felt how wet and weak my legs were. I looked down to see that my thighs, some of the table, and a little bit of my shirt was covered in my juices. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah,” he said, cockily, and I looked back up to see him fully grinning at me. “I’m that good.”

“Shut up,” I moved my legs off the table and tried to stand up, but almost fell at how weak they still were, but before I could fall down, Dean had caught me and held me up against him, wrapping an arm around my middle. 

“You alright,” he asked. I nodded at him and noticed that the cockiness he just had was quickly replaced by a nervousness that was rare to see on the older Winchester, almost reminding me of a scared teenager. “You alright with this? With us?”

“Yeah.”

“And you're alright with us being...more than friends?”

“Dean,” I couldn’t help but chuckle at his nervousness. “You just made me squirt for the first time on the table. Yes, I want to be more than friends.”

“Oh,” he chuckled and I was glad to see that I eased his nervousness. Looking up at him, I couldn’t remember why I waited so long to do this with him.

“Wanna go to my room?”

“Um,” I looked over my shoulder to the table to see the puddle of my juices sitting on the edge. “Maybe we should clean the table, then leave. And be quiet. Don’t wanna wake Sam.”

“Too late.” 

We both turned to see a tired and angry Sam looking at us in pajamas in the entryway. His hair was all over his head and he had bags under his eyes. 

“Clean it, then go to sleep. No more tonight.”

“Okay,” I told him. Usually I would feel embarrassed, but now I’m just glad me and Dean finally got together and I looked up at him to see he wasn’t embarrassed either. We were both alright with this.

[szlez]

Divine Purpose

Destiel Pride Day 4. Terribly late but real life intrefered, sorry.

Since tumblr didn't ban my sort of spicy art lately I'll take a chance and post it uncropped. So here goes nothing (and fingers crossed the post will stay unharmed).

Day 1, Day 3.

[sailorsallyart]

Starved (tap for HQ)

full piece available on my patreon 💦

wanna be on my tag list? Lmk in the replies!

[winchester-reload]

The saga of Cas trying to do basic chores with a human backpack continues.

[zepskies]

Smoke Eater - Part 7

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader 

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

🔥 Series Masterlist

AN: So I don't know why it takes me exactly seven chapters to get to the smut, but so far that's three different series where that's happened. 😂 (Never Say Goodbye, Break Me Down, and now Smoke Eater. Go figure! 🤷🏽‍♀️)

Word Count: 6,200 Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! For smutty smut and baking shenanigans, tinge of angst.

Part 7: “Cherry Pie & Lemon Drizzle”

You liked Dean’s apartment. It was on the second floor out of three, and a modest, clean, comfortable space.

Though overall it felt very “dude bro” in décor. You supposed that made sense, considering it was just Sam and Dean living here.

And while you still hadn’t met Sam (he was working late tonight), it gave you a chance to do something you’d been very much looking forward to doing with Dean… 

“Not for nothin’, this is probably one in three of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth,” said Dean.

True to his word, his mouth was full. You giggled as a flake of pasta spewed from his mouth.

“Oh really? Makes me curious about the other two,” you said mischievously. And you handed him a napkin to blot his face.

You sat across from him in the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. The table itself was barely big enough to fit in the space, feeling more like a nook than a room, but it sat three people. That was usually enough for Sam and Dean, and occasionally Eileen when she came over.

Dean chuckled, his brows dancing. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out.”

Your face warmed at that, despite your amusement. You had made dinner, for which Dean had been more than enthusiastic.

“You mean I get an actual chef making me food? Sign me the hell up,” he’d teased.

Never mind that you weren’t an actual chef. You had focused on patisserie in culinary school. He didn’t seem to mind though, as he’d devoured two servings of salmon and fettucine alfredo, even down to the steamed broccoli. You had to admit, it warmed you inside to see him enjoy your food.

You’d promised to cook for him last week, and he hadn’t let it go until both your schedules opened up enough for you to come over.

He now hummed in satisfaction as he finished off the last bite on his plate and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

“Thanks for this, sweetheart. I needa have you around here more often,” he said, tossing you a grin.

You smiled back. “It’s my pleasure.”

It wasn’t the first time Dean had invited you over to his apartment, but for the life of you, you didn’t know why it had taken you so long to accept.

…Well, okay, you did know why. You were reluctant to leave your grandfather alone, potentially all night. But George had been adamant about you going out for as long as you wanted, on the promise that he’d check in every few hours until he went to bed.

“Okay, ready for dessert?” you asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said. He still thought about those cookies you brought to the firehouse, almost a month ago already.

Damn, has it really been that long? he thought as he helped you collect the dishes from dinner. He followed you into the kitchen, where you already knew the lay of his land.

Sam couldn’t cook for shit, so it usually fell on Dean to be the figure of culinary expertise. But he had no problem making way for you, especially if you were going to look over your shoulder and wink at him like that.

“Good, because you’re going to help me,” you informed him.

Dean’s smile grew. “All right…what did you have in mind?”

While he started on the dishes in the sink, you hauled out even more ingredients from a big grocery bag you’d brought and stored in the refrigerator. He watched you out of the corner of his eye and spotted lemons, among other things.

“Lemon drizzle cake,” you replied. “One of my grandma’s recipes. I just need a mixing bowl and a cake tin.”

“Good, because we’re not very Betty Crocker in this place. Let’s just say my kitchen tools are limited,” he said, raising a brow at you. “You know, if you wanted to bake, I’m sure you’ve got all the proper bells and whistles at your house. We could’ve done this over there.”

You paused to consider the question he wasn’t quite asking, because he had a point. You could’ve invited him over your house instead. You joined him near the sink and leaned against the counter, tapping your nails on the tile surface.

“Well, as you know, I live with my grandpa,” you said.

“Good ol’ George,” Dean grinned. “That guy’s hilarious. Like the fourth Stooge.”

He particularly liked the story you’d told him about the time George had bought you your first makeup palette when you turned fifteen, but hadn’t told you it was face paint…the kind that clowns used.

“And I’d love for you two to get to know each other better. Don’t get me wrong. But barring the fact that we probably wouldn’t have much…privacy,” you pointed out with a subtle smile, trying to ignore Dean’s resulting smirk. Never mind that you two hadn’t needed “privacy” just yet.

“I guess I’m just not used to inviting people over. I’ve been trying to limit the exposure to germs in the house,” you admitted. At Dean’s quizzical look, you had to explain.

“My grandfather had cancer last year,” you said. “He had surgery to remove the mass, and did well, considering his age. He’s in remission now…but I’m still looking after him.”

You’d gone with him to see his primary doctor a couple of weeks ago for that persistent cough. While the doctor seemed to think it was George’s asthma acting up, you’d still scheduled an appointment with his oncologist.

And while your thoughts led you down an all-too familiar path, Dean processed this with a nod of his head. He shut off the sink. After drying his hands, he looked over at you and brushed your cheek with his thumb.

“I’m glad he’s doing better now,” he said. His brows furrowed. “And your grandma passed just a few years before that?”

You nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s been a long few years.”

So, Dean took an inventory in his mind as he rested a comforting hand on your back. You took care of your family. You could cook. You were beautiful. And still, you kicked ass at your job and seemed to have the rest of your shit together.

He had to admit. The more he learned about you, the more he liked you.

“Anyway,” you shook your head with a smile. “Sorry. Ready to bake?”

Dean’s lips quirked as he followed you to the other side of the kitchen. He stepped behind you and letting his hands fall to your waist. His lips skimmed the side of your head, pressing a kiss there.

“Okay, Rachael Ray,” he teased. “Teach me your ways.”

You were trying to measure out some sugar in the bowl first, but you giggled with a warm blush as he kissed his way down your neck.

“Are you actually going to help, or are you just going to distract me?” you volleyed back.

Dean hummed against the crook of your neck. “Can’t I do both?”

You picked up and egg and raised it level with his face.

“Hmm, should I try cracking this against your forehead?” you pondered.

His teeth playfully nipped your skin in retaliation, making you flinch with a yelp. The egg actually cracked in your hand.

“Shit,” you laughed, and you quickly dropped as much of it in the bowl as possible. But getting fractals of the shell in the bowl disturbed your anal sense of meticulousness. When it came to cracking eggs, you typically had nothing if not precision.

You shot Dean an accusatory look over your shoulder. He just grinned back at you.

“Am I helping yet?” he joked.

You chuckled dryly in response. “Just you wait.”

A few more minutes and “helpful” distractions from Dean later, you successfully had a cake batter in the bowl. You were hand mixing up a storm and sorely missing your Kitchen Aid mixer. Dean was right though; his cupboards had little more than one cake pan, one mixing bowl, and one wooden spoon.

At home, you had a modest collection of cookware and bakeware that rivaled Williams & Sonoma. Though that had been a gift from your grandparents, when you graduated from culinary school. (Your grandma had picked them out before she passed.)

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you asked Dean. You were pretending not to catch him sampling the batter with a finger while you buttered the cake tin.

“Ever?” he asked, rubbing a licked finger on his jeans.

“Yeah. Number one top favorite.”

“Hmm,” he contemplated with a cross of his arms. “Pie, I guess.”

You smirked. That explained his little man-child display a few weeks ago, when you’d tried to share his blueberry pie on your second date.

“What flavor?” you asked.

“I dunno. I’m not real picky,” he said.

“Come on. Everyone has a favorite flavor,” you reasoned. “I’m more of a cake girl myself, but even I love a blueberry pie.”

Dean eyed your teasing grin with a growing smirk of his own. He remembered that day in your office just as well as you.

“Okay, fine. Apple, I guess,” he replied. You gave him a mocking look.

“Really, the most basic of them all?” You tsked at him, shaking your head. “What happened to Mr. Rocky Road?”

Dean chuckled, but he leaned against the counter next to you. Instead of giving it to you right back, as usual, he looked more thoughtful. A gentler look grew on his face. It caught your attention.

“You know, one of my earliest memories…” He looked up at you then, more self-deprecating.

You realized he was about to admit to something, maybe embarrassing, or maybe just vulnerable. Your smile softened too as you paused in what you were doing.

“You can’t leave me hanging on that one,” you said. And you drew closer with a hand soothing up his arm.

He glanced over at you. “I remember being…four, probably. My mom made pies during Christmastime. Cherry, pecan, whatever. But my favorite was her apple pie. I still remember it, because I haven’t had a pie since that tasted like that one.”

Your heart clenched, but your insides also warmed. Not just at the story of his mother, but the way Dean told it, his voice softer, steady, and deep. It told you a lot about him without him having to explain; just like you, he knew what loss was.

You curled your hands around his bicep and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Then your gaze drew back up to his.

“Have you talked to your dad since the last time?” you asked, a bit cautiously. “About his investigation of the fire?”

Dean sighed deep through his nose. “No.”

But despite his father’s warning, he had spoken to Sam.

“It’s different this time, Sam. The brand marks are the same,” Dean argued with his brother, this time in the living room. He sat on the couch while Sam stood, trying to process everything Dean had just told him about Mary’s potential murder.

“You saw the pictures yourself?” Sam asked.

Dean frowned. “No, but Dad—”

“Dean,” Sam cut him off as he gripped at his temples in frustration. “This is what he does. He sees evidence where he wants to see evidence. I’ve been down this road with him too, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean gritted out. John had roped Sam into helping him a few times, using his ADA status to look into different leads that ultimately hadn’t panned out.

“They always look like connections to him, but they never end up being anything more than his obsession,” Sam said.

He was firm, and Dean understood why, but his gut was telling him that it was different this time…

Still, he had no choice but to let it go. For now.

Dean shook his head of that memory. Instead, he tried to focus on being here with you. He liked this little yellow sundress you had on, despite the fall chill starting to set in outside. As usual, your hair was clipped up away from your neck while you got ready to put the now full cake tin into the oven.

He came over behind you and freed your hair from the clip, letting it all tumble down. You yelped and glanced over at him.

“Dean,” you chided, even though you were smiling. “My hair’s going to get in the batter.”

“I’ll keep it away, don’t worry,” he said lightly. He curled some of your hair around his hand so he could once again press a tantalizing kiss to the back of your neck. He felt you shiver.

You subtly leaned back against him, even as you whined in protest.

“Can you just let me get this in the oven?” you asked on a laugh. He smirked against your skin. You did manage to get the cake in the oven, but his lips and teasing hands were unrelenting as you tried to start cleaning up.

So you felt you had to take matters into your own hands. A mischievous idea had you smiling. You reached out for some flour that had spilled on the counter.

You turned, and before he realized what you were up to, you marked his forehead with an arch of white against his skin.

“Simba,” you said in a deeper voice, trying to mimic Mufasa from The Lion King.

Dean’s brows rose along with his widening eyes. He’d never seen you do something that childish, but it sparked his competitiveness as he blinked a bit of flour out of his eyes.

“You’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he asked.

Your little smirk was answer enough. You flicked a bit more flour onto his shirt.

Dean chuckled darkly. “Okay, you asked for it.”

Both a gasp and a giggle caught in your throat.

“Oh, no.”

He reached past you for some flour off the counter and flicked it down at you, into your hair, across your face. He grabbed your flailing wrist and marked your cheeks. All the while, his grin grew ever deeper at your shrieking protests.

But you grew devious. You stuck two fingers into the bowl and scraped out a gob of raw, yellow batter. You were fully prepared to fling it into his face, but Dean grabbed your wrist.

“Ey, ey!” he raised a warning finger with his free hand. “You’re about to take this to a new level.”

You met his gaze through your lashes with a playful smile. “So?”

Dean raised a brow at you. He could admit, you had audacity. All he could do was call your bluff.

He took one of your battered fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widened at the feel of his soft tongue swirling around your finger, sucking it clean. All the while, his eyes never broke from yours.

Lord have mercy, you thought. Really, it was the only coherent one in your head.

He soon released you with a soft pop, before he did the same to the second finger.

Your breath hitched, and your blush was a living thing spreading down your neck, even as warmth pooled between your legs. By the time your second finger slid out of his mouth, you had to reach back to grip the counter just to steady yourself.

His arm slipped around your waist, and you reached for his face with both hands, bringing him down for the hottest kiss you’d ever had in your life. Teeth clicking, lips and tongues warring and devouring. Your fingers slipped roughly through his hair, while he gripped your hips and ass with a passion just shy of bruising.

You almost didn’t register the way his hands slipped under your thighs, to then heft you up onto the counter. You gasped into his mouth and clung tightly to his shoulders. He chuckled and positioned himself to stand between your legs.

“What, need a little warning?” he teased. Though he was breathless as your soft lips veered away from his, starting a burning path across his jaw and down his neck. You left the remnants of your lipstick all along the way, but it was the occasional graze of your teeth that had him moaning for you.

“Maybe,” you whispered coarsely against his skin, uttering a small laugh, “Sometimes I forget how damn strong you are.”

He scoffed. “Sweetheart, if I can heft a grown man on my shoulders up a flight of stairs, I can get you up on a little counter.”

You snorted in response. Perks of dating a firefighter.

And you shoved off his plaid shirt from his shoulders. Dean helped you by letting it drop the rest of the way to the floor, followed by his black undershirt.

You couldn’t believe this was the first time you were seeing him with his shirt off. It was a damn shame, really. But you caught the bit of smugness curving his lips at the way you were ogling, first with your eyes, then with your exploring hands over his toned arms and chest, and the solid plane of his abs, all the way down to his belt. You started undoing the clasp.

Dean couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he stopped you with his hands gently curling around your wrists. You looked up at him in confusion. To him, you looked unbelievably sexy then. Thoroughly kissed, hair tousled, a strap of your dress fallen to one shoulder while your lacey black bra peeked through.

Just the memory of having your curves in his hands had his dick hardening in his jeans, but he blew out a breath.

“Dean?” you asked. “What’s wrong?”

His hands tightened on yours as he peered down at you. “Are you sure?”

You blinked incredulously. “Did I look not sure?”

He paused, licking his lips. He raised a hand to hold your cheek.

“I just…you know I’m trying to do this right with you,” he said. “I just want to know…”

He couldn’t seem to finish what he was trying to say, but you thought you understood. You smiled up at him warmly. You leaned up for a kiss, softer this time.

“Dean, I trust you,” you said. And you could finally say it with no reservations. “I think this feels real. More real than anything I’ve had in a long time… What about you?”

When Dean smiled, it was warm, melting away the doubt in his eyes.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

He seemed sincere. Maybe this man spared few words when it came to how he felt, but you’d seen a glimpse of the deeper parts. He felt things deeply, down to his bones.

His fingers sunk into your hair, and he guided you into a kiss. It was slower, but no less heady and wanting than the first. Your arms wrapped around his middle, letting you flatten your palms against the muscles in his back. But just as you were getting comfortable, Dean broke the kiss. He flashed you a smirk.

Before you could ask what the hell he was about to do, he’d hefted you back into his arms and over his shoulder. You squawked in protest as your whole world tipped over. Your face thudded on his back with a soft oof, your hair loose and falling like a curtain. Your hands accidentally fell against his ass.

“Ooh, someone’s handsy,” Dean teased.

“Dean!” you exclaimed, despite your peals of laughter. “Is this really necessary? I think I can find your room just fine.”

“Call it an officer’s escort,” he supplied.

“That’s for policemen!” you argued.

You couldn’t see it, but you could imagine the way he was grinning from ear to ear as he carried you through the apartment. You never noticed just how long his bowed legs were as he strode onward. But it felt like his shoulder was digging into your appendix.

Grunting in frustration, you slapped his ass again for good measure.

Dean laughed. “Hey, you’re only fueling my fire, baby.”

He slapped your ass right back, since he had an even better vantage point. He even slipped a hand underneath your little sundress and squeezed the inside of your thigh teasingly.

Your answering yelp, and the futile kick of your feet, had him laughing harder. His cheeks were aching.

Finally he reached his room, where he shut the door with his foot. He was gentle as he eased you off his shoulder and laid you down on his bed. You let out a breathless huff once your head hit the pillows. Your face was all red from being suspended upside-down, your hair a mess, and your dress pooling over your folded legs.

You gave Dean a playful glare. “Get over here.”

His smirk deepened, but he obliged you. He chucked his shoes off first, just like you let your sandals slip off the side of the bed.

He soon made his way up the bed, until he was hovering over you with his arms braced on either side of your head. He liked the way you were all laid out for him over his sheets, your wild hair spread over his pillows. He’d pictured something like this before, but nothing came close to having you for real.

He just didn’t know you’d been dreaming of the same thing.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to truly fall for someone, not in a long time. You’d been too focused on pivoting after school, on building your career, on taking care of your family. You’d dated here and there, but nothing had stuck for more than a few months. Even then, you’d never felt half of what you felt right now.

It scared you a little, but it also made you feel alive. Being with Dean made you feel that way.

So you took his face between your hands. His stubble rasped against your palms and the pads of your fingers. You didn’t mind that though. He’d left it a bit long for a shave last week. When you’d mentioned off-hand that you liked the thicker scruff (thinking it made him all the more handsome), he’d kept it for you. 

Now, he seemed like he was waiting on your cue.

You guided him down to you. He kissed you hot and slow, while a hand moved to your waist and clenched in the material of your dress. He slipped a heavy thigh between both of yours. The pressure was welcome, but you wanted friction.

You bunched up the skirt of your dress and aimed to slip it off, but Dean stopped your hands.

“That’s my job,” he teased.

“Then how about you get to it?” you countered with a smile. He rose a brow at you.

“A bit bossy, but I can dig that,” he smirked.

His kisses dropped against your neck, down your exposed neckline, and he peeled down the straps of your dress one by one. Your breathing became more labored as he touched you, squeezing a breast over the bra as he exposed more inches of your body.

Your fingers carded through his hair on a sigh as he made his way further down. Though he finally got impatient enough to work your dress off all the way, followed by his jeans and your bra and matching lacey panties. He lavished attention what felt like all over your body.

Really, he was just strategic. He stopped in places where you lost breath, moaning his name. Like the spot just under your ear, where he sucked hard enough to make you see stars. Or over your breasts, taking a pebbled nipple in his mouth, swirling with his tongue like he had the cake batter off your fingers.

His hands mapped out the soft planes and curves of your body for the first time, sometimes smooth and grazing, sometimes adding pressure that made warmth continue to pool between your legs.  

He went further still, wrapping an arm around your thigh and pressing nipping kisses along the inside. All the while his mouth drew closer to the place you wanted him the most. Even though you still raised up on your elbow and gave him a questioning look.

“Really? You want to…” Your voice came out in a whisper.

Dean looked up at you with puzzled brows. “Why not?”

You shook your head, your eyes widening marginally.

“No reason, I guess. I, um…I’ve never had someone do this for me first.” And certainly not on the first time having sex.

Dean frowned.

“Really?” he asked. “A guy’s never gone down on you first?”

You blushed. “Well, maybe with his fingers, but not…”

He shook his head and let out a breath. You felt it between your thighs, and your core clenched in anticipation.

“Okay, baby. I gotcha,” he said. He guided you back down with a gentle hand. “Just lie back and relax.”

You smiled, despite your lingering blush, and you stroked the hand that rested above your stomach. That hand soon slid down as he once again kissed and licked down your thighs. They quivered a bit as his fingers slipped between your folds.

“So fucking wet for me already,” he said in approval. You peered down at him, unable to help a smile.

“You want a medal?” you quipped.

Dean’s brows rose.

“Oh, I’m about to earn it.” His eyes found yours. “You know what my real favorite pie flavor is?”

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

A familiar smirk crossed his lips. “Cherry.”

Before your choked surprise could be broken with a laugh, he began. 

And he wasn’t lying, about any of it. The pads of his fingers began toying with your clit, and that alone had your breath hitching and your hips squirming.

He held you down with one hand on your lower belly while his tongue joined his fingers, seeking your heat and finding the hot channel where you craved to be filled. You gasped.

“Oh, God,” you uttered. Once his warm tongue began rolling inside you, you almost couldn’t breathe.

He worked you over with fingers, lips and tongue until you were arching off the bed, fists clenched in his hair and in the sheets, releasing broken gasps of his name. He didn’t relent until your thighs stopped shaking around his head. Your knees were damn near pinning him there.

He eventually withdrew, wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. He moved smoothly back up your body and heeded the pull of your hands on his arms, and then his face. You tugged him down for a sloppy kiss. 

“How’s that for a first?” he asked breathlessly. His tone was teasing, but he was half-serious you thought, by the look in his eyes.

You were honest, without a hint of a joke. “Fucking incredible. Just like you.”

Dean wouldn’t admit it then, but what you said warmed him. He looked down on you with a smile.

Your hands caressed his face, down his neck and firm chest, and further still to caress his straining length over his boxer briefs. Dean let out a halting moan at your gentle touch. 

“What if I want to return the favor?” you asked with a smile. He made a sound deep in his throat when you cupped him more firmly, letting your thumb brush over the head.

Well hello, you thought. He was thick, and a bit bigger than your first thought. Your already sensitive core tightened at the thought. 

Meanwhile, Dean squeezed your arm. His hot gaze bore into yours.

“Very, very tempting.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “I’ve no doubt you’ve got some talents yourself.”

You smiled under the pad of his thumb. Part of you was contemplating some retribution, sucking it into your mouth the way he’d done to your fingers in the kitchen.

“But I’m thinkin’ I want to skip to the part where I have you coming apart all over again,” said Dean. His head bowed near your ear, though his lips skimmed the side of your face. “This time, from the inside.”

His voice was deep and threaded with grit. You bit your lip on a giddy laugh. You managed to nod, sweeping your shaky fingers through his hair.

“Okay, next time then,” you promised and gave him a sensuous kiss. “But first, just want to make sure you’re ready for me…”

You leaned down to slide his underwear for him, down to his knees. He helped you the rest of the way, kicking them off his legs. When he came back, you were sitting up.

You soothed warm hands along his thighs and took his cock into your hands. Dean dropped his forehead onto your shoulder with a grunt, again squeezing your arms as you touched him properly for the first time.

Dean had a habit of impressing you, and this was no different. You liked the feel of him in your hands, warm and thick and heavy.

After licking your hand to coat it with some wetness, you experimented for a moment in how you stroked him, trying to get a feel for what he liked just as he had for you. He gasped and jolted on one particular twist, and he finally stopped you with a hand on your wrist.

“Okay, baby. Keep that up and we’re not gonna get much farther for a while,” he said coarsely.

It was satisfying to know you’d made him feel even a fraction of how he’d made you feel.

You pressed a purposeful kiss into his neck. “I told you, next time I’ll take care of you for real.”

He chuckled, cupping the side of your face.

“Oh, you’re about to. Believe me,” he said.

He kissed you long and deep, until you were once again breathless. The two of you were kneeling in the middle of the bed like you had all the time in the world. And yet, you wanted him more than ever.

“I’m on birth control,” you told him between more fervent kisses, hands drifting, feeling skin to warm, dewy skin, breaths mingling.

“And I’m clean,” he said. You nodded, hesitating…

“It’s our first time,” you said. “Condom, just to be safe.”

He hesitated only a beat before he nodded back, agreeing to your request. “Yes, ma’am.”

He broke from you briefly. He turned and dug into his nightstand while your nails drew light patterns down his back. It was distracting in the best of ways. A trill of excitement had his hands moving quickly, ripping the foil packet open and fitting himself with the condom.

When he was ready for you, he turned and hooked an arm around your waist. You twined your arms around his neck, and once again, you let him lay you down. His kiss came first, and then his fingers between your legs, past your folds to stroke you back to life.

You moaned into his mouth and wrapped your legs around his hips. Though he surprised you again by hooking your legs over his shoulders. Your brows raised at him, and he shot you a wink.

“Trust me, you’ll like it this way,” he said.

You did trust him. Your hands caressed down his neck, down his chest, and you subtly urged him with your heels on his back, encouraging him where you both knew he needed to be.

And with one slow push, his cock was stretching your inner walls with slow, delicious friction. You both groaned at the feeling. His forehead pressed against yours. His hand trembled slightly, brushing your hair away from your face. And he began moving inside you in steady strokes.

Dean was putting his all into this tonight. He thought your promises to take care of him next time were as endearing as they were sexy as hell. Even now, you were touching him wherever you could reach, occasionally moaning his name in his ear, encouraging him with every thrust inside you.

Fuck, he was right, you thought. He was reaching places deep inside you, filling you to the very brim. And you were already on the edge of pleasure, brows furrowed, biting your lower lip so hard that your teeth nearly broke the skin…

Your fingers slipped down between you to further part your folds and rub your already sensitive clit. Dean caught the hint and moved your hand to do it himself, as in time with his thrusts as he could. Finally, you unraveled for the second time that night. Your gasp gave way to a moan.

Your tightening walls gripped him like a vice. His release hit him with the same force, choking a near shout out of him. His hand was a bit too tight in your hair, he realized, so he forced himself to ease up.

He petted over your hair instead as he came down with ragged breaths. After he released your shaky legs back to the bed, he leaned mostly on his elbow and thigh instead of sinking all his weight onto you.

You appreciated that. You soothed up and down his back while you panted for breath.

“Wow,” you managed to say.

Dean’s chuckle took him by surprise too.

“Yeah,” he agreed. He turned his head to press a sloppy kiss where your neck met your shoulder.

Just then, a distant-sounding jingle reached your ears. It was familiar…and you remembered it was the alarm on your phone, which was probably in the kitchen.

“Oh shit,” you gasped. “The cake’s still in the oven.”

He blinked. “Well, I don’t smell burning, so we’re good.”

“Dean! You’re a firefighter, remember?” you laughed, but you still tapped his shoulder so he’d roll over. Reluctantly he did, but he still took you with him, even after he’d slid out of you.

You yelped and clung to his shoulders to balance yourself. “I gotta get the cake!”

“Five more minutes,” he grumbled into your neck. He also liked the way your breasts were pressed against his chest.

“It’s going to be so…damn…burnt!” You punctuated each of those syllables with a playful smack on his arm, until he finally released you with a lazy smirk.

You shook your head and huffed in amusement. Sliding out of bed, you searched around for your dress. The first thing you found was his discarded undershirt. You slipped it on real quick and cautiously padded out of Dean’s room. You didn’t know if Sam was back from work, but this was not how you wanted to meet him.

The halls were quiet, so you didn’t think he was home yet. You managed to get to the kitchen unscathed, where you turned off your timer and grabbed some oven mitts. You opened the oven and pulled out the cake, setting it down on the counter. Your eyes narrowed at the almost perfect dome on top.

“What’s the verdict, Chef Ramsay?”

Dean leaned in the doorway, dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else. The view was delectable, but you sighed and gestured at the cake with a shake of your head.

“It’s burnt.”

“What? No, it’s not,” he refuted. He joined your side and stared down at the top of the cake, which was half browned. “Looks all right to me.”

“Trust me, it’s going to be dry,” you said, “even with the lemon drizzle on it.”

It was the perfectionist in you that smarted with disappointment. You didn’t want to serve anyone something you weren’t proud of, especially Dean. But he just leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “I’m still gonna eat the crap out of it.”

You glanced at him, unable to help a small smile. He grinned back.

“Anyway, I think it was worth it. Don’t you?” Dean said. He pulled you in towards him by your waist, and you went willingly, resting your hands against his bare chest. You let your nails drag against his skin a little as you contemplated.

You looked up at him with a grin of your own.

“Yeah. Definitely worth it.”

Dean later sat with you again at the table, this time with your chairs closer together as you each ate large slices of delicious cake (even if it was a bit dry). Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the copious number of dishes still left in the sink and the flour and batter sprinkled across the counter.

He knew Sam was going to have a conniption when he got home (in the morning at this rate). He was probably crashing at Eileen’s apartment tonight.

Good, Dean thought. That meant he’d have the place all to himself, with you.

“You know, I just realized something,” he said.

You knew that look in his eyes. He was about to say something smartass.

“What’s that?” you asked. He reached out and thumbed at your chin.

“I just got my dessert twice in one sitting,” he remarked. “That’s pretty damn good, if you ask me.”

You snorted in laughter. You also blushed, but you were unable to stop smiling either.

You set down your fork and eased back from the table. Your hand on Dean’s shoulder encouraged him to do the same, so you could sit across his lap. He welcomed you with a warm hand on your bare thigh. Already it was creeping under the shirt you borrowed.

You stroked his cheek with the back of your hand and gave him a mischievous smile.

“Think you could handle another serving?”

AN: 🫣 Was it everything you wanted it to be? lol I love me some baking innuendo. What did you like more: eating the cherry pie or making the lemon drizzle? 😏❤️‍🔥

In Part 8, Dean's past comes a knockin'...

Next Time:

While you were getting dressed, a phone buzzed on one of the nightstands beside the bed. It was Dean’s phone.

You went over to it curiously as you fixed the straps of your dress. The screen showed a missed text message from last night, around 10:00 p.m., and another one this morning. You read the latest one with a sinking feeling in your chest.

From Marissa: Surprised I didn’t hear back from you last night. The offer still stands. 😘

Keep Reading: PART 8

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Series Tag List (Part 1):

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[miserylamalice]

What a night.

[amemipiacitu]

Here we go again with another super rushed fanart. The prompt was "Floral". I didn't know where I was going when I started and it's night-morning depending on how you look at it. So bear with me.

I was trying to make it look as the boys where splayed on the grass and someone was watching from above a branch of a cherry tree, but then bi-flowers happened, and it doesn't even look like a branch. Oh, well! Whatever. They're naked!

[allthesmutl0vers]

Entirely Forbidden and Completely Fucked- Chapter: 3

MDNI, 18+

Pairings: Wincest, Wincest + half sister, Implied John x Reader

Y/n

“So, will I be able to hunt too?” I ask John as he drives to get coffee this morning.

John looks over at me with a confused expression written across his face. “You want to hunt?” He asks with a hint of pride mixed with the shock in his voice.

I shrug. “Maybe, I mean, Sam said it’s the ‘family business,’ and I just thought… I don’t know,” my words falter. Am I really a part of this family? Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. 

John pulls into the gas station parking lot and puts the car in park. He looks over at me with an arm behind the back of the seat. “You are a part of this family. That’s not even a question,” he says seriously. “And yes, hunting is the family business, but that doesn’t mean that you can just dive into it feet first. It’s dangerous, and you could die, y/n.”

I nod in understanding. I’m not used to having a protective father, or a father at all for that matter. But John doesn’t speak down to me when he explains the danger that comes with hunting; he just tells it how it is. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to hunt. 

“I want to,” I tell him, looking up from my lap and meeting his eyes. “I want to be able to defend myself,” I half explain. I don’t need to tell him that I’m not planning on sticking around very long, but I should learn some things before I go off alone now that I know what’s out there.

John sighs and sits back in his seat. His expression is far away as if he’s weighing the risks. And after a few moments, he finally nods. “Alright, alright. We’ll teach you what we know so you can hold your own if you get separated from us,” he looks over at me again, raising a finger and pointing it at me. “But that doesn’t mean that you can go off on your own. You stick with one of us, always, especially if we’re working on a case. Understood?”

I smile and nod. “Understood,” I respond, holding my hands up. 

“Alright then, let's get coffee and hit the road,” John says, opening his door. I follow behind him, excitement coursing through me and a little bit of nerves, too. 

By the time we enter Lawrence, Kansas, the sun has set into a pale shade of orange and pink across the sky. John pulls into an underground garage in the bunker, and I’m amazed at all of the different cars and trucks inside. Vintage vehicles line the walls as John pulls into an empty spot and parks the car. 

“Are all of these yours?” I ask, stepping out of the car and looking around.

“Yeah, we inherited them along with the bunker and everything else inside,” Dean explains.

They told me all they knew about the men of letters and explained how the society worked before they inherited it. Apparently, before John and the boys came along, the men of letters never hunted. Instead, they passed the buck to hunters and cataloged the information for their records. No hunters were allowed inside the bunker, and neither was anyone who wasn’t a member, which women never happened to be either, apparently.  

When we walk inside, I’m amazed at the sight I see. I don’t know what I expected it to look like inside, but it wasn’t this. 

The first room we walk into is massive. A long oak table in the middle of the room with chairs surrounding it. On top is a map of the entire country, with highways and city and county names. It’s incredible. 

Straight ahead is another room that resembles a library. Tall bookshelves cover the walls, filled with all kinds of books. In the center are a few tables and chairs with lamps on top. 

“To your right is the kitchen,” John says, pointing to the right side of the first room we came into. “On your left is the infirmary,” he says, pointing to the left side of the first room. “And straight ahead through the library is where all of the bedrooms are, as well as the bathrooms, armory and down to the dungeon and electrical room.”

“You guys have a dungeon?” I ask, bewildered. 

John nods. “We do, and you are not to go inside of it without direct orders from either me or the boys,” John says sternly. “We do interrogations in there from time to time, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

I nod and purse my lips. “I understand.”

“Alright,” John says with a sigh of relief and grabs my other two bags, leading me through the library and down the long hallway. “Your bathroom is right across from your room,” he says, stopping in front of a closed door. He opens the door and holds it open for me to walk in. “This is your room. You can decorate it however you’d like. We didn’t get a chance to give it a really good deep clean, but you have fresh sheets, blankets, and a couple of pillows. You also have a dresser here, a desk, and a small closet in here,” he explains, showing me around the room. 

“Thank you,” I say politely. I look around the room as John sets my bags down by the bed. The bedroom reminds me of the college dorm rooms I’ve seen on TV, small but not extremely small. Just enough room for one person. 

“You’re welcome. I’m right down the hall, and Sam and Dean’s rooms are toward the front of the hall where we came in. I’ll have them write their names and hang them on their doors so you don’t get confused, and I’ll do the same with mine if you need anything,” John says with a small smile. “Also,” he pulls out his phone. “Take their numbers and my backup just in case,” he says, handing me his phone with his contacts pulled up.

I copy the numbers into my phone and save them under their names, and John’s back up as ‘John #2.’ “Done,” I tell him, handing him back his phone. 

John nods and pockets his phone again. He clears his throat and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, I’ll leave you to unpack. We don’t have a case right now, but a call could come in at any time from the other hunters we work with. You’ll meet them soon enough. I’m going to my room to turn in. Knock or send me a text if you need anything,” he says, walking back to my bedroom door and opening it. “Welcome home, y/n,” he says over his shoulder before walking out of my room and closing the door behind him.

Home.

The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. This isn’t home to me. My home is Washington. The green trees, the waterfalls, the beautiful hiking trails, my house. 

From what I’ve seen, Kansas is flat, dull even. It’s all valleys and flat ground. There aren’t trees everywhere like Washington, no roaring waterfalls on the cliffsides. No ocean. 

I start unpacking my bags, at least for now. I’m not staying forever, just long enough to learn what I need to defend myself, and then I’m getting the Hell out of dodge. I hang out my shirts in the small closet, put my shorts, underwear, pajamas, and socks into the drawers, and put my favorite dark romance novels on the desk. Next, I pull out my blanket from home, take off the blanket already on the bed, and put mine on, along with my sheets. Call me what you want, but silk sheets are better than any other kind. Especially for my hair, and I will die on that hill. 

I’m putting the finishing touches up when I hear my phone buzz on the desk where it’s charging. I haven’t turned it on since I left. I don’t want to hear people’s pity for my mom being murdered. I don’t need it. My mom was the light in my life, and when she died, the world dimmed. Nothing anyone can say can bring her back, and heartfelt texts only make me want to break down and send me down the rabbit hole of anxiety and overthinking about who, or now, what killed her, her last moments, and the last thing I said to her, which I will never repeat to another living soul. 

I push the thoughts away and pick up my phone, seeing a text from John. 

John: Settled in?

Me: I guess so, as much as I can be. 

John: Do you want to talk?

Do I? Honestly, I don’t know. 

Me: Any word from the police?

I watch the three little dots that indicate he’s typing appear and disappear a few times before his text comes through.

John: No, none yet. Want me to light a fire under their asses?

I can’t help but chuckle and smile a little. 

Me: Think it would help?

John: Maybe, maybe not. But I will if you want me to. 

The sentiment makes my heart flutter, and a smile appear across my lips. 

Me: Thank you. But I don’t think Pug Face will move any faster unless there’s donuts involved.🍩

John: Pug Face? You mean Detective Sanders?

Me: Yeah, that’s what I call him. His face looks like a pug. 

John: Come here.

What does he mean? Like, to his room? 

Me: To your room?

John: Considering that’s where I am, yes.

I sigh, stand up from my bed, and walk out of my bedroom. Why does he need to talk to me in his room? What does he have to say that he can’t just text me? I knock on the door labeled with his name and his deep voice sounds from the other side. “Come in.”

I open his door and peek inside. He’s sitting at his desk with a laptop and his journal open on top. His room isn’t really decorated, but he has maps and charts all over his walls, along with newspaper clippings, and on his dresser is a picture of a younger version of him, a baby Sam and toddler Dean, and a beautiful woman with blonde hair. They’re smiling in the picture in front of a house. This must be Sam and Dean’s mom, John’s first wife, who he said was killed by a demon. 

“What did you need?” I ask, stepping further into his room when he waves me inside.

“Shut the door,” John says, nodding his head to the door behind me. It reminds me of when I would get in trouble with my mom. Getting me off to the side so she could lecture me about what I did wrong. 

I shut the door behind me and John motions for me to come closer until I’m standing right in front of him as he scoots his desk chair back. “Okay, the door is closed. Am I in trouble?” I ask, sounding more nervous than I’d like to.

“Is there something you should be in trouble for?” John asks, not answering my question. I hate it when adults do that.

I sigh and roll my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t know, that’s why I asked. You told me to come in here,” I respond. 

“Firstly, watch your tone,” John warns, holding up a finger. “Secondly, I wanted to talk to you about how you talk to the police,” he sits back in his chair, looking me up and down. “If you want to hunt, you’re going to have to learn respect. We portray law enforcement most of the time, and local police don’t appreciate the attitude,” John explains. “And that includes nicknames like ‘Pug Face.’”

I swallow and nod. His tone of voice isn’t condescending, but the firmness of it makes something tingle deep inside of me. Somewhere, it definitely shouldn’t. 

“Do I make myself clear?” John asks. 

“Yes,” I mutter, trying to ignore how his low voice makes me feel ashamed and dirty. 

“Yes?” John falters as if he’s waiting for me to finish speaking.

“Yes…sir,” I respond, wondering if that’s what he wants to hear. Hoping it’s what he wants to hear.

I see a flash of darkness in John’s eyes as he looks at me. He takes a shallow breath and then blinks a few times, clearing his throat. “You know you can call me ‘dad,’ too, right?” he asks in that same deep voice that stirs something deep in my core. 

“I know…I just,” I try to explain but can’t find the words. 

John holds his hands out for me to take and I find myself instantly going into them. He takes my small hands in his and pulls me just between his knees. “You call me whatever you feel is right. I’m not going to pressure you to call me dad when you’ve only met me a handful of times in your life,” one of his hands leaves mine, and he brushes a strand of hair out of my face, cupping my cheek. “That is my cross to bear, not yours. You call me whatever you like. But when it comes to orders, ‘yes, sir,’ is how you need to address me. Is that clear?” 

His touch heats my skin where he touches it, only fueling the feeling that’s growing deep in my core. It’s inappropriate, it’s wrong, but I can’t stop myself from taking a tiny step closer between his legs and letting my response come out in a breathy, bedroom voice. “Yes, sir.”

A groan escapes John’s throat, and he swallows hard. “You should go. Now,” he responds. But it’s not an order this time, his tone is almost begging me to go. And I should, I really should because I don’t know if I can control myself if I don’t. I know it’s wrong, but the way his hands hold mine and touch me ignite a flame inside of me that I don’t want to smother just yet. 

“Can I sleep here tonight?” I ask, trying my best to sound innocent. “I really don’t want to sleep alone. I get bad dreams,” it’s not a complete lie, but it’s a lie tonight. A lie to stay.

John nods and stands up, pulling me against him and hugging me tightly. I lean into his touch and hug him back. “You can sleep here whenever you want,” John assures me. He pulls back, keeping his hands on my waist. “Go change into some pajamas, and I’ll clear this stuff up,” he kisses me softly on my forehead and drops his hands. 

I quickly change into some pajamas. Flannel shorts and a tank top and make my way back to John’s room. On my way back, the sound of slapping skin on skin catches my attention behind me. I tip-toe back to the source of the sound behind a door and place my ear against it. 

“Fuck, just like that,” a man moans, sounding eerily similar to Sam. 

“That’s it, Sammy, take it,” another man says with a grunt. 

My eyes widen, and I take a step back.

Was that…Dean? Are they…? No, no fucking way… Does John know?! Should I be the one to tell him?

I almost have to slap myself to bring myself back to reality. They’re definitely fucking each other. “Holy fucking shit,” I whisper. I can’t help how it turns me on either, though. This is all so fucked up. What did I get myself into? 

I walk back to John’s room with a swirling mind and a pit of fire deep inside of my core that’s only growing stronger and stronger. Maybe I should sleep in my own room tonight. No, fuck that. I mean, I’m sure John knows, and if he doesn’t care, then why should I?

Am I really about to come onto my dad right now?

No, I won’t instigate it. But, I mean, if he starts something, I won’t stop him.  Fuck, I need to douse myself in holy water. Ice-cold holy water.

Chapter Four

[spntwt]

[lemons-boy]

tiny birthday sketch

[violetheart77]

I CAME AS SOON AS I HEARD—

[shishquahcustardtree]

Working on a little something special 😉

[sailorsallyart]

divine blessings 💦

full & very kinky version over on my patreon

[impala-dreamer]

i need a castiel hug. i think that would fix me.

or one of those Dean with a forehead kiss cuddles.

sigh.

[pleasantlysecretdream]

When half of your ship dies and you are left to wonder what would happen to you now

[miserylamalice]