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impalaimagining · 20 days ago

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Dean x Reader, really more like an unnamed OFC

Word Count: 9,726

Warnings: torture, gore, death, Stockholm syndrome, loss of virginity, smut (18+ only)

Written for @jacklesversebingo

Square Filled: “I’m not ready to give up.”

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The silence is the only comfort she finds. Otherwise, her own screams echo through her ears, still ringing even after the men are gone and the blood has dried. It’s caked in sticky streams, rivers running down her arms, deep burgundy stained into her skin. She’s trapped - ankles snared tight in thick, splintering ropes, wrists bound in metal restraints. Her range of movement is less than half a foot in any direction. She’s an animal bound within a cage, left to go insane inside the four barren walls of the cement room where they keep her.

When they’re gone, there’s not a sound to be heard. Not a creak above her, not the dull thud of footsteps overhead, though she knows she’s underground; she hasn’t seen even a sliver of sunlight since they ripped the cloth from over her eyes. It’s only silence. Inside the silence, she counts the beats of her heart, uses them in an attempt to measure time, but it’s useless.

It could be daybreak or it could be midnight. The sun could be streaming through the Georgia pines, scalding the bright red berries on the dogwood trees. It could be twilight, just after the sun has nestled below the horizon, fireflies twinkling in the backyard while mosquitoes whine in her ear. She doesn’t know, though, and she never will. She’s stuck here, for as long as they keep her alive.

She’s been doing her best to keep track of the days by scratching a line in the concrete with a bloodied fingernail, and she suspects the dim light hanging in the corner of the room is on a timer synced with the sun’s rising and setting. As she scrapes her fingertip against the damp floor beside her thigh, marking the eighty-fifth day she opened her eyes only to find herself here, the realization washes over her. They might keep her alive forever. The only other option is to kill her - or to let her die. To forget about her and to leave her to rot into the room surrounding her. She stares down at the blistered flesh of her fingertip, where the skin has eroded away and left only blood and deep red pulp. It’s raw. She decides then, she’s not sure which fate is worse.

It’s all she’s known for just shy of two decades. They found her when she was eight, crying in her closet full of princess dresses and glittery, plastic, heeled shoes. Frills from long skirts hung in her face, but weren’t enough to hide her. They came up the stairs and into her bedroom, grabbed her from within the closet, and dragged her here. She’s been here for 7,200 days - give or take. She lost a day or two, she’s sure, during the times when they knocked her out cold for refusing to give them what they wanted.

Seven. Thousand. Days. And she hasn’t seen them, hasn’t heard them coming, hasn’t gotten fresh food or water from them - even if it is just a dry bologna sandwich, sometimes spotted with flecks of fuzzy, green mold - for what she can only assume is four days.

On day two, she started rationing her water, fearing it was the beginning of the end. They were leaving her alone to die. The food would no longer come, the water would surely cease, so she rationed. She nibbled her sandwich, sipped her water one capful at a time. She prolonged the inevitable - her death.

She screams. She screams until her voice gives out completely, wishing for anyone to hear her. Her wails echo off the walls, reverberate in her ears, give her splitting headaches, but still she cries. She weeps for the men who left her, the men who, despite treating her worse than their hunting dogs, she considers family. They’ve left her behind, truly and surely abandoned her. She sobs for herself, for the little girl shoved through the dark, metal door on the far wall all those years ago, who could’ve done so much, who had such a life to live. She whimpers at the memories. They flash through her mind at night, when sleep evades her and she’s alone in full darkness.

Her grandmother teaching her to roll out cookie dough, the stray kitten she found in the barn and begged to keep, the laughter around the Christmas tree every year, casting her pink fishing rod into the water and propping it beside her uncle’s only to catch an eight-inch bass while he came up with nothing. The splintering glass hitting the wood floor when the windows were broken, the shrieking of her mother as she scrambled for the phone to call the police, the muffled voices from behind the masks, the thud of bodies hitting the floor, the wet slice of a knife being pulled from between her sister’s ribs.

Her heart cracks open, shattered by the reality that the men she loves - Alexander, the man she considered her father, Russell, the eldest brother, Justin, the middle child, and Danny, the baby of them all - have forgotten her in the dirt, left her to return to the earth, buried her alive. They took her family from her, her flesh and blood stripped away from her as a child, and now again, they’ve stolen any chance, any semblance of a family right out from under her like a magician ripping off a tablecloth.

At the end of the sixth day, or what would’ve been the end of it for her, as she allows herself to close her eyes and escape the reality that death would find her soon, she hears it.

Footsteps.

“Hello?” Her voice comes out just above a whisper, hoarse without use. She clears her throat and forces saliva down with a rough swallow. “Hello! Please!”

The footsteps draw nearer. But they’re different. Her family - her captors - their footsteps, she’s learned inside and out. She could replicate their exact footfalls if only she put on their shoes. These footsteps are new. Lighter, more urgent. Sneaking. The footsteps she hears belong to someone who isn’t supposed to be here.

She freezes as the footsteps stop outside the door, holds her breath. She hears a voice, whispering. Then another set of feet shuffle beside the first – she can see their shadows in the small crack under the door. The door creaks against the weight of a fully grown man.

“Son of a bitch.” She hears him mutter. Then she hears another sound, unmistakable to her trained ears. A gun cocks, the hammer clicking into place. She covers her ears only a second before the sound splits the barrier between the men and her. The door falls as one of the men kicks it open. “She’s here.”

She’s here.

They knew about her. They were looking for her.

They step closer, slowly, one hand outstretched in warning, or perhaps compassion, from the taller man as the other tucks his gun into the waistband of the back of his jeans. She backs herself as far as she can into the cement wall behind her, trembling at their unfamiliar faces.

“Who-” she chokes on the dryness of her throat.

The taller of the two men offers her a water bottle, but she doesn’t take it. Instead, seeing her fear, he sets it down in front of her, within her reach even with her restraints.

“It’s alright.” His voice sounds like a boom of thunder in her ears. “We’re here to help.’

“Help?” She feels bold just speaking to him. She hasn’t spoken to anyone other than her captors for almost as long as she can remember. The other man watches her carefully.

“We’re here to get you out. To take you back.” He finally says.

Her scratchy throat releases a humorless chuckle. “Take me back to what?”

The men glance at each other, only for a beat. An untrained eye would miss it, but she doesn’t. She’s learned to catch everything, even the most minute of movements.

“I have nothing.” She croaks, finally caving after inspecting the unopened water bottle. She takes a long, slow sip, indulging and savoring the wash of it over her tongue. “No one. No home but here. No fami-” she cuts herself off; she’s revealing too much, too quickly trusting these strangers.

Holding up his hands to her, revealing he has no other weapons in his grasp and isn’t a threat to her, that he has no intention to hurt her, the shorter of the two men crouches down on one knee and studies the ropes.

“I have a knife.” He raises a brow at her. “Don’t be scared. Just gonna…” He gestures to the ropes around her ankles. She nods, almost imperceptibly, and he gets to work on the ropes while the other man picks at the metal locks on her wrists.

She’s free. Her wrists and ankles are unbound, but she doesn’t move.

She looks down at her hands, again bloodied, from the past four days spent banging them on the floor, from balling her fists until her fingernails dug into her palms, from shoving her full weight against the walls in a desperate, frenzied attempt to escape. Her hands match her heart - ripped open, bleeding, raw. She takes a step away from the wall, her first step in days, the shackles removed fully for the first time in twenty years. She collapses against him, the stranger encircling her in his arms as her world fades to blackness.

She wakes up warm.

Warm.

She jumps, startled by the feeling of blankets surrounding her, a real mattress beneath her. There’s water running, the faint scent of soap fills her nostrils. Slowly, she slides her legs from under the sheets, wincing at the pain and stiffness of her own body. Her eyes widen as she takes in the bandages wrapped around her ankles where the rope used to be. Her wrists are bandaged too, her palms have been coated in a salve and her hands wrapped.

Suddenly, her mind flashes back to the room - the prison where she was kept. The men who freed her. Her eyes dart around the room and land on a few things - a wallet on the bedside table, a leather jacket slung across a chair in the corner, duffel bags set on the end of the other bed.

They’re here. They brought her here.

She moves cautiously, or maybe her slowness is because of the ache pulsing throughout her body. She’s headed for the wallet. She needs to know who they are. Without warning, the room fills with a burst of damp heat, a heady scent.

“Oh. Mornin’.” He drawls as he runs his towel over his short hair. “I didn’t think you’d be up so soon.”

“Feels like I slept a year.” She rubs at her left wrist, careful not to displace the bandage.

“Water’s still hot if you wanna wash up.” He nods over his shoulder in the direction of the shower. “I’m sure Sam has some conditioner if you, y’know.” He mimes lathering long hair.

“Thanks.” She moves her eyes to the floor and lets her mind wander.

Sam.

“He’s Sam?” She looks around vaguely, noting the taller man’s absence.

“He is. I’m Dean.”

“Dean.” She nods once.

“Sam went to grab us a bite to eat. Figured you’d rather stay tucked away than eat in a restaurant full of people on your first day back in the real world.” Dean tosses his towel over the hook on the back of the motel bathroom door.

The corners of her lips turn up in a hint of a smile. It’s thoughtful, kind, that they’d consider her first.

“Should be back soon, but the shower’s all yours.” He reminds her, and she realizes it’s likely because she looks like she hasn’t bathed in years. Truth be told, she hasn’t. A bucket of cold water and a sponge was all she was allowed.

“Thank you, Dean.” Her voice is still scratchy. She takes three steps toward the bathroom, then pauses with realization. “I don’t…” she glances down at herself, her clothes tattered and dirty.

“Oh.” Dean clears his throat before rifling through one of the duffel bags. He pulls a shirt and sweatpants from within, handing them to her. “We can - one of us will go out and get you some stuff later.”

“Thank you.” She repeats, once again heading for the bathroom. She realizes when she’s a step away from the threshold of the door, the bandages need to come off in order for her to wash herself. She stops short of the room containing the shower, leans back against the edge of the countertop surrounding the sink, and starts tearing at the dressing wrapped around her left wrist.

Dean hears the faint scratching sounds, the attempts at tearing duct tape - it was all they had to secure the bandages - with unpracticed hands. He turns over his shoulder, catches sight of her feebly pulling at the bandages. A small smile tugs at his lips, and he pads toward her after pulling socks onto his feet. His hands cross her field of vision before anything else, his fingers catching hers where she’s scraping the edge of her nail under the corner of the tape.

“Let me.” He looks up and their eyes meet. She swallows roughly and gives a small nod, thankful for this, thankful for all he’s done for her, but without words to express just what she’s feeling. She’s mourning the family she’d lost - the family she found out Dean and his brother had killed - while also being endlessly grateful to Dean for getting her out of that prison they’d kept her in. She’s pulled from her frenzied thoughts as the tape catches on the fine hairs on her arm and yanks a few from their follicles. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, a pained hiss of air that stops Dean in his tracks.

Dean mimics the noise. “Sorry - I’m sorry.” He rubs the pad of his thumb over the soft skin of her wrist. In a bit of a daze, he returns to his task, gingerly removing the tape and bandages from both wrists and hands. “If,” Dean clears his throat, “if you sit on the edge of the bed, I can help you with the ankles too.” She feels her face flush but moves toward the closest bed, the one with duffles perched at the end. She eases herself down and sits on the rough, floral-print blanket. Dean kneels at her feet, and while she’s watching him pull and tear at the tape and gauze on her skin, all at once, she’s struck by just how attractive he is. He’s almost too attractive, his features too symmetrical, his eyes too green, his freckles too perfectly scattered across his face. Suddenly, she’s grasping her right forearm to physically restrain herself from tangling her fingers into the mess of short, slightly spiked, still-damp hair tousled perfectly atop his head.

She inhales with intent, exhales with fervor. She needs to steady her breathing before he notices the stutter in her pulse, the way her chest is heaving with excitement at just the sight of him, at his proximity. She leans back on her palms, instantly regretting the decision, and inhales sharply once more. Dean’s gaze shoots to hers, worry creasing his forehead.

Her head shakes. “Not you.” She winces as she sits upright again. Dean’s face softens with understanding and he gets back to work. Once her bandages are fully removed, Dean takes her foot in his hand, slowly turning it and assessing what more she’ll need to heal properly.

“Couple more days, I think.” He concludes aloud, glancing up at her through thick lashes. “Then you’ll be good to go.”

Good to go.

Go to… where? Go to… what? To who? She’s alone.

Except - in this moment, right now - with Dean on his knees in front of her, his fingers wrapped so gently around her ankle, their eyes locked together, she feels the least lonely she’s felt in a very long time.

After a struggle to figure it out, she turns the water on and lets it warm while she assesses her own wounds. The water burns as it runs over her open skin, but she just flinches slightly and lets the heat soak through her skin and into her bones. It’s been decades since she washed her body in hot water, decades since soap lathered in white bubbles over her arms, chest, stomach, decades since steam has opened her pores and they’ve been washed clean, decades since her tangled hair has had a comb pass through it easily, aided by Sam’s conditioner.

She relishes in the shower, savors every ounce of hot water the motel has to offer until it starts growing cold. Quickly, she shuts the water off and wraps herself in a towel. It should feel scratchy, judging by the look of the fabric, but it feels like a cloud against her hardened skin. Once she’s dry, she lifts Dean’s shirt in front of her. She hasn’t eaten a proper meal in almost twenty years; his shirt will hang from her like a tent, but she pulls it over her head anyway. It falls over her and envelops her in a scent unfamiliar but so warm that it feels like a home she’s never known. She doesn’t know it, can’t place it against anything she’s ever smelled before, but Dean smells like leather, gunpowder, coffee. There’s a tanginess to his scent, and she’ll learn quickly that it comes from his whiskey. She lifts the shirt to her nose and inhales deeply.

After fully dressing, she emerges from the bathroom to find Dean lounged back against the headboard of the bed opposite where she awoke. He’s paying her no mind, eyes locked on the television screen in front of him.

“Those are much smaller now.” She frowns, examining the screen. “And also… bigger?” She tilts her head and walks around the television.

Dean chuckles. “They’re thinner.” He nods. “But the screens keep getting bigger.”

She nods too, agreeing with his assessment and suddenly embarrassed that she couldn’t find the words to describe it herself. She hasn’t had schooling since she was eight years old. She doesn’t even know if she could write the alphabet anymore.

“So.” Dean interrupts her self-sabotaging thoughts. “I’m Dean. Sam is my brother.” He explains. “What’s your name?”

Name.

Her name.

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t remember. She hasn’t heard her name since before she was captured. The men never used it. Alexander only ever called her “girl,” and “bitch.”

Dean sees her thoughts stuttering.

“It’s alright.” He sits up and looks at her head-on. “Take your time.”

“It’s not - I don’t…” She blinks and falls to sit on the end of the other bed.

“Hey, okay.” Dean lets his legs fall off the side of his own bed. “That’s alright. We’ll work on it.” He gives her a soft smile. “How about for now we just get you bandaged up again?” He takes her hand in his palm, his touch so light compared to the roughness of his exterior, the way he kicked down the heaviest metal door she’d ever seen, the quickness with which he holstered his gun, like it was a practiced move from years of doing the same.

He’s gentle. Delicately, precisely, he wraps her wrists and ankles, bandages her palms, and pats her knee.

“Good as new.” His smile washes over her again. He’s kind, she can see it in his eyes, and her own fill with tears.

How broken is she that someone offering her a bed, food, a shower, things people live with - things they take for granted - every day, is overwhelmingly kind? What a horrendous life she’s lived until now that all of this seems like luxuries she may never have had again.

“Thank you.” Her voice breaks, cracking as she fails to make eye contact with Dean.

His brow furrows slightly. “I told you we’d get you patched up.”

She shakes her head. “Not for that.”

She doesn’t have to say anything more. Dean understands. His eyes meet hers, his full of sympathy and hers full of gratitude. He moves to sit beside her, cautiously, then reaches out and takes her hand, squeezing softly and lacing their fingers together. As they sit in silence, just as the moment begins to feel too long and uninterrupted, the door swings open and Sam walks through, two brown paper bags in one hand and a drink carrier in the other.

Their days continue on together, her staying in, Sam and Dean venturing out for food, drinks, some other secretive reasons they don’t like to discuss in front of her. But they’re always sharing these looks, like they have to keep it from her, or she’ll break.

And she might.

She’s lived with no one for so long that any news from the outside world feels earth-shattering. She’s done her best to adapt as quickly as she can, but she hasn’t seen civilization since she was eight years old. When she finds herself slipping away, unable to come to terms with reality, she finds the smallest bathroom, a shower stall, a dark closet, locks herself inside, and pulls her knees into her chest. She wraps her arms around her legs and rocks back and forth, tears streaming from her eyes as silent sobs wrack her body.

The prison was her own personal version of Hell, but it was her home. It was the only place she’d known for more than twenty years. The small spaces, the darkness, the dampness of the shower. It brings it all back, and she finds herself rubbing her wrists in harsh circles where the restraints used to be, squeezing until her skin bruises where she’s freshly scarred.

She hides it from them, washing her face with cold water before returning to the day. But they know. They know you don’t just move on from what she went through. Sam and Dean are patient with her - as patient as they can be with a fully grown woman who has the social skills of a child.

She still can’t remember her name, and Dean has taken to calling her, “babe.” Sam doesn’t directly address her, really, just kind of fits himself into conversations when she’s already involved so he can avoid it altogether. They’ve given her books from local libraries and secondhand stores, taught her to write, taken her to hobby shops, craft stores, antique stores - places they know don’t get too crowded unless it’s a special occasion. She’s picked up painting, and while the books she chooses are small and look childish compared to Sam’s, she loves to read them.

One night, while they’re eating dinner in Dean’s car, she sees the brothers share a silent look, and she knows she’s supposed to avoid listening to their conversation. They exit the car and stand at the front bumper. Pretending to be lost with her nose in her book, and fully avoiding looking at them, she reads and rereads the same sentence six times while eavesdropping on them.

“We have to tell her soon, Dean.” Sam’s muffled voice comes from outside the car.

“Tell her what, exactly?” Dean’s voice sounds taught.

“We can’t just let her think this was all normal. People don’t just - she can’t just go on like this.” Sam stumbles over his words.

“She’s doing fine, Sam. I don’t want to throw her back into that hell. She’s moving on.”

Is she moving on? She hasn’t thought about her captors in a few days, which is the longest stretch yet. She likes being with Sam and Dean, likes living with them, even if they are strangely codependent and rarely leave each other’s side. She’s codependent too; she wholly depends on them to support her, but if she lets her imagination wander just a bit, she could swear Dean depends a little on her too.

The nightmares come back that night, after they check into another motel. In her sleep, she relives the day the men came for her, the day they murdered her family and dragged her to hell on Earth. She relives every day within the confines of those four walls, rats as her only companions. She wakes most nights sweating, crescent-shaped indents pressed into her palms, her head pounding as she tries to unclench her jaw. Tonight is different. She can’t wake up. She feels herself dreaming, knows she’s asleep, but her body locks her into her subconscious and holds her there - a prisoner again, but this time inside her own mind. Her eyes flood with tears, they streak down her cheeks as her eyes hold shut.

She screams.

Sam and Dean bolt awake, Dean running to her from his place on the couch across the room. He holds her shoulders, more gentle than he should be in his panic.

“Babe?” He rasps, his voice full with the hoarseness of sleep. “Hey, wake up. Come on.” He shakes her softly. His fingers stroke over her cheekbones, move up to just below her eyes, swiping at the tears falling from them. “Wake up.” The tone of his voice shifts. He’s pleading.

Inside her head, the nightmare changes. It’s never done this before, but tonight, as Dean holds her, her brain conjures something new. The door to her cell, the concrete room, opens. Instead of Alexander or one of his sons, a black cloud zooms through the doorway and forces itself down her throat. Her body goes rigid, both in her dreamland and in Dean’s arms.

In the nightmare, she chokes on the black smoke in her throat. In the motel room bed, she thrashes and screams. When the air finally leaves her lungs, her body sags like there’s nothing inside, no bones to keep its shape or support its weight. She inhales sharply, a gasp like she’s been underwater too long and has just reached the surface. As she breathes in, Dean looks into her eyes. His own breath catches in his throat at what he sees. Her left eye, usually a gray hue that seems to match the color of the sky on a rainy day, mirroring the sun fighting its way through the overcast clouds, has turned wholly black.

“I’ve never heard of anything like this before, Dean. A demon possession through a dream?” Sam raises his brows. “There’s no way. Right?” He looks at his brother. “Right?”

“You think I have an answer to that?” Dean snaps. “I’m seein’ the same thing you are.”

“I’ll make some calls.” Sam runs a hand through his hair.

“See if anyone’s had a case like this.” Dean nods his agreement sharply. “I’ll stay here with her.” He tosses Sam the keys, which Sam catches swiftly before he takes off toward the car.

Dean returns to her, her eyes their normal stormy hue again, but the blackness flickers like a loose lightbulb.

She sits on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the side so hard her knuckles are white. Her breathing is shaky, her whole body is trembling, she hasn’t spoken since before she fell asleep last night, since before the nightmare. Dean perches himself beside her tentatively and waits. He sits for just shy of thirty minutes before she moves, before she makes any indication of being conscious of the world around her.

“A demon.” Her words are quiet, her voice matching the quaking she shows on the outside.

“I - I’m not really sure where to start explaining this to you.” Dean admits.

“Maybe you could start by telling me what your brother means when he says I was possessed by a demon in my sleep.” Her tone is new to both her and Dean, a bite behind her words neither of them has heard.

“We don’t know.” Dean’s confession burns his throat. They - he and Sam - have never dealt with this before. Demon possession is usually pretty straight-forward, an exorcism would take them out and send them back to Hell. But this - the demon half showing its face, half hidden - that’s new. “We’re afraid to try anything we usually do because - because you’re obviously still you, and the way we usually handle demons doesn’t, uh - doesn’t end well for the suit.”

“The suit?” Her eyes all but bulge from her head. She’s a suit, being worn by a demon. She shakes her head to rid herself of the thoughts. “So demons are usually…”

“Demons usually inhabit people who are dead or close to it.” He sighs, running his hands down his face. “Or if someone summons them.”

“People… summon… demons…” She forces her eyes shut and clenches her teeth together.

“Since pretty much the dawn of time, I’m afraid.” He grimaces at the truth. He knows it all, it’s nothing he’s unfamiliar with, but bringing it to light like this, to someone who’s never known the darkness that exists in the world - aside from the horrors of human beings - it feels like he’s ripping open a wound in her, and in himself. She shouldn’t have to deal with this. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. Sam shouldn’t have to deal with this.

“Me and Sam, we try to… handle things like this. Exorcise demons, hunt monsters, put ghosts to rest.” Dean continues his explanation cautiously. “But it’s just the two of us, and we’ll never get them all. They’re still out there, always will be.” He swallows. “And we - we’re gonna take care of this. Of you.” He reaches for her hand, covering it with his own. “We’re gonna figure it out.”

She believes him. She feels his hand over hers and she knows he’s real. He’s telling her the truth.

She trusts him.

When Sam returns over five hours later, he’s visibly distraught. His fingers have been tangled into his hair, running through it to relieve stress.

“So, nothing, then.” Dean notices the look on Sam’s face, follows him down the bunker’s long corridor of a hallway, then into Sam’s room.

“Nothing easy.” Sam huffs and falls onto his back on his bed. He closes his eyes and lets himself settle into the mattress. “She’s like, a one-in-a-million case.”

“Of course she is.” Dean mutters under his breath.

“She is right here.” Her sharp tone is back as she eyes them from where she’s leaning against the doorway. “What did you find? How do you… research stuff like this?”

“Oh, Sammy is an expert.” Dean teases, a feeble attempt to lighten the mood while he plants himself firmly in Sam’s desk chair.

“Well, not much of an expert if he can’t find a solution.” She realizes how rude she sounds, especially talking to the men who saved her life not two months ago. “I’m sorry. I - I shouldn’t have said that, I know you’re trying, and I appreciate it. Thank you.”

Sam sits up slightly and glances at her. “You’re welcome.” He brings himself fully upright and turns toward her, long legs dangling off the side of the bed. “I’m sorry I can’t find much, but it was only one day. I’m still looking.”

“I know.” She nods slowly. “I know you are. You’ll find something.”

Dean clears his throat to interrupt them. “What did you find?”

“There’s an exorcism, one different than the one we usually do. That was the first thing I found. In dad’s journal.” Sam explains, eyes moving between the two of them.

“So then let’s try it.” Dean offers. “An exorcism won’t hurt. It’ll just send the demon back to Hell. It won’t hurt her.” Dean finds her eyes. “Thoughts?”

“I - I mean…” She hesitates, obviously unfamiliar with the way things usually go with a demon exorcism. “Sure.”

Sam sends a knowing look in Dean’s direction and shrugs. He moves to his bag in the corner and digs through it, under the clothes, until he finds a flask of holy water, a Bible, and an old leather bound book - the journal he had mentioned, maybe? He skims through the book, finds a page that looks like it’s taken a beating over many, many years, then clears his throat.

“You - you should maybe lay down? Close your eyes? Find a happy place and go there in your mind, or something.” Sam is out of his depth, completely unsure how to make an exorcism more comfortable. “Uh…” He looks at Dean. Dean shrugs and walks toward her, holding out his hand and guiding her into the room, closer to Sam’s bed.

She takes it cautiously. “Is it… gonna hurt?”

“It might.” Dean offers his honest answer. “I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been through it before.” She nods and he laces their fingers together. “I - I can…”

“Hold my hand?” She chuckles. Dean smiles and squeezes her hand in confirmation. “Thank you.” She makes her way onto the bed, then lays down and Dean sits beside her, their hands staying connected as Sam begins his incantation.

“Crux sacra sit mihi lux

Non draco sit mihi dux

Vade retro satana

Numquam suade mihi vana

Sunt mala quae libas

Ipse venena bibas”

Sam’s voice fades as his eyes flicker between the pages of the journal and the bed where she’s laying. Dean’s gaze never leaves her - her face, her body, their joined hands. But she doesn’t move. She doesn’t react to the exorcism, the Latin being spoken over her. Her black eye doesn’t return, her body doesn’t seize; she just remains completely still, eyes closed while Sam recites the words in front of him. When he’s done, he recites it again, flicking the flask, half open, across her body and sprinkling her with holy water. Again, there’s no reaction. Her skin doesn’t sizzle, her eye doesn’t flicker to an onyx abyss, nothing changes.

She cracks an eye and glances sideways at Dean. “Am I… okay? I don’t feel anything.”

“You’re okay.” Dean assures her. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you’re okay.”

Sam huffs and shakes his head. “I don’t know either. For right now, this is all I’ve got. Give me another few days and I’ll figure something out.”

“Do you need help?” She sits up, fingers still linked with Dean’s.

Sam’s brows jump in surprise as he looks to Dean. “You wanna help check this out?”

“I do. It’s my body.” She shrugs. “I’d like to get this - this demon out of me as soon as possible, and I can read… kind of.” She mutters the last part as quietly as she can manage, but they hear her and give her a look she assumes can only mean they’re skeptical. “I’ve been reading a lot since you brought me here.”

“She has.” Dean nods toward the stack of young adult chapter books in the corner. She brings them to Sam’s room when she’s done so he can return them to the library for her, on the off chance she doesn’t want a change of scenery.

“I swear, I’ll keep my head down and be quiet. I just want to figure this out.” She promises, then her voice falters. “I - I’m not ready to give up.”

Sam narrows his eyes and looks between the two of them, contemplating. “Yeah, alright.” He finally caves, directing his eyes to Dean. “She can come.”

It’s another week before she finds any kind of lead. Despite her unwanted passenger - a demon from the literal depths of Hell hitching a ride inside her skin - the week isn’t entirely unpleasant. She spends most of her hours nestled into a back corner in the Lebanon City Library, rifling through old tomes, searching for any word that even looks like the word demon.

She finds a few ideas, tries them herself. She dunks her head into a sink full of holy water. She presses wooden crosses to her chest, then switches to pure silver instead. She swallows a handful of salt - admittedly, Dean’s idea. There’s no result, no change in her, not even a glimpse of the black eyeball that haunts Dean’s dreams.

Her dreams, meanwhile, subside. She no longer has visions of the room she spent twenty years locked inside. She doesn’t see the faces of Alexander, or Russell, or Justin, or Danny. They’re not digging their blunt fingertips into her forearms or the sides of her neck. They’re not dragging her along the cold, hard floor despite her being chained in place, they’re not choking the life out of her because she called one of them a bastard. They’re gone. Her dreams seem to be nothing more than a thick cloud of black smoke, and it’s simultaneously the most comforting thing and the most terrifying thing she’s seen in quite some time.

One afternoon, a Thursday, while Dean is out on a “milk run” (whether he’s actually getting milk or not, she’ll never know), she finds something. She runs from the back of the library through the wooden rows of shelves - a hushed scolding coming her way from a middle-aged woman pushing a metal cart and reshelving books - to the front desk, and checks out the book in her hands. After a too-long process of obtaining her first ever library card, she doesn’t bother to wait for Dean to return to pick her up, just bolts out the door and follows what she thinks is the way back to the bunker.

The way home.

Sam is seated at a table in the war room, Dean insisting he stay in case she needs something while he’s gone. The bunker door swings wide, immediately sending Sam on the defensive. His knife in one hand, gun in the other, he springs upright and takes cover behind a wall. He peeks around it, until he sees her walking through the door. She’s panting - she’s been running - and she’s carrying an old book under her arm.

“I got something!” She calls into the empty room, her voice echoing off the metal walls of the chamber. “Sam! It’s - I think I found it!”

“Oh my God I almost killed you!” Sam shouts, emerging from his place behind the wall and tucking his gun into the waist of his jeans behind his back. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t!” She reasoned without hesitation. “You didn’t kill me, and good thing, because I think I just found the solution to our problem.”

“Our - you mean your problem.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not the one running around with a dormant demon living inside me.” She looks at him incredulously. “Alright, what is it?”

“We need a mirror.”

“We should wait for Dean.” She watches as Sam gathers what he thinks they’ll need - ropes, gallons of holy water, buckets of salt.

It’s the ropes that get her. They stop her dead in her tracks, make her trip over her words, get her heart pumping nearly twice its normal speed.

“What are they for…” She deadpans, eyes locked on the offending supplies.

“What are-” he stops when his eyes follow her gaze and fall on the ropes. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Sam stumbles as he reaches for the ropes, looking for a way around using them. “We - I’ll find another way. I just wanted to - to hold you in case…”

“In case the demon comes out and I try to hurt you.” She nods. “We should wait for Dean.”

But Dean doesn’t come back. Not that night, and not the next morning.

It’s nearly midnight, on the day after she found a potential answer, when Dean finally falls through the bunker door. His face is caked with blood - not his own, there’s not a single scratch on his perfectly symmetrical face - and he has a knife dangling from his hand like he had to fight his way through something to even approach the bunker.

“Dean…?” Sam finds his way to the door. “Dean, where the hell have you been? I’ve called you like eight times.”

“Yeah, Sammy. I know. It wasn’t as easy as we thought it’d be to summon them and then get the answers we need.”

“Answers?” Her voice comes quietly from behind Sam. “You did this for me? To help me?” Dean’s face falls. She isn’t supposed to know.

“Yeah, babe. We did.” He confesses. “I summoned a few demons, kept them held inside the biggest and most brutal devil’s trap I’ve ever drawn, and I questioned them. I asked them everything I could’ve possibly asked them. They have no idea what - who - could be living inside of you. They haven’t noticed anyone missing, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t missing from downstairs.”

“From Hell.” She begins to understand. It’s slow-going, her picking up on the nuances of what he’s saying. Dean Winchester is torturing demons.

Torturing demons.

It hits Sam at the same time, the realization of what Dean’s doing - what he’s doing again.

“Dean, I think we-” Sam starts, but she cuts him off.

“I think we have the answer.” She glares at Sam. “I think I found the answer. Yesterday.”

Dean’s eyes grow wide. “That’s why you called so many times.” His eyes find Sam’s, and Sam nods.

“We wanted to wait until you came back.” Sam explained. “In case-”

She interrupts him again. “In case the demon came out and I couldn’t hold it back. In case Sam was in danger. In case we needed you to…” Her voice falls to the floor along with her gaze.

“In case you needed me to kill you.” Dean’s voice is rough, and she’s not sure if it’s with grief at the realization of what he might need to do, or because he’s been torturing demons for the last forty-eight hours.

“In case you need to kill me.” She nods. “Sam - he wanted to restrain me with-”

“No.” Dean jumps in. “No way in Hell.”

The pun isn’t intended, but it does make her chuckle, which earns a scowl from both brothers.

“We - you are not restraining her in any way, shape, or form.” Dean continues after her muttered apology for the chortle. “No ropes, no chains, no cuffs. She will never be tied up again, do you hear me?”

“Dean.” Sam holds up his hands in surrender. “Loud and clear, dude. I got it. No ropes.”

“Good.” Dean said sternly. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Uh, yeah, you should.” Sam sidestepped to clear a path for Dean. “Then we can-”

“Then we’ll figure it out. We’ll talk about it.” He gave a single nod to his brother, then another to her. “We’ll get that damned thing out of you, and if I never see another black-eyed-sonofabitch again, it’ll be too soon.”

Dean disappears and reemerges with reddened skin, having scrubbed fiercely at the bloodstains on his arms and hands. He goes first to the refrigerator and the unmistakable sound of a bottle cap leaving a glass bottle echoes through the silence of the bunker’s kitchen, followed within two minutes by the sound of empty glass clanking against the metal countertop. He makes his way into the room with Sam, looking around for any signs of her.

“She said she wants a minute.” Sam answers Dean’s unspoken question.

“Got it.” Dean nods. “What’s the plan?”

Sam explains what she found, the mirrors, the incantations, the reason he’d considered using restraints. Dean’s on board with all of it - all of it except anything being tied around her wrists or ankles. He’d never see her like that again, so helpless and tied up, desperate for escape. They’d saved her, brought her into their home, given her back a chance at the life she deserved to have. He couldn’t be the one to make her feel like that was being taken away from her again. He knew about the showers, about the closets, about the small rooms she secretly tried to find as an escape. He knew she was stuck inside her head more days than not.

And he also knew about her mother.

About the way her mother had sold her soul. The way it took more than a kiss to seal the deal from that particular demon. The way her mother fell pregnant as the deal was written in the stars. The way the demon came knocking that night, with a crew to back him up, and upturned every ounce of her life. The way they took down her parents, jammed a knife into her sister’s ribcage, found her in that closet, threw a bag over her head, and dragged her to that hellhole of a basement where she spent the next - the last - twenty years.

Every demon he’d summoned while he was gone, they’d told him all about it. They knew it was a button they could push and he’d react every time. She’d become a weak spot for him, and it was so blatantly obvious to everyone but himself.

Sam clears his throat and shakes Dean from his thoughts.

“Whatever we need to do - whatever I need to do - I’ll do it. I’ll hold her back myself.” Dean offers.

“Dean, I can’t let you do that and you know it.” Sam rolls his eyes. “She could hurt you. She could kill you.”

“She won’t.” Dean shakes his head. “She won’t kill me. It’s still her in there, I know it, Sammy. We just have to get her back to her again.”

And they do.

She enters the room. Sam has a mirror, veiled in black cloth, perched against a wall at the far side of the space. She looks at him and nods knowingly, then finds Dean’s eyes. He meets her gaze and walks to her, reaching out his hand. She places hers in his palm and he runs his thumb over her skin.

“We’re gonna figure this out.” He promises, and she nods as he looks into her eyes. She feels it, the charge between them, and it’s Dean who acts on it. His face leans toward hers, tilted just so, and she inverts the position with her own face before meeting him in the middle. Their lips find one another in a gentle brush before the kiss turns needier from both sides. Dean pulls her closer, his hand leaving hers in favor of the small of her back. Her body is against his, a fire within her she’s never known before. Her fire comes from anger, from sadness, from darkness, but this feels like a light.

She pulls back, her eyes lift to his, and Dean grabs her then by the upper arms. He spins her to Sam, to the mirror, and she catches sight of her left eye - fully shrouded in pitch black. She gasps, but Sam has already started the incantation. By the second word, he uncovers the mirror and Dean forces her right in front of it. When she tries to turn away, a growling sound emanating from her chest, up her throat, and finally into the air, Dean wraps an arm around her chest and grabs her chin with his other hand. He wrenches her face back to the mirror and watches as her face melts into a mask of pure, unadulterated pain. She’s shrieking like he’s never heard a woman scream before, and then a flash of red-orange light comes from within her. It outlines her ribcage, her heart, her lungs, the column of her spine, neck. and throat, and then with a whoosh, black smoke pours from her mouth. It fills the room, clouds the mirror, a shrill sound coming from within the column of blackness, and falls to the floor before dissipating back into the depths of Hell.

She collapses against Dean’s body, her eyes closed, jaw slack.

“Shit.” Sam runs to them, crouching so he’s level with her limp body. He reaches up and holds her face, presses two fingers against her neck. “She’s alive.” He glances up at Dean with confirmation in his eyes. “She’s alive.” The relief floods Sam as Dean’s own washes through him, his shoulders sagging when the weight finally leaves them.

Dean lifts her, cradles her against his chest, and carries her back to his room. He lays her in his bed, pulls the blankets over her, and sits in a chair across the room. He stays there, guarding her, keeping watch over her, until her eyes flutter and she wakes with a start.

He’s there in an instant, by her side. “Hey, hey.” He holds her gently. “Hey, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

She crashes into him, her body falling against his chest while she buries her face into the crook of his neck. She wraps her arms around his neck and sobs. He holds her. He just holds her through the worst of it, until she finally pulls back and her eyes find his.

The gray-blue of them has returned, fully, in both eyes. She’s back.

The adrenaline courses through their veins, the high, then the relief of it all. She lunges for him, crashing their lips together in a fit of thankfulness she doesn’t quite know how to otherwise express. His hands hold her face, fingers pushing into her hair behind her ears, thumbs cupping her jaw. Their breaths mingle, she smells him again, that leather-gunpowder-coffee-whiskey scent, except this time, she can taste it too. It’s on his tongue as it slides over her lower lip and into her mouth. He invades her senses.

She grips the collar of his shirt, pulling him over her as she lays down. His body presses into hers where their hips meet, his pelvis settles between her thighs. She’s never felt like this before - so desperate for someone else to touch her. She needs this, needs his weight on top of her to keep her grounded. She needs him to distract her from the reality of what happened outside this room. She realizes suddenly that it’s not her room, but Dean’s room that they’re in. She takes in the sensation of his soft blankets surrounding her, of how the sheets, especially the pillow, clings to the scent of Dean more than any other place in the entire bunker. His lips are everywhere, kissing from her own lips to her jaw, down to her collarbone. He stops as his lips hover over her soft skin.

“I need to know that - that this is you, that you’re fully aware of what is happening right now.” He huffs, and she knows he’s holding himself back. She can see the restraint in his eyes.

“It’s me.” She assures him. “It’s me, Dean, and I want this. I want you.”

It’s all Dean needs to hear. It’s her - he’s sure - for maybe the first time since they’d found her, for maybe the first time in her entire life, whether she knew it or not.

His hands move down her body, trailing over her ribcage, finding her hips and giving a tentative squeeze, over her thighs. She arches her back, creating a friction between them she’s never felt before. His lips ghost over her skin, teeth scraping, just barely, at the junction of her neck and shoulder, and she’s never realized how sensitive that area is. His hands are on her hips again, but he’s barely holding her. His palms are simply resting over the hem of her shirt.

He’s being gentle. She’s never done this before, but she knows gentle isn’t what she wants, isn’t what she needs. Dean is wound tight - from the summoning, the questioning, the torturing, the exorcism. He needs a release, and so does she, so that’s what she’ll give them both.

“Dean.” She whispers, and he stops moving. His lips cease their assault on her neck, his hips no longer rut against her inner thighs, his hard length no longer strains in his jeans while it presses against her clit through the fabric of their clothes. He pulls his body almost entirely away from hers. “Stop holding back.”

Something snaps inside of Dean, his movements are no longer languid, but rather rushed, choppy, frantic. He’s gripping at her clothes, silently asking to take them off of her, and when she agrees with a panted, “yes,” he’s tearing them from her body. The garments hit the floor, and before he can bring himself over her again, she tugs at his shirt. Reaching up, Dean discards the fabric with one hand, eyes locked on hers before they begin to roam over her body.

“So fucking beautiful.” Dean huffs.

She’s put on weight since they found her, her bones no longer visible on her torso. She’s put on the weight in the right places, too. Her hips have plumped up, something for him to hold onto. Her breasts are fuller, and he takes the time to appreciate that particular fact with not only his hands, but his mouth as well. His tongue glides around her right nipple while the thumb and index finger of his hand pinch the left. After he laves over the hardened bud, he bares his teeth and bites into her sensitive flesh.

A cry leaves her lips, his name lost on a whimper while he descends her body. His tongue trails down the center of her abdomen, tracing a line from her cleavage to her belly button, circling her navel before dipping into the elastic of her underwear. His teeth scrape at the fabric before catching it between them, then dragging it downward. His hand comes to aid him in pulling them down her thighs, over her knees, until they finally find her ankles and she kicks them off. When he’s back between her legs, she realizes he’s shed his remaining clothing as well. His skin presses against hers, the two of them moaning in sync as their most intimate parts meet.

She doesn’t know how, but she knows she’s ready. She doesn’t want anything else first - just him. Just the intrusion of his cock pushing into her and stretching her to her limits. She tells him so, and he checks, double checks, that she’s sure, and then there he is. The head of his cock notches against her opening and she whimpers. He’s not even in yet, and she’s barely holding on.

It hurts, it burns, it’s so much, but it’s not enough.

“Please.” She writhes beneath him, scared to move too much. “Please, Dean.”

He pushes further, entering her at a glacial speed. The front of his pelvis meets the wet warmth of her as he bottoms out within her. Her head is thrown back, her mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure - or pain, he’s not sure which - until he slowly backs out, dragging his cock within her walls, and she exhales. The sound could’ve come straight from a porno, and Dean’s body reacts as if it has, as if he’s living inside his own personal porn video right now. She’s blissed out, wholly strung out on his cock, and he’s barely even thrusted. She’s so good, so tight, so warm wrapped around him.

She pushes up to meet his first thrust, slow, but deliciously so. His movements pick up speed, but it doesn’t matter how fast he’s going, how he’s moving, the rock or roll of his pelvis. All she feels is him. He’s filling her so full, stretching her with every move, and she knows it’ll hurt tomorrow, but she wants it. She wants the pain. Pain is all she’s ever known, and for the first time in her life, the pain feels good.

Dean’s thumb first hits his tongue, wetting it just enough, and then finds her clit, circling it with purpose. He’s pushing her to the edge, but she’s already on her way off the cliff. As his finger circles her again, for only the third time, she falls. It’s a freefall into nothing. She’s hanging in the open air while her body shakes beneath him. She’s supposed to feel the crash, she knows she is, but it doesn’t come. She just falls, and then she feels him falling right beside her.

He’s losing himself to her, in her. He’s filling her completely, emptying himself inside of her. It’s reckless, it’s irresponsible, and they both know it, but they don’t care. They can’t find it in them to care about anything other than this moment, right here, right now. They’ve fallen together for the first time, and they both know it’s far from the last.

She looks down then, catches a glimpse of the sheets below them as Dean withdraws himself from within her, and she sees it. There’s blood.

She’s given everything to him, let him take it all without a second thought, and she knows then, that Dean Winchester holds her heart. And she’d let him rip it to pieces, let him leave her just as he’d found her - just as he’d fucked her - vulnerable, bleeding, raw.

She’s sleeping soundly, Dean laying beside her, but he has no idea what’s raging behind her closed eyes. For the first time in weeks, she has a nightmare. A real, true nightmare, no longer just a cloud of black living in her subconscious. They’re back. Alexander, Russell, Justin, Danny. They’re surrounding her, knives in their hands. Only there’s someone else with them now, a woman. Her brain, even asleep, even on the brink of death, would recognize this woman.

It’s her mother.

She’s weeping, the screeching sound of her sobs breaking through the men’s voices, splitting her ears from the inside out. Then a sound breaks through the shrieking, and she realizes it’s her mother’s voice. She’s speaking, or trying to.

“Run away.” Her mother says. “Run from him.”

From Alexander.

But her mother shakes her head. “Not them.” Her eyes move to the corner of the room, to a mirror - an exact replica of the mirror they’d used to pry the demon from her body. In the reflection of the mirror, she can see herself, and someone standing behind her. She squints, trying to clear her vision. When she does, she gasps. It’s not just someone standing in the mirror.

It’s Dean.

His arms are wrapped around her waist, holding her stomach - her pregnant stomach. She gasps and flicks her eyes up to meet Dean’s, but her heart falls to the floor when she sees who - what - is staring back at her. It’s Dean, but it isn’t.

She’s staring into deep pools of nothing but darkness. His eyes are black.

Forever Tags: @atc74 / @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce / @beththedemonhunter / @blacktithe7 / @caswinchester2000

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gyllenhaalstories · 10 months ago

Text

FIREWORKS — JOHN KINLEY 🎆

summary: does john ever feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind, wanting to start again? yeah, probably. but this fic isn't about john's existential crisis. it's about keeping his mind occupied during the fireworks of the 4th of july.

warnings: smut (teasing, masturbation, fingering, edging, orgasm control, penetration, outdoors sex). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 2680

gifs credits: @/pedropcl (cropped) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: i finally wrote for john (big thanks go to @sizzlingcloudmentality for helping me out with your amazing suggestions)! it's not the idea i've attempted to write like 4 times, but it's an idea. that's gotta count for something 🫡 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

"The truck is loaded and ready to go." John's smile faded when he saw the new bags waiting for him by the front door.

"Just in case." You justified without being prompted to.

"We're leaving for the weekend, honey." He bent over to unzip one of the kaki Duffel bags, he pulled out several mismatched fuzzy socks. "We don't need all that. Wait... Is that a candle?"

You nodded proudly when he held up the glass jar. "We agreed to have a relaxing weekend getaway. Candles are relaxing. Look! That's your favourite scent too!"

He grinned at the attention and closed the bag after securing the candle deep into the clothes you packed just in case. He stood up with the bag on his shoulder. He held on the strap with one hand and grabbed yours with the other, dragging you out of the house before you came up with the idea to bring the appliances too.

John shut the tailgate and walked around the pickup truck to open your door, making sure you got in just fine. After a peck on your cheek, he closed the door and made his way to the driver's seat.

"Do you think there's gonna be a lot of traffic?" You buckled your seat belt at the same time as John did. "People go crazy around this time of year." John shot you a look that meant to say when did they not?

"We're not taking the highway." He engaged on the street and made a few turns you did not recognize as your usual route.

You trusted him. He knew his away around endless deserts and bushy hills, this would be no different especially since John had helped you to plan this weekend getaway. You found a secluded Bed and Breakfast, hours away from the house. It seemed cozy, you were lucky to reserve a room during the busy weekend.

The village was so small, there was not a single activity planned for the Fourth of July. You could have told him you were both going camping without electricity or running water and he would have accepted the invitation. He would have accepted anything just to escape.

Your mind wandered while John kept driving into the sunset. You wondered what food they would serve for breakfast, what the backyard would look like. You hoped they had a garden. You wondered if this would become a yearly tradition, where the managers would recognize you and fold your towels into pretty swans before your arrival. You hoped it did. You wondered what John was thinking about, you turned your head to admire him.

He felt your gaze on him, he grinned. "Everything alright? Did we forget something?" He marked a pause, he turned on a different road. "Let me guess, you wanted to bring the lawn mower?"

"We don't even have a lawn mower."

"Shit, we forgot to buy one?" He chuckled. "The trip is ruined."

Your heart skipped a beat at the sound of his laughter. A rare treat. A smile lingered on his lips, growing wider when he set his hand on your thigh. Your hand covered his and your eyes did not leave his handsome face for dozens of miles.

He could feel you were getting bored. He was too, quite frankly. At a certain point, the scenery blended into one blurry painting of trees and run-down houses. He knew the destination was well worth the hours of driving, but he would not despise a change of view. In the meantime, John distracted himself with caresses and squeezes on your thigh. One moment his hand was down to your knee, but then it would move back up and his fingers would attempt to disappear between your thighs.

You shifted on your seat, trying not to let those touches get to you too quickly. You still had a long way to go, but if John kept teasing you it would be impossible to resist. His hand hovered until you settled down so he could place it back on your thigh with a firm grip. You spotted a lonesome traffic light in the distance.

"Is everything alright?" John asked again, glancing in your direction with a faint frown.

"It will be soon." You said with a smirk that did not go unnoticed.

John looked ahead, squeezing your thigh harshly. His hand pushed further up, but you closed you legs around him too tight to let him move. He scrunched his nose at the sudden, but small, frustration.

Your prayers for the green light to turn red were heard and you unbuckled your seat belt as soon as the truck went immobile. "Unlock the door." You demanded.

John did not budge, pretending he did not hear you.

"Unlock the door, please."

The lock clicked. You slid down the passenger seat, your skirt riding up while you did so. John watched you while you slammed one door, opened another. He turned his head while you clumsily climbed on the back seat of the truck.

"Nothing wrong with being the passenger princess," You answered the question he did not dare to ask. "I just wanted a little more space."

His face was still lit up by a bright red hue when you found a comfortable position. John put two and two together, indulging in your shenanigan without any hesitation. He focused on the road again, darting his eyes on the rear view mirror. "A little more to the left," you scooted. "Perfect."

The light turned green and the engine roared while John kept driving. You pulled on the the seat belt so it was loosely attached around you, giving you plenty of room to move. You spread your legs open, finding a position that was both comfortable for you and easy to admire for John.

"You're playing with fire." John scoffed.

"No, I'm trying to distract you from the fireworks." You corrected him and earned a grin in response. "The least you can do is say thank you."

"I'll thank you when I'll be satisfied with my distraction." You leaned forward, a playful slap landed on his shoulder. "Hey!" He adjusted the mirror so it hit the right angle, then he winked at you.

You sat against the large back seat. You ran your hands over your thighs, in the places John had touched. "How much time do we have left?"

John flicked his wrist, trusting his military watch more than the clock of the truck. "About an hour." He estimated based off the number of miles indicated on the last road sign.

Your fingertips drew abstract patterns on the inside of your thighs, approaching close to your core. You hummed, thinking about a plan to make the fun last. Your breath hitched when you reached the wet fabric of your panties.

John's breath hitched too when he caught a glimpse of you, staring at him while you pushed your panties to the side. He missed what happened next as the road became sinuous for a moment.

You brought your middle finger to your lips and licked it, eyes still glued on your man. The pad of your wet finger pressed on your clit. You moaned out his name while you began to rub in circular motions.

He caught you while your head fell against the back of the seat. His own jaw dropped slowly while he watched the expression on your face as you picked up the pace. The pickup veered into the other lane for a quick second, John straightened it up.

You stopped abruptly. "Be careful." You warned him.

"You're being dangerous." He warned you, too. He gave you time to settle down, to get further lost into your pleasure after your heart had skipped a beat in fear.

He stared ahead, now you were the one watching him. You watched as John blinked slowly. As his knuckles turned white from the tight grip on the steering wheel. As his Adam's apple bopped while he swallowed thickly. As a loose strand of hair escaped the sunglasses perched up on his head.

His voice drew you out of your fixation. You made him repeat himself.

"You're not cumming 'til i say so." Somehow, that did not make you stop. You rubbed more, more, more, and you pulled away right on the edge of your orgasm. "Good luck with that, babe. 'Cause we both know you won't last."

You exhaled, coming down from your first edge. "We both know you won't last either."

John's silence proved you right. Though he showed more patience and restraint than you expected. He coaxed you through some of your edges, reminding you to pull away at the right time and telling you that "you look so fuckin' pretty for me, that's it, fuck yourself good".

The more praise you earned, the harder it became to hold back. His words toyed with your mind, making it so incredibly difficult to not give in. To listen to his order and not cum until he commanded you to. This particular edge gave you a rough time, your fingers barely stroked your clit that you were about to burst into an explosive orgasm. You tensed on your seat, eyes shut and with a breath stuck.

John glanced at the mirror and saw you. He saw you were about to tip over the edge. It was written all over your face that you could no longer resist your own release. "Don't you fucking dare." He clenched his jaw and pulled over in a swift turn of the steering wheel. You shifted in your seat, causing you to stop at the perfect time. "You're not cumming. Not without me." He put on the brakes and lost no time to get out of the vehicle.

"Took you long enough." You spoke when the door opened before you. John reached into the car to remove the seat belt. He gave you a stern look that made you smile from ear to ear. He was just so fun to mess around with, until he was not... But you did not feel like pushing his limits too much tonight. You could save that for another time.

John helped you to scoot closer to the edge of the seat, he stopped you from closing your thighs together. Finally, he could touch what he had been craving. His fingers worked you close to another edge. And another. And another. Until you were writhing for him on the seat, until he was sure you had left a damp spot on it. He wanted to test your limits, just a bit, just for fun.

"No, no, no." You gripped on his forearm, trying to pull him away.

He grunted in satisfaction, you followed his command and he did not even need to remind you. "That's my good girl." He captured your lips with his, his beard tickled your skin. Like a magnet, he attracted you out of the pickup until your feet met the ground.

His tongue explored your mouth while his hands gripped on your hips. The second you pulled away to catch your breath, he made you spin on your feet. The buckle of his belt rattled while he rushed to pull down his pants and underwear just below his ass.

You bunched up your skirt for him, propped your leg up on the step. You earned a low, rumbling grunt as a reward when he pushed his cock in your wet pussy. In return, you moaned out his name again and caused him to bottom out inside of you.

"Got yourself ready for me, huh? Is this what you wanted all along?" The bruising grip of his rough hands on your hips made you wince. "You wanted to get fucked by the side of the road like a whore." He pulled out, then rammed himself all the way back in. "That's so cute."

His left hand abandoned your hip to travel up your sides then your shoulder. Until he found the back of your head, he pressed you down against the seat. With his other hand, he guided you to meet his thrusts. At any moment, someone could drive by. Not that you had seen many cars thus far, but it was a possibility. It added a whole new dimension that both John and you found pleasure in.

The show you gave him from the back seat, paired with palming himself over his pants, had gotten him riled up to the point he knew he would not last long. He wasted no time and enjoyed the feeling of your clenching walls to the fullest.

"Just like that! Keep... Fuck! Keep going." You snaked a hand underneath your body until your fingertips reached your clit, barely brushing over it to take you closer to your release.

Suddenly, John’s thrusts stopped. He turned his head to the side and watched as the sky was illuminated in the distance by red, white and blue fireworks. He took a second to admire them then he continued to fuck you, picking up the pace. So that you would moan louder. And louder. And louder. Until you were all he could hear.

The skin of your ass slapped against his thighs, adding to the obscene sounds. Your noises covered up the explosions of the fireworks.

"Thank you." John broke the silence, slowing down. He dragged his hips back and forth, making you feel every inch of him.

"What for?" You mumbled. You revelled in the way John’s cock stretched your tight pussy. Your slick walls clenched on him even more.

He punctuated his thrusts with grunts. He leaned forward, pressing down on your back and trapping you against the car seat. He whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "For being a good distraction."

"Good enough to let me cum?" Your voice cracked.

"Damn right." John smiled on your cheek while he pressed a kiss on it. "Cum for me, let me feel you."

The sky turned pitch-black again as if nothing happened. As if the fireworks travelled all the way to your core while you came for John. Stars spun around your head, you still saw them when you closed your eyes.

John saw them too when he spilled his cum inside of you, coating your walls white. He stilled, replacing the sound of your skin slapping by his addictive grunts of pleasure. Slowly, he stood up straight, careful not to his his head against the door frame. He was even more careful when you did the same, his hand protecting the back of your head.

"Well..." You chuckled, coming down from your high. "The whole point was to avoid the fireworks. Should we just cancel and drive back home?" You would be disappointed not to visit the Bed and Breakfast, but you would understand if John preferred to stay home.

The unpleasant thought of unpacking the multitude of bags you lovingly forced him to bring along crossed his mind. His lips curled into an upside-down smile. "Let's just keep driving." He glanced down at your wrinkled skirt. His hands disappeared under them to rip your panties from you as you gasped at the gesture. With a proud grin, he walked around the pickup and sat behind the wheel again.

You regained your place as the passenger princess. Your eyes were glued on John as he engaged back on the road. He pressed a button, the window on his left slid open. He stuck his hand out and, with a shit eating smirk on his face, he let them go. Your panties drifted through the wind.

He chuckled when you abruptly turned to look at the side mirror. You distinguished a drop of red on the blackness of the asphalt that blended with the sky. You scoffed in disbelief while your panties disappeared into the landscape.

John's hand regained its place on your thigh, more so between your thighs. He groaned at the soft, slick skin under his fingertips. He dragged his hand up until it reached the familiar heat of your core. "Yeah, let's just keep going."

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