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Dean Winchester x Reader | Dad's Best Friend

It all started with a text from your dad on Friday afternoon: ‘Grilling burgers Sunday, Dean’s coming over as well. Bring Mark’

You’d been bouncing around your apartment all morning because you finally got some huge news you'd been waiting on for months. You immediately showed the text to Mark, thinking a family barbecue would be the perfect place to talk about it. Mark just shrugged, eyes focused on his video game. "Yeah, sure, I guess we can go." You ignored the lack of enthusiasm because you were just too happy to care about it.

But by Sunday evening, sitting in your dad's backyard, that happy feeling was totally gone.

The yard smelled like charcoal and everyone was laughing and talking. You were sitting at the patio table, finally finding a quiet moment to bring it up. You leaned forward, a huge smile on your face.

"So I finally heard back today," you said, your voice excited. "They actually accepted it. I’ve been waiting weeks for the email, and they said my proposal was exactly what they—"

"Hey babe, where'd your dad put the bottle opener?"

Mark cut right through your sentence without even looking at you. He was digging through the cooler with his back turned.

Your smile just froze, voice going a little quiet "Oh. It’s... probably on the counter by the grill."

"Cool" Mark muttered. He grabbed a beer, popped the cap and immediately walked away to join your dad by the lawn chairs. He didn't even realize he'd left you mid-sentence.

You just sat there alone at the table, doing nothing but letting your head hang heavy staring down at your lap. Your face felt incredibly hot and you felt that total wave of embarrassment you get when you realize nobody is listening to you. You started picking at a loose thread on your jeans, trying to tell yourself it wasn't a big deal and that he was just distracted. It probaly waa nothing right?

Then you suddenly felt someone staring at you.

You looked up and caught Dean’s eye across the patio. He was leaning against the porch railing with a drink in his hand. He hadn't gone over to the grill with the other guys. He was just standing there in the dim light, his eyes locked right on you.

His jaw was tight and a little muscle was twitching in his cheek. He looked absolutely furious at Mark, but when he looked at you, his eyes were just heavy and frustrated. He didn't say anything, but you knew exactly what he was thinking. He’d been in your life forever because of your dad, always keeping his distance, but watching Mark treat you like you didn't matter was clearly pushing him to his limit.

You couldn't handle how intense his stare was, so you got up and slipped into the quiet kitchen just to breathe for a second.

A minute later, the screen door squeaked open.

You turned around thinking it was probably Mark but it wasn’t, it was Dean. He set his drink on the counter and walked over, his broad shoulders making the kitchen feel a lot smaller. He didn't bring up Mark. He just looked at you, his eyes softening up.

"Hey," Dean said, keeping his voice down so it wouldn't carry outside. "You were saying something out there. Before you got cut off."

You blinked. "Oh. It was nothing, really. Just stupid stuff."

"It wasn't nothing," Dean interrupted gently, taking a step closer. "You were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. I want to hear it. Finish your story."

The fact that he actually cared enough to ask made your throat tight. You swallowed the lump in your throat and told him everything. You explained the news and how relieved you were. Dean just stood there, completely focused on you, nodding along. When you finished, a real proud smile broke through his stubble.

"I knew you'd get it," he said softly. "You worked too hard not to."

"Thanks, Dean," you whispered, feeling a warmth in your chest that you hadn't felt in a really long time.

Later that night, Mark made some stupid joke in front of your dad about how "obsessed" and dramatic you've been about the whole thing. You didn't laugh, didn’t even smile because all you wanted was for this night to just finally end. Across the yard you saw Dean’s knuckles turn totally white around his glass.

That was it for you.

The car ride home with Mark was completely silent and the next morning you broke up with him. It wasn't a giant screaming fight, you were just done settling for someone who made you feel invisible.

Two weeks later, you dropped by your dad's garage to pick up a box you'd left behind.

You thought your dad would be there, but when you pulled open the heavy side door, it was just Dean. He was wiping grease off his hands with an old rag. He looked up, and the second he saw you, he froze.

"Hey," you said quietly, walking in. "Dad's not here?"

"Went to grab some parts," Dean said, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes scanned your face, noticing how much happier and relaxed you looked. Word travels fast in a small town; he already knew Mark and you were over.

The angry, frustrated look he always had when Mark was around was completely gone. Instead, his eyes were warm, hopeful, and incredibly patient. The old rule about him being your dad's best friend was still there, but for the first time, nothing else was standing in the way.

Dean set the rag down and walked right up to you, stopping just a few inches away. He reached out, his thumb gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering against your jaw. His skin was warm and rough, and his touch felt like a promise.

"You look good," Dean murmured, looking down into your eyes. "Like you finally know how special you are."

You smiled a little, leaning into his hand. "I think I do."

Dean's gaze softened, full of a quiet, fierce devotion. "Good. Because from now on, nobody is ever going to make you feel like an afterthought again. Especially not me.”

You stayed right there, leaning into his hand for a second before he slowly let it drop. He didn't step back, though. The whole vibe in the garage shifted. It wasn't the tense, angry silence from the barbecue anymore, but it felt thick, like neither of you knew exactly what to do next.

"I was losing my mind, you know," Dean said out of nowhere. He looked down at the grease-stained concrete for a second, shaking his head, before his eyes snapped right back to yours. "Watching him do that to you. Watching you just sit there and take it."

You swallowed hard. Hearing him say it out loud made your chest feel tight. "I didn't think anyone noticed."

"I noticed," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I always notice. It took everything I had not to pull him aside right there in your dad's yard." He let out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. "And that's the problem. That's why I've kept my distance for so long."

You blinked, a little confused. You knew Dean was protective, but the way he was looking at you right now felt different. Safer but incredibly intense. "What do you mean?"

Dean looked at you, a short completely honest laugh escaping him though he didn't look amused. "Come on. Look at me. Your dad is my best friend. He’s been like a brother to me since we were teenagers. And for years, I’ve had to sit on his porch, drink his beer and pretend like my chest doesn't ache every single time you walk into the room."

Your brain completely stalled. You just stared at him, your lips parting slightly. "Dean... what?"

"I'm serious," he murmured, stepping a little closer. You could smell the faint mix of motor oil and the cedar cologne he always wore. "I told myself a million times that it was wrong. That I was too old, that the family stuff was too messy, that I was a garbage friend just for looking at you. So I kept my mouth shut. I figured if you found a guy who actually made you happy, who treated you right I could live with it. I could force myself to just be 'uncle Dean' or whatever."

You couldn't even find your voice. Your heart was suddenly hammering against your ribs. You had spent years thinking he just saw you as his best friend's kid, a little sister type at most. To hear that he’d been carrying this around... it completely flipped everything you thought you knew.

"But then I saw how he treated you," Dean continued, his voice dropping lower, getting rougher.

He reached out, his hand sliding firmly around your waist and pulling you a step closer, erasing the space between you until your chest brushed his. His thumb hooked into the belt loop of your jeans, tugging just enough to make you look up at him.

"And I realized I don't give a damn about the rules anymore," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, deliberate second before snapping back to your eyes. "I don't care if your dad punches me in the jaw. I'll take it. I'd take a hell of a lot worse than that just to have you."

His sudden boldness made your breath hitch, the heat of his hand through your shirt sending a shiver straight down your spine. He wasn't acting like your dad's buddy anymore, he was looking at you like a man who was completely starved, done pretending and ready to take exactly what he wanted.

"I've been in love with you for a really long time," he confessed, his voice dropping to a low, rough growl that felt entirely too intimate for your dad's garage. "And if you'll let me, I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure nobody ever makes you feel small again. I'm going to show you how a real man actually handles you."

You just stood there for a second, trying to process the sheer weight of what he was saying. "He's not going to punch you," you whispered, a breathless, slightly shaky smile finally breaking through your shock. You reached up, your fingers wrapping around his forearm, feeling the hard muscle beneath his sleeve. "And even if he tries... I'll protect you."

Dean stared at you, his eyes widening just a fraction, like he hadn't actually expected you to say that. Then the last bit of tension in his shoulders completely melted.

He didn't wait another second. He leaned down, his mouth crashing onto yours with a desperation that had been building up for years. It was heavy, deep and completely breathless. Your back hit the tool bench behind you with a soft thud, and Dean immediately crowded into your space, his large hands moving up from your waist to cup your face, his thumbs wiping across your cheekbones.

A quiet gasp left your mouth at the sudden heat, and he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that made your knees go entirely weak. You tangled your fingers in the short hairs at the back of his neck, pulling him closer, completely lost in the taste of him. He tasted like mint and coffee, and the absolute intensity of how he was holding you made everything else vanish.

Dean let out a low, rough growl against your lips, his grip on your hips tightening as he lifted you just enough to sit you on the edge of the workbench. He slid his body right between your thighs, pressing you firmly against him. His lips left yours for a fraction of a second, trailing a path of burning, messy kisses down your jawline to the sensitive skin of your neck, making you arch your back and tilt your head to give him more room.

"God, you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he muttered against your skin, his breath hot and ragged as he bit gently at your pulse point before sucking the skin there, marking you in a way your ex never dared to. His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt, his rough, warm palms mapping the bare skin of your waist, making you shiver.

You pulled him back up by the collar of his jacket, needing his lips on yours again. He met you halfway, resuming the heavy, messy makeout, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours as he completely consumed you.

When he finally pulled back a few inches, his lips swollen and his hair a total mess from your fingers, his forehead rested against yours. He let out a long, ragged breath, a real, slightly dazed smile tugging at his lips.

The tool bench bit into the backs of your thighs as Dean crowded closer, his hips slotting firmly between your spread knees. You could feel the thick, rigid line of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing right where you ached most, and the realization that he was already that hard, that he’d been walking around like this for years, wanting you sent a fresh rush of heat pooling low in your stomach, soaking through your underwear.

"Dean," you breathed, and he groaned, a raw, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest. He surged forward, his mouth crashing onto yours with renewed hunger, all teeth and tongue and desperation. His hands slid down from your waist to grip the insides of your thighs, rough palms pushing them wider, spreading you open for him as he ground his hips against yours. The friction of his denim-covered cock dragging over your clit made you gasp into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his jacket.

"Fuck," he muttered against your jaw, breaking the kiss to drag his lips down your throat, his stubble burning deliciously against your skin. He bit down hard enough to mark, sucking a bruise into your neck that you’d wear for days. "You feel that? That's what you do to me. Years, sweetheart. Years of walking around with my dick hard every time you were near, jerking off in the shower like a fucking teenager thinking about this."

His fingers found the button of your jeans, popping it open with practiced ease, and you lifted your hips without thinking, letting him tug them down along with your underwear until they were caught at your knees, leaving you exposed and dripping. The cool garage air hit your wet spot but you barely registered it because Dean was staring down at you with dark, blown-pupil eyes, his jaw tight with restraint, his gaze fixed on your naked cunt.

"Christ," he whispered, his hand sliding up your inner thigh, calloused fingers brushing over sensitive skin. He dragged a single thick finger through your folds, spreading your arousal, circling your entrance but not pushing in. "Look at you. Soaked. You're dripping for me, aren't you?"

You whimpered when he finally touched your clit, his thumb pressing down with deliberate, teasing pressure, rubbing slow, maddening circles. He watched your face intently, cataloging every reaction, every shiver and gasp, like he was memorizing you. When he finally pressed two fingers inside, stretching you, you arched off the workbench with a cry that echoed in the empty garage, your heels digging into his lower back.

"That's it," he coaxed, working you with a steady, filthy rhythm, curling his fingers to hit that spot that made your vision blur. "Let me hear you. No one's here but us, and I've been dreaming about this sound, about how you'd feel wrapped around my fingers for so fucking long. You’re tighter than I imagined. Hotter. Fuck."

You reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle until he knocked your hands away, impatient, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free himself. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy and veined, the tip flushed and leaking precome, and the sight of it, Dean Winchester hard and desperate for you made your mouth water. You wrapped your hand around him and the low, wrecked groan he let out when you stroked him from base to tip, spreading the wetness over his length, was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever heard.

"Stop," he gritted out, stilling your hand with his own, his voice strained to breaking. "I'm not gonna last if you keep doing that and I need to be inside you. Need to feel you bare. Now."

He pulled his fingers from you with a filthy, wet sound that made you whimper at the loss, but then he was gripping your hips, yanking you to the edge of the bench until your ass was barely on the surface, positioning the thick head of his cock at your entrance. He dragged it through your folds, coating himself in your arousal, teasing your clit with the tip until you were shaking, begging, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough, dangerous. You locked eyes with him, dark brown to yours, blown wide with lust and he pushed in.

The stretch burned, thick and invasive and perfect and you both groaned in unison as he sank in to the hilt, filling you completely, stretching you around him until you felt impossibly full. He paused for a second, his forehead dropping to yours, his breathing ragged against your lips, his cock throbbing inside you.

"Fuck, you're tight," he ground out, his hips jerking involuntarily, seeking friction. "So fucking warm. You okay? Can you take it?"

"Don't stop," you managed, your nails digging into his shoulders through his jacket, leaving marks. "Dean, please…fuck me. I need you to fuck me."

He didn't need more encouragement. He pulled back until just the tip was inside, then slammed back in, hard and deep, the force of it shoving you back against the tool bench, sending screwdrivers and wrenches clattering to the concrete floor. He set a brutal, relentless pace, pounding into you with the force of years of denial, each thrust hitting deep, his hips snapping against yours with wet, filthy sounds.

The garage filled with the raw, animal sounds of it, skin slapping skin, his low guttural grunts, your broken desperate moans and the obscene wet sound of his cock driving into you again and again, your arousal dripping down your thighs, coating him until he was slick with it.

He grabbed your legs, pushing them wider, folding you nearly in half as he changed the angle, hitting that spot inside you that made white-hot sparks explode behind your eyelids. "Touch yourself," he ordered, his voice strained, commanding. "Rub that pretty clit for me. I wanna feel you come on my cock, wanna feel you squeeze me when you break. Do it. Now."

Your hand slipped between your bodies, your fingers finding your swollen clit and circling frantically, the dual sensation of him filling you, stretching you and your own touch sending you racing toward the edge. Dean watched you, his pupils blown wide, his lips parted, sweat beading on his forehead as he snapped his hips harder, faster, chasing his own release, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.

"That's my girl," he growled, the possessiveness in his tone sending you over the edge. "Come for me. Come on my cock like the good girl you are."

You cried out his name as you came, your body tightening around him in violent waves, your back arching off the bench, your vision whiting out. He kept fucking you through it, using your orgasm to chase his own, the added tightness making him groan like he was dying, and when he finally buried himself deep one last time and spilled inside you, filling you with hot, thick pulses, the sound he made was raw and broken and entirely yours, your name torn from his throat like a prayer.

He collapsed forward, catching himself on his elbows to keep from crushing you, his face buried in your neck, his chest heaving. You could feel his heart hammering against your ribs, matching the frantic, wild rhythm of your own, his cock still twitching inside you, keeping you full.

"Shit," he breathed, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your sweat-dampened skin, his tongue tasting the salt there. "Shit sweetheart, you okay? Did I hurt you?"

You laughed, breathless and giddy and wrecked, your fingers threading through his hair, holding him close. "I'm perfect. Don't pull out yet. I want to feel you."

He groaned, nipping at your collarbone. "Fuck. You're gonna kill me."

He stayed inside you for long minutes, softening slowly, his hands roaming your body with reverent, gentle touches that contrasted sharply with the violence of moments before. When he finally pulled out, you felt the warm spill of him dripping down your thighs, and the filthy intimacy of it made you shiver.

He found a rag on the bench, grease-stained but clean enough and pressed it between your legs, his touch tender now as he cleaned you up, his eyes soft with something that looked dangerously like worship. When you were both put back together, mostly, he pulled you into his arms again, lifting you off the bench and settling you on his lap on the concrete floor, his back against the tool cabinet, his chin resting on top of your head as you listened to the distant sound of crickets outside the garage door.

"We're gonna have to tell your dad," he said quietly, his hand stroking up and down your back, possessive and steady.

You nodded against his chest, still feeling the aftershocks ripple through you. "I know."

"He's gonna be pissed."

"He'll get over it." You tilted your head up to look at him, your lips swollen, your hair a mess. "Will you?"

Dean smiled, that rare, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, his hand cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your kiss-bitten lower lip. "I’m not letting you go," he said, his voice rough with emotion. Not now…Not ever. You're mine now."

He kissed you again, slower this time, deep and claiming, like he was sealing the promise with his tongue. And for the first time in years, you believed it.