Dean, on the other hand, looks perfectly fine. His cheeks are flushed a light pink, but other than that, he looks like the cold can’t touch him in the slightest. It’s infuriating, actually, but it’s to be expected. Dean ‘I run hot’ Winchester was not lying. His leather jacket is wrapped around your shoulders, leaving him in just a flannel and t-shirt, and he’s even got the sleeves on the flannel rolled half-way up his forearms.

He catches you glaring at him in the rearview mirror, sending you an exaggerated wink that has you rolling your eyes.

“What?” he drawls, twisting around in his seat to look at you.

“Can’t believe you’re not cold,” you mutter under your breath.

He smirks. “I already told you, sweetheart, I run-.”

“You run hot, yeah. I know,” you finish for him.

Dean’s hand comes over the seat, squeezing your thigh gently.

“Hey, we’ll be fine. Sam’ll be comin’ back soon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you know this how, exactly?”

He winces, knowing you caught his bluff.

“Wish we could’ve gone in all three of us, ‘s all,” you add, turning your attention back to your book.

“Me too, sweetheart. Me too. Can’t let lore boy have all the fun, can we?”

That wrangles a tiny smile out of you, and Dean grins like he’s just won the lottery. You avert your eyes back to reading the cramped lines of text and scrawled notes in the margins of John’s hunting journal. Sam’s a lucky bastard, you think as you read. The library seems to be the only warm place open in the whole town today, meaning every single person was in it. They’d only had capacity for one more, so the three of you mutually agreed that Sam would be the most efficient.

You’re regretting it now, the icy air biting at your exposed skin. You tuck Dean’s jacket tighter around you and shiver, goosebumps crawling up your arm. You start rubbing your hand up and down on your arm, and if you concentrate hard enough, you can almost convince yourself it’s working. Apparently, the rustle of fabric is frustrating Dean, because he opens his car door and steps out.

“Where are you going?” you shout after him, the door slamming shut before he turns and opens yours.

“Here,” he says cheekily.

“Close the door, Dean. ‘S freezing.”

He shuts the door with a little too much force, shaking his hand to get the tingles out of it. Dean slides down the bench until he’s mostly pressed against your side, head snaking over your shoulder to peek at your journal.

“Whatcha readin’ ‘bout?” he says in a sing-song voice.

You shoot him a glare, and he grins. “Your dad’s journal.”

“Yeah, I know that. I asked what you’re readin' about.”

You make a non-committal motion with your hand. “Dunno. Anything I can find that makes any damn sense?”

Dean hums, sliding closer. “Whatcha lookin’ at right now?”

You sigh, flipping a page back and pointing to a crudely drawn picture of a wraith. “That. Think it might be one of these.”

He frowns, taking the journal from you and examining it. You squawk indigently, but his eyes have focused on the page you were reading. His tongue pokes between his teeth just a little, and you can’t help but think it’s cute. Kind of like the tongues on cats when they finish drinking water or when you scratch them in that perfect spot behind the ears.

“So, what’s the verdict? Wraith?” you ask.

“What?”

“Wraith. Yes or no?”

“Yeah, probably.”

You raise an eyebrow again, thoroughly unimpressed. “Why do I get the feeling you don’t really care?”

Dean shrugs, kissing your forehead before sliding away from you and laying down on the seat, sprawling himself across the bench.

“Sammy’s searchin’. We don’t gotta do anythin’," he says, exaggerated as he stretches.

You tuck up into the corner, back jammed between the seat and the door. It’s not perfectly comfortable, and the metal is cold on your back, but you know Dean isn’t set on leaving you here. Not when he’s got that childish twinkle in his eyes that says he’s either about to do something extremely stupid, or extremely endearing.

“Dean,” you warn. “We’re working.”

“I know.” He rolls dramatically onto his back, staring at the roof of the car and stretching his arms up to touch it. “I don’t really care.”

You shrug your shoulders helplessly. “Why not?”

He twists his head around, craning his neck uncomfortably to stare at you. “’Cause I don’t want to.”

You swat at his head, and he ducks away from your attacks.

“Be nice to me," he whines.

“I am nice to you. You’re distracting me,” you complain.

He seems to realize that he has been and sits up properly on the opposite end of the bench as you. He hands the journal back to you, watching you get comfy in the space he’s vacated. Dean’s basically radiating warmth, and given that he’s so close to you, you’re already starting to warm up yourself. The beginnings of a smile work their way across Dean’s face, and you note the way it softens as it grows. Maybe his goal was just to warm you up after all.

You stretch your legs out on the bench, poking Dean with your shoe covered feet and pushing him even further into the corner. It’s a mostly unconscious maneuver, but now that you’re aware you’re doing it, it’s a little bit fun.

“Aw, c’mon, why’re you doin’ that?” Dean whines, swatting your feet away for the hundredth time.

“You were bugging me. I’m bugging you.”

He scowls, launching himself forward onto you not unlike the cat you’ve compared him to before. The air gets punched out of your lungs, and you laugh weakly as he shimmies himself around.

“What’s this about?” you tease, kissing the tip of his nose.

“You’re bein’ annoying,” he grumbles.

You run a hand through his hair, and he melts into you like butter in a hot pan. Completely boneless, like gravity decided to pull him against you and lay him out like a shag carpet.

“Am I?” you say softly, lowering your voice for his sake.

You’re calling his bluff before he even has a chance to push it too far. He gets like this when he’s tired; a little bit more annoying, a little bit whinier, a hell of a lot clingier. If he doesn’t have anyone to tell him off (Sam), he’ll drape himself over you wherever you are. Coincidentally, a lot like the cats he’s unfortunately allergic to.

“Mhm.”

He’s already drifting a little, his warmth soaking into you. You shuffle down the seat so you’re lying flat on your back. Dean has to fold a little bit to fit, those stupid long legs of his half-hanging off the seat, but he’s comfortable enough. You take off his leather jacket, balling it up and putting it under your head like a pillow.

“When’s Sam coming back?” you murmur.

Dean shrugs, grumbling something about how he could be years, I dunno. You chuckle, hoping Sam comes back in time to see his brother completely soft and pliable under your touch. Dean’s pride would never recover, but it would be funny.

You prop the journal up on Dean’s back, adjusting constantly to make sure his deepening breathing doesn’t disrupt your research. The minutes bleed together as you read, and you barely notice the snow starting to come down on the town outside the frosted car windows. With Dean laying on you, you barely even notice the chill.

Eventually, as the afternoon starts to bleed away into evening, the words on the pages you’re reading aren’t sticking in your brain anymore. They’re blurring together in new ways, merging so badly you could make your own language out of them. You close the journal, marking your page, and set it on the ground.

Hands freed, you rest them in Dean’s hair. You start moving them in slow circles, brushing through the dusty brown strands of his hair and gently massaging his scalp. He hums, the sound like rough gravel, melting infinitely deeper into your embrace. It’s almost pathetic if it weren’t so damn adorable; his big bad hunter façade completely leaves his body when you lay your hands on him.

In another life, you’re cozied up on your couch, in your very safe house, very unaware of the supernatural things outside your door. You’ve got Dean with you, but instead of lying chest down across your body, he’s curled up beside you. Maybe you’ve convinced him a cat is required, despite his frequent complaints, and maybe that cat is curled up in your lap right now. Your hand rubbing it on the head between the ears, its little paws tucked around you, purring softly.

That sounds too real. Something’s not right about this picture. You freeze, half-awake, distinguishing your daydreams from reality. No cat, no house. Dean’s here, and so is the purring.

When it finally clicks, your mouth opens slightly, an amused ‘o’ on your lips. The sound is coming from Dean. He’s sort of snoring; not a proper one, but not something you can confidently say is just an inhale. It’s kind of soft, actually, the way he’s letting himself dissolve into the warmth of the car. It melts something in your soul to know that he trusts you enough to let his guard down, even when he’s working a hunt. At this point, he’s too far gone to even care who comes in and sees him.

Which is great, because Sam’s back. He slides into the passenger seat, freezing for a second and looking around when he doesn’t see you or Dean. Craning his neck and twisting his upper body, his gaze lands on you in the backseat, Dean spread out across you.

“Aren’t you two cozy,” he deadpans.

“I’m being suffocated,” you tease.

“I’m sure. He doesn’t have a good concept of personal space.”

“I heard that,” Dean grumbles.

Sam stifles a laugh in the sleeve of his jacket. “You wanna head back to the motel then?”

Dean mutters something about how he’s getting up soon, but when he doesn’t move a muscle, you answer for him.

“Yeah, Sam. Might as well. ‘S warmer in there anyways.”

Sam hums in agreement. “Thought so.”

He slides into the driver’s seat before turning to you once again. “You find anything?”

You nod, pointing to the general location of John’s journal on the floor of the car. “I have some ideas. You?”

He nods excitedly. “So, get this. Turns out we are dealing with a wraith.”

You smile to yourself, having already made that conclusion, and gesture for him to continue.

“Apparently, one of the hospital patients said she remembers seeing a specific doctor come in to see her earlier in the week. Then, three days later, she says the same exact doctor came to see her again, acting like it was the first time. After that? Chance brush of a hand when she drops something, creepy face in the mirror, then everything goes all Girl, Interrupted.”

“Nice work, Sam,” you say, at the exact same time Dean says, “You talk too much.”

Sam and you exchange a look, bursting into laughter that makes Dean groan. You apologize with a light kiss to Dean’s lips, and he settled down again as Sam pulls the car out of the lot and back toward the motel. Dean’s knocked out by the time you get there, the steady hum of the road under the Impala’s tires making a perfect white noise for him. He’s not happy about being woken when you pull into the parking lot, making a show of groaning and complaining as he stretches.

“What, did we ruin your catnap?” you tease as you pull him out of the car.

“I was not havin' a catnap,” he complains.

“You absolutely were,” you reply.

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Was not.”

“Dude, you totally were. You were snoring when I came back in,” Sam chimes in after unlocking the door.

“I don’t snore, Sammy. Don’t spread lies about me.”

“Yes, you do. You talk in your sleep sometimes, too,” you finish defiantly.

You and Dean follow Sam into the motel room, arguing the whole way to bed about whether or not he snores, and whether the things he talks about in his sleep are “sexy and awesome”. You and Dean collapse on one bed, Sam takes the other, and when everyone’s settled again, it doesn’t take long to fall asleep. The motel room isn’t cold, and you have the deep breathing of both brothers to listen to and help lull you to sleep.

josie martins, head of accounts and owner of the kind of handshake that makes you instinctively sit straighter, asked about previous experience, client communication, conflicting priorities, confidentiality, what you do when three people mark three different tasks urgent.

she also asked about vought. you told her what you could, which… wasn’t much. 

short-term communications assignment. confidential client. contract concluded earlier than anticipated. 

her eyebrow had risen at the word concluded, but she hadn’t pushed after you mentioned the nondisclosure agreement. thank god for legally enforceable silence.

now you stand outside her glass office holding your bag against your ribs and attempting not to replay every answer until you convince yourself you accidentally admitted to a felony.

someone clears their throat nearby. you look up. ian stands on the opposite side of the open office with a camera hanging from one hand and a coffee in the other.

he doesn’t wave. doesn’t grin like an idiot. doesn’t announce to the thirty people working around him that approximately thirty-six hours ago you woke up wearing his shirt.

he only raises his eyebrows. well?

you grimace. his mouth twitches.

then josie’s door opens behind you. “can you come back in?”

your stomach drops. ian takes one deliberately calm sip of coffee. unhelpful. you return to the office.

josie doesn’t make you sit this time. “you interview well.”

your shoulders relax by a fraction. “thank you.”

“your experience is slightly unconventional…”

that’s one word for it.

“but useful.” she closes your résumé. “i’m not prepared to offer you a permanent contract based on this conversation and a recommendation from someone whose primary qualification for hiring decisions is knowing which lens to use.”

you bite the inside of your cheek. 

josie continues. “what i can offer right now is one week under a paid trial starting tomorrow. same hours as the coordinator role, full rate. friday afternoon we decide whether it becomes a three-month probationary contract.”

it takes a second for the words to arrange themselves correctly. “paid?”

her expression barely changes. “yes.”

“right. sorry. obviously.”

“you’ve had unusual employers?”

“of sorts.”

that gets the smallest trace of amusement. “tomorrow, nine am.”

you nod before she can reconsider. “i’ll be here.”

—-

you’re sixteen minutes early.

ian’s already at his desk. he looks up when you step through reception in trousers, blouse, blazer, laptop bag, and the expression of someone prepared to defend their right to employment through hand-to-hand combat.

“morning,” he says. professional. casual.

you give him a small nod as you walk past. “morning.”

your phone buzzes before you reach the temporary desk they’ve assigned you. you don’t turn around.

ian: terrifying. you: employed. ian: temporarily. you: blocked.

when you finally glance across the office, he’s smiling into his monitor. asshole.

by tuesday afternoon, you’ve learned that agency work is simply corporate panic decorated with better furniture and people dressed casually cool.

the office has exposed brick, hanging plants, standing desks, two dogs that apparently belong to nobody and everybody, and a kitchen stocked with eleven varieties of tea.

none of this changes the fundamental truth that everyone needs something immediately. 

a restaurant campaign is three days behind because the client approved the wrong menu photography. a beauty brand decides at eleven-forty that the product launch scheduled for four needs “more energy.” one account manager schedules two client calls in the same meeting room at the same time and somehow looks at you as though architecture caused the problem personally.

you fix it. then another thing. then another.

you build a tracker because the existing one appears designed by someone actively hostile toward spreadsheets. you colour-code deadlines. you chase two missing approvals. you move a photoshoot without losing the studio booking. you catch a typo in fifteen thousand printed menu inserts eleven minutes before the files go to production.

josie says: “good catch.” two words. you carry them around for the rest of the day like an employee-of-the-month plaque.

ian behaves himself. 

inside the office, he treats you exactly as he treats everyone else. he asks for updated schedules. you remind him a client approved the revised shot list. he tells you studio three is running twenty minutes late. you tell him that sounds like a photographer problem. 

nobody looks twice. you’re beginning to suspect he enjoys that just as much as you do. 

tuesday evening, the elevator doors close on an empty lobby and his hand immediately settles at your waist. “hi.”

you laugh. “you saw me six minutes ago.”

“i was working.”

“you’re still at work.”

“no cameras. no eyes.” he glances dramatically toward the ceiling. “we might be stuck in here forever.”

“ian—” 

he kisses you before the elevator reaches the ground floor.

your laugh gets caught somewhere between your mouths. his hand slides around your back, drawing you closer until your laptop bag is awkwardly trapped between your bodies and you have to push him away long enough to rescue it.

outside, you discover you’re heading toward the same train station. then the same platform. then the same line.

“are you following me?” you ask.

“you’re the one who showed up at my workplace.”

“you got me the interview.”

the train arrives crowded enough that you have to stand. ian catches the overhead rail with one hand and keeps the other loosely at your hip whenever the carriage jerks, more practical than possessive. at least initially.

three stops later, there’s enough space for you both to lean against the doors. five stops later, you’re kissing again. his mouth against yours while the train rattles beneath your feet, your fingers hooked lightly into the front of his jacket, both of you smiling whenever the automated announcement interrupts.

when your stop arrives, he follows you onto the platform despite his being two stations later.

“wrong stop,” you point out.

“i know.”

“why are you getting off?”

“walking you out.”

your eyebrows lift. “you know i’ve successfully travelled alone before.”

“heard rumors.”

he walks you to street level anyway. then kisses your cheek and heads back underground to catch the next train. 

idiot. 

you smile the whole way home.

on wednesday, you discover the back stairwell receives no traffic after lunch. not because you were looking. not at all. it begins because he corners you beside the printer twenty minutes earlier and quietly tells you there’s ink on your cheek.

you wipe the wrong side.

“other one.”

you try again.

“still there.”

“then help me.”

his thumb brushes across your cheek. it lingers.

you look at him. he looks at you.

then someone walks past carrying three presentation boards, and both of you separate so quickly it would be suspicious if anyone had been paying attention.

five minutes later, your phone buzzes.

ian: stairwell. you: absolutely not. ian: coward.

afterward, your lipstick is slightly ruined and ian looks much too pleased with himself.

“this is a terrible idea. i’m on trial here.”

“i know.” his amusement fades just slightly. “how’s it going?”

the change catches you. “fine.”

“fine?”

“good, actually.”

“josie still terrifying?”

“less terrifying. she said ‘good catch’ yesterday.”

ian’s face brightens as though he received the compliment. “see? told you you’d be good at this.”

something warm presses beneath your ribs. you cover it by straightening the collar you messed up. “you barely knew what i did when you recommended me.”

“knew enough.”

that evening, you can’t see him. you have laundry, a half-empty refrigerator, three personal emails you’ve ignored since monday, and approximately four pages new things about agency workflow you want to memorize before morning.

ian doesn’t complain.

at nine-thirty, while you’re sitting cross-legged on your bed with your laptop open and clean clothes forming several increasingly theoretical piles around you, your phone rings.

“hello?”

“how’d the beauty launch go?”

you smile immediately. “you’re calling me about work?”

“i’m invested.”

you laugh and fold a shirt. he asks about the restaurant campaign next. then the hotel deck. then whether the account manager ever apologized for double-booking the meeting room. the conversation wanders. work becomes dinner. dinner becomes the documentary he’s pretending to watch instead of falling asleep.

when you eventually look at the time, it’s nearly eleven.

“you have to sleep,” he says.

“you called me.”

“and now i’m responsibly ending the call.”

“how mature.”

“you’re welcome.”

you lie back against the pillows. “night, ian.”

he laughs softly. “goodnight.”

on thursday, the train happens again. 

this time neither of you pretends it’s accidental. he waits near the station entrance after work, camera bag slung across one shoulder.

“thought you had your own route,” you taunt as he falls into step with you.

“better company this way.”

“two extra stops.”

“worth it.”

you roll your eyes. you go with him anyway.

there’s nowhere to sit, so you stand near the back of the carriage. his fingers link loosely through yours where nobody from work can see. you’re beginning to like that too. the quiet separation. office and outside. professional and whatever this is becoming.

by the time you reach his stop instead of yours, neither of you bothers pretending the decision was accidental. you end up in his apartment again. then his bed.

the sex is good. really good. the kind that leaves you laughing breathlessly when your knee knocks painfully against the headboard, only for ian to kiss the spot as though that somehow fixes anything. the kind where neither of you’s trying to prove anything. hands everywhere, mouths everywhere, your clothes disappearing somewhere between the hallway and bedroom for the second time in less than a week.

afterward, you lie diagonally across his mattress while he searches for your missing earring.

“you sure you wore two?”

you lift your head. “yes.”

“could’ve arrived asymmetrical.”

“i did not arrive asymmetrical.”

“fashion’s weird.”

“find my earring.”

he eventually discovers it caught inside his bedsheet. you celebrate like he’s solved a homicide.

you don’t stay the night this time because friday matters too much.

when you start collecting your clothes, ian doesn’t pout or make some suggestive argument for staying. he only tosses you your bra from the end of the bed.

“when josie gives you the contract tomorrow, dinner’s on me.”

you pause halfway through fastening it. “if she gives me the contract.”

“when.”

“you’re very confident for someone with no hiring authority.”

“i have excellent instincts.”

“you take photos of shampoo bottles.”

“and look how good they come out.”

you laugh.

at your apartment door later, he kisses you slowly enough that you almost reconsider the whole responsible-sleep decision. almost.

“go,” you mumble against his mouth.

“you’re kicking me out?”

“i need sleep.”

“responsible.”

“disgusting, isn’t it?”

he kisses you once more. he doesn’t ask to come inside. you like that too.

friday morning, your phone buzzes while you’re walking from the station toward the agency.

ian: big day. you: please don’t say that. ian: terrifyingly competent day. you: worse. ian: dinner tonight.

you stare at the message.

you: confident.

the reply comes before you reach the building.

ian: rooting for you.

your steps slow for half a second. then you lock your phone and walk inside, exhausted but hopeful. which is considerably more dangerous. 

your trial ends at five. josie hasn’t said anything. you tell yourself that’s normal. she has meetings. clients. forty-seven unread emails. your employment status doesn’t qualify as the defining event of her afternoon.

still, every time her office door opens, your spine straightens.

at eleven, she asks you to proof a presentation deck. nothing glamorous. a hotel group launching a summer campaign whose entire brand identity appears to consist of white linen, infinity pools, and women laughing beside fruit they have no intention of eating.

you check dates. spelling. image credits. make sure the campaign launch doesn’t somehow occur three days before the scheduled photography. you catch one wrong photographer credit and a slide where the client’s own name is misspelled.

josie says, “send the corrections to nora.” you do.

by twelve-thirty, you’re back to chasing approvals and trying not to check the clock every six minutes.

five o’clock. that’s all you need to survive until.

at one-seventeen, nora appears beside your desk with her laptop pressed against her chest and the expression of someone who’s already mentally moved onto the next emergency. “the riverside shoot moved.”

you blink. “to when?”

“tuesday. the client wants the outdoor shots before the weather changes.”

you pull up the production schedule. “the studio’s booked tuesday.”

“not studio. location.”

“right…” you scroll. “the photographer’s available, but hair and makeup still has wednesday.”

“move them.”

“the client approved?”

“yes.”

“in writing?”

nora’s already looking at her phone. “they approved it on the call. just get everyone updated before somebody books over us.”

then she’s gone. you stare after her. the client folder still shows the original date. no revised approval email.

you message nora.

you: do we have written confirmation for tuesday before i move vendors?

three minutes pass. nothing. five. you check the weather report attached to the project. rain starts wednesday afternoon. the photographer’s coordinator emails asking whether they should release the tentative tuesday hold.

you look toward nora’s desk. empty. you call her. voicemail.

great.

you could wait. you probably should. but then the hold disappears and the shoot stays on wednesday and everyone spends next week complaining that nobody moved fast enough when the client explicitly asked them to.

you’ve spent four days being praised for solving problems before they become problems. so you solve this one. you confirm tuesday with the photographer. move hair and makeup. notify catering. update the location call sheet. send the revised schedule internally.

then, because you aren’t completely reckless, you leave the client off the email until nora can confirm the wording.

done.

twenty-three minutes later, nora returns. “why did glam just email me about tuesday?”

your stomach dips. “because you said the client approved the move.”

“they approved us checking availability.”

you stare at her. “you said they approved it.”

“i said they wanted it moved.”

“you literally said yes when i asked if the client approved.”

nora closes her eyes. “fuck.”

your stomach drops further. “what?”

“they haven’t approved the revised production fee.”

you look back at your screen—the photographer, hair and makeup, catering. all moved.

“can we reverse it?”

“photographer released wednesday when you confirmed tuesday.”

oh.

nora’s already typing. “okay. don’t touch anything else.”

“i can call—”

“don’t.” that lands harder than it should. 

she walks toward josie’s office. you remain at your desk.

the clock in the corner of your monitor reads 1:56. three hours and four minutes until your trial ends. 

the fallout takes forty-eight minutes. exactly five more minutes than your interview had lasted.

the photographer can move back to wednesday, but only by shifting another booking. hair and makeup no longer can’t. the location requires a change fee. the client is irritated because they received three separate vendor notifications about a date they hadn’t approved yet.

nobody dies. nobody loses the account. but money gets attached to your mistake. which is generally the moment corporate forgiveness develops limitations.

at three-oh-eight, josie appears beside your desk. “come with me.”

you follow her toward the quieter corridor behind the meeting rooms. 

the main office feels different now. more people moving through reception. unfamiliar suits. security badges that don’t belong to the agency. you barely register them. your attention is entirely occupied by the woman stopping in front of you with her arms folded.

“tell me what happened.”

you do. all of it. nora’s instruction. the verbal approval. your message asking for written confirmation. the photographer’s expiring hold. your decision to move the vendors rather than lose availability.

josie listens without interrupting. when you finish, she asks, “did you have client approval?”

“i believed i did.”

“did you have it documented?”

“no.”

“then you didn’t have it.”

your jaw tightens. “nora told me they approved.”

“nora told you they wanted the date moved.”

“she said yes when i specifically asked if it was approved.”

“and when you asked whether there was written confirmation?”

“she didn’t answer.”

josie gives you a look and you decide then that nora is a fucking bitch. you already know what comes next. “which should’ve been your answer.”

the words land with irritating familiarity. protocol. approval. consequences. apparently every job on earth has conspired to teach you the same lesson until you die.

“if i’d waited, we could’ve lost the photographer.”

“then we would’ve told the client the photographer was no longer available.”

“and they would’ve been pissed.”

“yes.” josie’s voice remains calm. “the difference is one version costs us a change fee we didn’t authorize.”

you press your lips together. she isn’t wrong. you hate that. “i was trying to fix it.”

josie exhales and looks toward the open office. “you’ve done very well this week.”

your stomach twists. that sentence has never once ended well.

“but the point of a trial period is judgment. not just whether you can do the work.”

you stare at her. “so that’s it?”

“i can’t offer the probationary contract.”

you let out a small breath through your nose. almost a laugh. of course. of fucking course. “one mistake.”

“one mistake during a one-week trial.”

“after four days of doing everything else with excellence."

“yes.”

your throat tightens. “nora gave me the instruction.”

“and nora has already been spoken to.”

“but she keeps her job.”

josie’s expression hardens slightly. “nora isn’t on trial.”

there it is. simple. practical. completely unfair and somehow still understandable.

you look away before your face can give you away. “right.”

“i’m sorry.”

“please don’t.”

josie stops. you’ve heard enough apologies from people who remain employed while explaining why you aren’t.

“i’ll have payroll include today and the vendor correction hours. you’ll still receive the full trial rate.”

you reach for the temporary badge clipped to your waistband.

your fingers have barely touched it when movement at the far end of the corridor catches your eye. security first—black uniforms moving through the agency with the careful, overprepared posture you recognize immediately.

then two vought representatives. then a woman carrying a tablet whom you’ve never met but could identify as a liaison from fifty feet away by the particular expression of professionally managed exhaustion.

and between them—oh, you have got to be fucking kidding.

soldier boy. full suit. green armor fitted across his shoulders. shield against one arm. every inch of him polished into the same impossible american icon you watched selling trucks from ian’s kitchen less than a week ago.

he’s talking to one of the vought representatives. then his eyes move and find you. he stops.

the woman beside him takes another two steps before realizing he’s no longer following.

your hand remains frozen against your badge. soldier boy’s gaze flicks down to it. then to josie. then back to you.

“what’re you doing here?” 

you blink. “working.”

his brows pull together. “here?”

before you can answer, josie steps forward. professional instinct takes over immediately. “sir, welcome. i’m josie martins, head of accounts. we’re very excited to—”

he barely looks at her. “you work here?”

josie glances at you. “she was completing a trial period.”

was. soldier boy catches it immediately. his eyes narrow. “was?”

your stomach sinks.

“mr. soldier boy,” josie intervenes, “i’m sorry for the interruption. she was actually just finishing up with us. if you’ll follow me, the vought presentation is ready and—”

“finishing up?”

you close your eyes for half a second. the whole office is staring now.

josie seems to realize too late that she’s provided precisely the wrong information. “she was already being escorted—”

“i want her.”

your eyes open. soldier boy hasn’t looked away from you.

somewhere beyond the glass wall separating the corridor from the creative floor, conversations begin dying one by one.

josie blinks. “i’m sorry?”

“on my team.”

the liaison behind him goes visibly rigid. 

one of the vought representatives clears his throat. “soldier boy, personnel decisions are handled between vought and the agency after—”

his gaze stays fixed on yours. your fingers are still curled around the badge you were about to surrender.

josie tries again. “we can certainly discuss staffing once the account has been formally awarded, but she isn’t currently part of the permanent—”

“then make her permanent.”

your stomach performs something unpleasant.

“that isn’t quite how—”

“i don’t give a shit how it works.”

he steps closer. not toward josie. toward you. only enough that the entire corridor seems to understand who he’s speaking to even when his next words are directed at everyone else.

“if she’s not on my team, i sign with another agency.”

the office goes silent.

through the glass, you catch ian standing beside his desk, camera still hanging from one hand. he looks from soldier boy to you, confusion slowly replacing whatever expression had been there before. wonderful.

josie hasn’t answered. neither has anyone from vought. 

soldier boy doesn’t seem particularly concerned as he’s still looking at you.

your fingers loosen around the badge. a minute ago, you were unemployed again. now one of the biggest clients this agency has ever had is threatening to walk unless you stay.

you should probably feel relieved. mostly, you want to strangle him.

it’s been almost a week since you last saw him. almost a week since his mouth was on yours, his fingers beneath your clothes, his offended face disappearing behind your apartment door with a carton of fries shoved against his chest.

you’d thought that was it. a stupid, heated thing that happened off the clock and could stay there.

apparently, he’s taken your termination as more of a scheduling conflict.

"Deannnn.." You threw your head back as his big hands clamped around your thighs, moving your body back and forth for you. When you didn't argue or try to take back control, he used that to slide his tongue into your hole, swallowing every bit of your essence. The tip of his nose bumped your clit ever so slightly, sending a sudden wave of pleasure through you. "That's it, good girl, mhm.." He hummed against you, the vibration making you squirm in his hold. "Close, 'm so close, baby-" Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging at the strands and scratching his scalp. He groaned at the pressure, his tongue pressing against your nub before his lips wrapped around it, sucking hard. You came undone on his tongue in seconds, back arched and head thrown back with a scream of his name. His fingers dug into the plush of your thighs as he held you through your climax, gently easing you from your high with tiny kitten-licks to your sopping hole.

"Fuck, what a meal," He huffed as he helped lift you away from his face. His arms instinctively opened for you as you settled against him, head on his chest as his heartbeat drummed against your ear. In Dean's life, there were two things he couldn't go without — Pie and your sweet pussy.

He turns his head, slowly. You’re lying on your side, back turned to him. Naked back turned to him. Dean needs to swallow. For a second, he was sure it was a dream – it wouldn’t be the first one he’s had about you. But it’s not. You’re there.

He feels a goofy grin spread on his face as he rolls over to you, slings his arm over you. His lips find your neck, the one he kissed yesterday for the first time, the one he saw stretched in ecstasy. His cock immediately salutes that memory, twitching at it.

His lips are already running over your soft skin when you begin moving, stretching your muscles, rolling your shoulders. You’re warm and soft and good all over and Dean pulls you closer immediately.

“Hey,” you say, voice sounding groggy and Dean moves his lips up to the edge of your jaw. He can smell your hair where you lay on it in the night, the faintest trace of sweat from the time the two of you spent intertwined. You went to the bathroom to clean yourself after, a first wipe with some tissues to get most of his come out of you only a temporary solution. But Dean didn’t want to let you go. He held on to you, arms wrapped around you, just like he is now, except last night he was facing you. You were straddling him and the thought that you wouldn’t be was too much to bear.

He doesn’t know himself like this. This whipped. He’s been after you for a good while and when you realized you were snowed in a couple of days ago, it’s definitely not like this isn’t exactly what he was hoping for. But there’s a giddiness in his chest, a levity that freaks him out a little, yet he can’t help himself running towards it.

Just like he can’t resist moving his arm away from you, only to sneak it under the heavy blanket covering both of you and run his hand over your waist all the way to your inner thigh, your perfect, soft, warm inner thigh that he had the pleasure of getting to kiss last night.

You were cooking, making dinner and drinking a little, and Dean’s not sure what made that night that night, but you implied that you were tired of waiting on him to make a move. He replied that he’d been hesitant to do anything more, seeing as you were both stuck here, reluctant to make this whole thing more Misery than Manhattan. You grinned a smile at him that was heavy with meaning.

“Clever,” you said and that was that.

Last night, you’d told Dean, sitting at the kitchen table with him at the stove, that he had a nice butt. You’re a nice butt, his brain unhelpfully offered, actually getting him flustered. Him. Flustered. How was this happening?

You turn your head towards him now, eyes still squinting from recent sleep, yet still you manage go give him that look like you’re trying to figure out how he works, what makes him tick. It makes Dean’s heart beat a little faster to have you look at him like that. Plenty of people look at him. He knows he’s pretty enough for it to be fun. But there’s something different about how you do it.

Dean moves enough so that he can kiss your lips. He should slow down. He really should. What if this was a one off for you? Except you told him yesterday that you’d been waiting on him for a while. Surely that means this is more for you too, right? Still, he should calm down, give you a moment to breathe. But it’s difficult, with that perfect mouth right there in front of him, those lips he wants to suck on.

You’ve been here for two days, and it’s been a challenge. When you realized you were snowed in that morning, the weather forecast saying it would get warmer again in a couple of days, it felt exciting. Like what Dean imagines snow days at school would have felt like if he’d gone often enough for them to matter. He doesn’t really feel that way, usually. Oh, he always gets excited at the prospect of sex, but it doesn’t do this to him, whatever this is.

It's you, that’s all he knows. Dean’s bedded more women than he can count, a fact that some days makes him feel like a full man and others makes him feel like a pathetic low life. Dean does that, oscillate between thinking he’s the best thing since sliced bread and an absolute piece of shit. And hitting on a woman, making her push out her chest, flutter her eyelids at him, usually that makes him land on the green side of the fence for a while.

He's been trying it on you. The small smile where he pushes his tongue against his teeth. Looking down, then up, a move more or less subconsciously inspired by imagining what he’d look like making eye contact with you from between your legs. Lifting heavy things right in front of you, really heavy things. It didn’t seem to affect you, or not the way he wanted it to, at least. And what’s worse is, you threw him these looks every time he did it that made him feel like you knew exactly what he was doing, and found it amusing. Amusing. The goal was to have you throw yourself at him. Not to amuse you.

He kisses you again, a little softer this time, feels you smile against him. He pulls back a little, looks at you. Your hair’s ruffled and there’s a big pillow crease on the side of your face, and Dean doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier.

“Good morning,” he says and you chuckle.

“I thought you weren’t a morning person,” you reply, rubbing a hand over your face to get the last of the sleep off it, before turning back to him. It makes Dean’s hand, which has found its way to the soft skin of your stomach, bump into the even softer underside of your breast, and absentmindedly he starts tracing a finger along the skin there.

“I can be an early riser,” he says and it makes you do a double take and then laugh. Dean grins, then presses himself closer to you.

Last night, when he was inside of you, you on his lap, you held his jaw in your hand. Gently, not roughly at all, simply to keep him looking at you, focused on you. It was difficult, despite his feelings for you, to stay so close, so connected. It tugged at something in him, something that made him wrap his arms tighter around you.

“Dean?” you ask and it seems like he zoned out for a second there. You’re studying him again, in that way you do. He moves his lips back to your neck and lets his hand slip between your legs.

“All accounted for,” he says, licking at your skin and you make a sound beneath him. He just wants you again, no, needs you again. He’s not ready for you to look at last night’s decisions in the cold, hard light of the morning.

You wrap one arm around his neck, but then you’re turning your head away, escaping his kisses, but Dean rolls after you.

“I need to pee,” you say, then giggle when his lips follow you. “And I probably smell like sex and swe—Uh, ow, that’s my bladder.”

Dean immediately moves back, moves the weight of himself off you even though he doesn’t want to let you go.

“I don’t care how gross and smelly you are,” he replies, making you laugh again.

“Okay, but I’m gonna piss in this bed if I don’t go right now,” you say through your laughter, and finally Dean pulls back, lets go of you. You lean forward, kiss his cheek and then you’re climbing out of bed, reaching for your PJs that ended up on the floor. You’re putting them on while you shuffle out the door, and Dean tries to appreciate the view of your ass rather than think about the fact that you just kissed his cheek and not his lips.

You walk into the kitchen, hair wet and skin flushed from the heat of the shower, smiling at Dean. He smiles back, but he can’t deny the sinking feeling in his gut. He joined you in the bathroom to brush his teeth after getting dressed and you pushed your hand into the back pocket of his jeans while he asked you what you wanted for breakfast. You smiled at him when he left the room as you stepped into the shower. Shouldn’t you invite him in? Why aren’t you rushing to keep fucking the way he is?

He’s turning over the bacon when you come back and after acknowledging you, turns back the stove. There’s a frown on his face that he can’t seem to get rid of, no matter how hard he’s trying. His mood has turned from positively hyper to sulky. You run your hand over his back as you walk past him to the coffee machine.

Dean looks at you out of the corner of his eyes. You get some water, then begin shoveling grounds into the filter, all without so much as looking at him again.

He wonders if he did something wrong last night. He’s pretty good in bed, but maybe he did something you didn’t like? You came, he’s sure of it, or you’re really good at faking it, and he felt like it was more than just sex, like there was a… connection. He feels dumb even thinking that word.

He takes the kitchen towel he used to grab the handle of the pan with the bacon, the one that always overheats, slings it over his shoulder and walks past you, to the fridge. He opens the door, looks at the contents, but they just depress him. He feels his appetite waning, something that only happens when he’s in a really bad mood.

“The bacon’s burning,” you say and Dean turns, throws the refrigerator door shut, but you’re already moving towards the stove, the smell of burning food hitting his nose a second later.

You reach for the handle of the pan and a split second later, pull your hand back.

“Fuck!” you curse, gripping your wrist with your other hand and Dean sees redness bloom on your palm.

He rushes over to you, wraps his hand over yours where you’re holding yourself and drags you towards the sink. He turns on the water, shoves your burned hand under it. You whine at the contact, and Dean instinctively shushes you.

“Ssh, it’s okay,” he says, looking at where the water is running over your hand. “Keep that there.” He moves, grabs the pan with the kitchen towel, shoving it off the stove top, turns it off. The bacon’s on the other side of crispy, but he couldn’t care less at that moment. He’s back with you a second later.

You’re biting your lower lip while Dean moves your hand so that the water is running over the burn more. It seems to be superficial, but he knows those hurt like a mother. He turns off the water, and wraps your hand in the kitchen towel.

“You need to be more careful,” he says, looking at where he’s drying your hand. There’s a pain in his chest. Worry. The worry he knows to have for the ones around him. All over a small burn. It’s something he wouldn’t even think twice about if it happened to him, would just walk off. But on you, it feels offensive.

Dean blinks, then looks at your face, just as you look up at him too. You’re frowning a little, probably at the pain, but when you look at his face, your expression softens.

“It’s just a burn, Dean,” you say, in a tone that makes him think you’re trying to reassure him, not the other way around, which is what should be happening, rather than him telling you to be careful. Like you did this on purpose. “It’s okay.”

Your voice is so soft when you say it, it makes Dean swallow. Why the hell is he feeling so damn worried? You’re right, it is just a burn, but just about now Dean would like to find out where heat and fire live, kick their door down and beat them to a pulp for ever daring to hurt you. What a thought. What a stupid thought.

He flinches when the fingertips of your other hand touch his cheek. You’re studying him. Dean sniffs.

“Let me get something to wrap this in—” he starts saying but you shake your head.

“It’s completely fine,” you say, running your fingertips over his cheek again. “It just smarts, there’s no wound.” Dean looks down at your hand, nods. The skin is reddened there but it really doesn’t look that bad. He thought it looked worse, in that first moment, but maybe that was just his mind playing tricks on him.

“What are you thinking?” you ask in a soft tone. Dean looks up at your face again. “You’ve been on edge all morning.” Dean clears his throat, suddenly feeling silly.

“’S fine,” he says but you incline your head in a way that tells him you know he’s talking nonsense.

“Tell me,” you say. Dean looks into your eyes.

“I guess I’ve been kinda worried,” he starts and he needs to look past you just a little so that he can get the words out, “that last night was just… last night for you.” He shifts, looks down at your hand instead. “You didn’t exactly seem eager this morning.” He looks back at you. He can’t read the expression on your face.

“I wasn’t eager this morning,” you say, “because my bladder was about to burst, just like I said. And because I had morning breath, and I didn’t want you to know that. I want you to think I’m a morning breath-free person. At least for a while.” You chuckle a little, softy. Dean nods slowly.

“Okay,” he starts, and it’s hard to say it, but with you so close and genuine it’s a little easier, “I was just worried you maybe had… regrets.”

You raise your chin a little, lips slightly parting. Your gaze goes over his face, every part of it.

“Well, then let me say it in a way you understand,” you say, stepping closer to him so that your body is touching his. “I want you, Dean. I want you so damn much. I did last night and I do now.”

Dean feels arousal wash over him, tinged with just a hint of embarrassment. He didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to come across all needy, but he can’t deny the fact that hearing you say this, that you want him, has his heart pumping.

“So, we’re good?” he asks with a small grin. “You don’t think I’m some giant loser?” You shake your head.

“I don’t think that at all,” you reply and then purse your lips a little. “And we better be good. This is my masturbating hand.” You indicate the one Dean’s still holding on to. He huffs, then leans towards you.

“Does that mean there’s a job opening?” he asks and you giggle, then nod, and then Dean is already kissing you.

He walks you back to the couch, hands on your hips, lips pressed against yours. You carefully hold your hurt hand out to the side, but the other one is ruffling Dean’s hair. The back of your legs meets the couch and you plop down and Dean immediately leans over you, keeps kissing you. You swing your arm around his neck to keep him close. Somewhere in the background the toaster dings. Dean couldn’t care less.

He moves to kneel in front of you and needs to separate from you to do so. When you see him take position a small smile plays over your lips that he doesn’t miss. Without breaking eye contact, his hands go to your waistband as he begins taking off your pants. With a little bit of shuffling, he manages to pull them off you, and then, without being able to wait for anything else, he pushes his mouth against your clothed pussy.

You give a content sigh at the feeling, and Dean can already smell your arousal. It’s like a chemical reaction all over his body and in his brain, making him feel almost high. He’s always loved that smell, but yours is more intoxicating than anyone else’s. You pull up your legs, feet still in thick wooly socks against the cold outside, drop them open wide so he can access you easily.

Dean’s hand goes up and he begins teasing you with his fingers while he looks up at you. Your lips are parted but you’re watching him, looking at him, and Dean loves that you do, that you want to watch him rather than you lay your head back and enjoy. When you see him looking at you, you run your hand up and back through his hair. You grip it harder when you get to the top of his head and then you push his face down against you again.

Dean moans at the feeling and at your smell suddenly enveloping him again. The slight pain, the being kept in place – he’s surprised how much he likes it, how fuzzy it makes his brain feel, like someone shoved cotton in his ears.

“Take it off,” he hears you say and his hands shoot to your hips, grabbing for the fabric of your panties. He tugs them off you, your hand not leaving his hair, and then you are pulling him against you again and suddenly Dean’s in heaven.

He kisses around your wetness – the wetness he’s causing, he has to keep reminding himself – on your thighs, your mound, up to your stomach. You hum at the feeling as he draws his circles closer, delicious warmth greeting him. He runs his tongue over your folds and you inhale sharply. You let go of his hair, and it would make Dean sad if you didn’t move it down to between your legs, press two fingers against your entrance. They come away wet and glistening and you turn them towards him, offering them.

“See what you do to me?” you ask and Dean looks up. Your cheeks are flushed and your lids low. “How could you ever think I don’t want you?”

Dean closes his eyes, leans forward and wraps his lips around your two fingers. He groans in his throat like he’s tasting something off a five star menu. When he’s done cleaning your fingers, he brings his hands to your hips again, makes you move a little closer to the edge of the couch. Then he dives in.

He sucks and licks at you, pushes his fingers into you while you’re writhing and panting. You keep looking at him, keep stroking his hair, petting his cheek when he comes up for air. Dean doesn’t know it this way, with the woman he’s going down on wanting to keep in contact with him this much, but he loves it. Loves that you talk to him, tell him how good he’s making you feel, like you’re there together, working together. You do want him, he realizes. Just in a way he’s never been wanted before.

You throw your head back, crying out while you grind yourself down against Dean’s face, the taste of your pussy making him feel nearly high. He needs to grab your thighs so you don't end up breaking his nose. He's pressed so close against you he can hardly breathe, but he's happy to forego that bodily function if it means dying enveloped in your pussy, with your moaning because of him. Your hand on the back of his head forms a fist, pulling at his hair and that mixed with the sweetness of you makes him nearly roll his eyes to the back of his head.

Your back meets the couch as you slump down, still breathing heavily. Dean finally detaches himself from you as your hand drops down. He presses himself up on his arms and looks down at you. There it is, that feeling. The feeling that he did something right. He quickly rubs his mouth on his shoulder, cleaning himself, and then leans over you. You’re still out of it, eyelids fluttering and he can’t help the proud grin that spreads over his face.

When you open your eyes again, you take his face in your hands, pull him towards you and kiss him deeply. Dean returns the kiss, then pulls back, looks into your eyes.

“Breakfast?” he says and you laugh and pull him in for a hug.

It’s later in the day. The two of you are just lounging around. You’re stretched out on the couch, a thin, tattered book in one hand, the other running through Dean’s hair. His head has somehow found its way to your lap again, but this time simply resting there. Eyes closed, breathing slowly, tingles going up and down his spine from where your fingernails are running along his scalp. It’s stopped snowing, at least for a little bit, and there’s a patch of sunshine coming in, warming Dean’s back. This is it, he thinks. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be more comfortable than this.

“Ugh, this song’s so creepy,” you mumble, and Dean realizes he dozed off. He stirs a little, tries to make sense of what you are saying. You’ve put on Christmas music, Dean playfully rolling his eyes but you saying you liked the cheesiness of it, making Dean immediately love it too.

Dean tries to tune into what is happening around him, but it’s difficult with how cozy and sleepy he is. He listens, hears a smooth voice sing At least I’m gonna say that I tried and then a lower one, What’s the sense in hurting my pride? Dean chuckles a little.

“He just really wants her to stay,” he mumbles against you. You scoff.

“She doesn’t want to stay,” you reply, “and he can’t take no for an answer.” Dean feels himself frown.

“Maybe he has a hard time asking,” he says, not really sure where he’s going with this. “Maybe he doesn’t know how. Or he’s scared she’ll say no. Maybe he can’t take the thought that she’d rather be in the cold than with him.” The movement of your hand has stopped, and Dean raises his head, looks up at you. You are studying him with a knowing look on your face.

“Are we still talking about the song?” you ask and Dean opens his mouth to reply, then closes it. He thinks for another second, then lets his head drop down to where it was.

“You’re right, guy's a creep,” he says and you chuckle, begin petting his head again. This time your fingernails drag down to his neck, and a pleasant shiver runs over Dean’s skin.

The next day, Dean pulls you back so that you are pressed against his chest. The warm bath water is making him feel sleepy, like he’s wrapped up in a big blanket, and your soft and wet skin against him is intoxicating. He leans down and kisses your shoulder.

“I never take baths,” he mumbles against you. “Always seems like a lot of work for just sitting around in your own dirt. But this is nice.” He hears you hum, wraps his arms a little tighter around you in response.

“Nice things are always worth the work,” you say and Dean huffs softly. He has a suspicion you're talking about him, maybe. He kisses your shoulder again.

“You taste like soap,” he says and you giggle, shift against him. He thinks you’re just adjusting but moves his arms when you turn around to kneel before him. Without another word, you reach for your body wash, squirt some in your hand and put it back. You look at him with a soft smile on your face while you rub it between your palms before scooting a little closer, and begin rubbing your hands over his shoulders.

Dean involuntarily closes his eyes immediately. Your hands are warm and slippery, and the body wash smells amazing. Something fruity but spicy that he can’t name. He always gets the three-in-one, hell, he gets an all-in-one if he finds it. Needing more than one bottle is impractical for traveling, plus it feels indulgent.

Your hands are making slow circles over his clavicles, then go up, along his neck only to go down again. After a few rounds of this, you move your hands outside, down his arms, his biceps, then up again.

“I love your arms,” you say and Dean blinks his eyes open. You’re looking at him, at that part of his body that you like, no, love, watch your own hands work. There’s something so mesmerizing about it, about the slowness of it. Your hands dip lower, back over his chest and then over his stomach, and Dean clears his throat, chuckles awkwardly.

“I can’t go again yet, darlin’,” he points out, hoping you’re not disappointed when he says it, so he quickly adds: “You really took it out of me.”

It’s not a lie. You rode Dean, after dragging him to the bed, the air in the bedroom thick with the warmth of the space heater that you’d turned up so you could be naked without needing to be under the covers. There was a slight sheen of sweat on your skin as well as his, and Dean thought you looked like some kind of goddess there on top of him. You rolled your hips fast and hard, and he was ready to blow in only a few minutes. But then you slowed, his climax tumbling just out of reach.

He frowned up at you, and you had a sexy little grin on your face. You leaned forwards, your soft breasts pressed against his chest, started going forwards and backwards. Dean could feel it, the change on his cock from the dry air of the room to the wet heat of you, in and out and in and out, slowly, and he was pretty sure he was gonna go cross-eyed from the sensation. Slowly, you took him up that mountain again, but when his breathing started stuttering, you stopped again, didn’t move anymore, kissed him deeply instead. A frustrated groan left him that made you giggle.

You brought him close another two or three times, Dean can’t remember. Because when he did come, it was almost excruciating. He’s usually pretty quiet during sex, except for talking dirty, but right then he moaned like crazy, desperately thrusting up at you while you kept riding him through it. When he was done, he dropped his head back into the pillow, eyes screwed shut and panting like a damn girl. You nuzzled his jaw and earlobe while he came down.

“Fuck,” he sighed, the curse coming from deep inside him.

So yeah, he’s gonna need a little bit of time before he can go again, but you don’t seem to mind that. In fact, you continue running your hands over him, watching him.

“Can’t I just rub down my man a little?” you ask, voice cheeky and Dean tries to not let it show how your words affect him. Not just a man, but yours. He huffs, raises his hands to show he's not gonna fight a good thing.

“All good with me,” he says and you grin.

Turns out it’s not all good with him. He keeps trying to initiate, keeps trying to get something started, even though he can’t get hard again yet. While you continue massaging him, his hands find your hips, your thighs and then he pushes his hand between your legs. You giggle, but move so that he pulls back.

“Just enjoy,” you say, throwing him a pointed look, and Dean’s not sure if that’s a trap. If you really want him to just enjoy your touching or if you’ll be offended if he stops trying. At last, he gives up, leans back and just lets you do it. You smile at his defeat, lean forward and quickly peck him on the lips.

“I’m hungry,” you say when the water starts turning cold.

The moment is coming closer when Dean and you will be able to leave, jump in the Impala and drive away, back to real life, back to cases, back to work. He’s never taken a vacation as long as he can remember, and even this one was involuntary. All he knows is he doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay here, in this warm place.

He wants to stay. He wants to stay. He needs to stay. What if you leave and you don’t want him anymore? What if he loses the easy way you like him? What if this is just a fling, and he doesn’t know about it? What if he got it all wrong? What if he's an idiot for thinking you could ever like him? That a good, strong woman could ever want his loser ass?

What if you don’t want him anymore? He can’t go back to before, not now that he knows this feeling. His hands are cold and he rubs them against each other, trying to make them warm.

You cook together, like you have every night. You come up behind him, wrap your arms around him, your cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. 

“Careful there, you’re pretty strong,” Dean teases and you chuckle, squeeze harder. It hurts a little but he also likes it. It’s weird how you keep doling out these touches without seemingly wanting anything from him. Then you kiss his shoulder, reach around him and grab his beer, take a long sip before you hand it back to him. Okay, so maybe you do want something from him, but it just seems to be his drink. You playfully slap his butt before you go back to the stove. He shakes his head a little.

You sit and eat and then talk for a long time. Dean makes you laugh and you kind of pull your shoulders up, bite your lip, beautiful creases of joy building next to your eyes when you do. It feels perfect. You put your foot on his chair and Dean massages it through the thick sock you’re wearing. You lean back and close your eyes. He wonders if you’re gonna have sex again tonight, wonders if you’re waiting for him to make a move. You stopped him earlier in the bathtub but maybe you want him to now? Maybe you’ll get mad if he doesn’t do something?

He gets up to move the plates into the kitchen, and when he stands next to you to pick up yours, you lay your hand on his stomach, look up at him. He stands still, then puts the plates down again. He leans over and you tilt your head up, let him kiss you slowly and gently. When Dean pulls back, he can’t read the expression on your face.

“I just want you to know,” you say, looking deep into his eyes, “that I am very, very happy. Are you happy?” Dean feels his breath stutter. Happy isn’t an emotion he’s around a lot these days. So he takes your face into his hands, kisses you again. Not roughly, not intensely, but just as gently again. He pulls back a little and looks at you.

“I’m happy,” he says, and finds it to be true. But it’s not the entire truth. “But it scares me.” You nod, slowly.

“I get that,” you say and Dean can’t imagine that you do, that you could ever be afraid of anything. You wrap your hands around his wrists where he’s still holding you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask and Dean swallows. Then he shakes his head.

“Not tonight,” he says. After a moment, you nod.

“Okay,” you say and pull him in again.

The two of you stumbled into the bedroom again earlier. Every part of Dean is screaming to get you undressed as quickly as possible. He wants to be inside you, needs to be inside you, just to shut off his brain. He knows lots of people see him and believe he doesn’t think a lot, but it’s not true. His brain never shuts up. A drink or sex or a fight quiet it, but it never gives him any peace.

You take it slow, though, and there’s nowhere to hide the anxiety. He knows it’s on his face, in the way he holds his shoulders. You keep looking at him, keep seeing him. Surely, any moment now, you’ll turn away. Surely, any moment now, you’ll see him for what he really is. An idiot with daddy issues and a chip on his shoulder.

He’s above you, gently driving into you and you won’t stop looking into his eyes. Dean feels a lump in his throat, a sting in his eyes. He’s not about to fucking start crying while he’s inside of you, so he sniffs, clears his throat, picks up his speed but your hands tighten on his back.

“Go slower,” you say and he immediately does. But it brings that feeling back. He just wants to fuck until it’s all gone, all quiet. 

He turns his head to the side. You can’t see him like this, no one can. What is he, a fucking pussy? Crying when he’s getting laid? 

“Do you want to stop?” you ask and Dean doesn’t, he really doesn’t, but is vision is getting blurry and he’s pretty sure you can see it, have seen it already.

He swallows, can’t get any words out. He thinks no, please don’t stop touching me, he thinks I can’t keep going, I can’t, he’s losing his erection, he’s sure of it, any second, like a fucking pussy, what is wrong with him? He thinks, I am so tired of being strong, I need someone to take something from me, just for once. 

And then he lets go.

He leans his head forward, his forehead landing on your neck and he can tell that his face is wet. His shoulders are shaking, and he can’t stop them. He’s past the point where he can haul this back in, it’s all just pouring out of him, along with his tears. He’s so tired of holding it in. He’s so tired of being scared all the time.

You wrap him up, tighter than he’s ever been wrapped up. After a few seconds, you begin rocking him slowly, yourself along with it. It’s hypnotizing.

“It’s okay,” you keep muttering, and: “I’m here,” and: “Just let it out, baby.” 

So he does. Dean finally does.

Your head is resting on Dean’s shoulder, one hand laying spread across his chest. It’s dark inside and out, and from where he’s lying, he can just see out the window – thick flakes are falling outside, quiet and soft. You stir a little in your sleep, not much, probably just your brain going to sleep.

There’s a lightness in Dean’s head and he can’t seem to make sense of it. He doesn’t know what it is or why it’s there, but it astounds him. He feels a slight, distant sense of panic, like he should be locking the doors, grabbing the baseball bat from under the bed. Or run out into the freezing, dark cold.

You scare him, that’s the long and short of it. It takes a lot out of him to admit it. He hasn’t been allowed to be scared of anything since he was four years old. But yeah, you terrify him. How much you like him, apparently. Dean has a couple of people in his life that love him. He’s not sure how many of them always like him.

You make a small little noise in your throat and without thinking about it, Dean wraps his arm tighter around you. His other hand goes over the one on his chest. He swallows, but it’s difficult.

Loving is hard, but being loved is harder. Dean loves fiercely and intensely and it’s always painful when people don’t love him back in exactly the same way. He would throw himself in front of a bullet for all of them, even if they never asked for it. It’s how he’s learned to do it. Loving is protecting, no question about it.

So what is he supposed to do with this? With you? You don’t need his protection, you’ve made that clear. Thinking about it has kept him awake for hours as he stares into the dark, feels your smaller body next to him – breathing, moving sometimes, creating heat. You don’t need him. And it terrifies him. You terrify him.

How is he going to make sure you stay with him if you don’t need him?

He looks down at you, careful not to move too much so you don’t make up. He can see your lashes resting on your skin. Your face is peaceful, relaxed. And he didn’t have to do anything for it to be that way.

Go to sleep  you told him earlier, studying him in that way you do, seeing how restless he was. I can see your brain racing. Just go to sleep. Sleep’s good to figure things out.

But it’s hard. Dean knows that if he lets stuff go, doesn’t take care of something, shit can hit the fan pretty easily. He takes a slow, careful breath, his chest rising, your head along with it. Yet you don’t wake.

Dean closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind. He thinks of you kissing him and it makes him smile.

He’s terrified. He’s gonna be okay.

You grimace at the crusty ice on the Impala, and Dean widens his arms.

“We’re not gonna crash and die,” he says and you sputter a laugh.

“Well, that’s reassuring,” you say and he grins, shuts the trunk, then looks back at the cabin. You turn as well, then back to him.

“Good week,” you say with a knowing smile. Dean nods.

“Good week,” he says.The two of you just look at each other for a moment, at least until he sees you pull your shoulders up. It’s gotten warmer, but it’s still damn cold. Dean nudges you.

“Let’s go,” he says, then reaches past you, opens the door for you. You get in, he closes it, and then walks to the driver’s side. You’re rubbing your hands together when he sits, so Dean starts the engine, puts on the heat. It’s toasty and smells a little mildew-y. It always does. He loves that smell.

He navigates the car forwards and once he’s pulling onto the main road, you scoot closer to him. Dean lays his right arm over the back of the bench, and you lean forward, put on the radio, then lean against him.

Dean runs his hand over your shoulder, deep in thought. He’s chewing at his lip. When he notices you’re looking at him, have been for a while, he blinks, turns to you.

“What?” he says, making his voice suspicious. You shake your head a little.

“I love seeing you when you think no one’s watching,” you say and Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Creep,” he says and you giggle, push your finger into his side. Through the thick jacket Dean can barely feel it, but he makes a show of it hurting, groans, complains. You snort at him, but then move in even closer to him. You never do what he expects you to.

The surrounding country is ugly, flat, white turning to brown, but Dean doesn’t care. His heart feels at rest, so much so that he wonders if he needs to get it checked out. He’s not used to not being constantly reminded of its presence, of its pain.

Now it just lies there, like a small animal, rolled up and warm. 

Tearing her out of those leather pants was a real battle, and you almost wish you would have put her in a skirt instead. But you’re pretty sure that might be too much for her first, and sadly last, outing as a girl. The hour when Bobby is gonna turn her back is fast approaching. Cinderella about to turn back into a pumpkin, or however that goes. So this final ride is all you have time for.

Her hands are clasping the top of the backseat, fingers pressing audibly into the leather, the material squeaking. You’ve done the same once or twice or a few times, your positions reversed, and Dean told you, playfully, to be careful with his precious car. So you buried your fingers in his hair instead, making him groan. You’ll remind him of that, of the way she’s so desperately holding on to it now, the next time he decides to get smart with you.

The leather pants are somewhere on the floor, Dean’s plain cotton thong, which is actually yours, somewhere nearby, her tube top pulled down to around her waist, tits bouncing in your face while she rides you. It’s not your real dick she’s squeezing in her flushed, pink pussy, but it sure feels like it. 

You straddled her, earlier, back in your motel room. Bed sheets still rumpled from you eating her out. The two of you had showered, Dean complaining about how sensitive she was feeling, you just dragging her in, her cheek against your shoulder, both of you under the warm spray.

“You’re such a complainer,” you mumbled and Dean chuckled, held you closer. You got out, Dean towel-drying her short hair. You dressed her in your clothes - leather pants, combat boots, a red top - then told her to get on the bed. Climbed over her, settling on her hips before reaching for the little travel bag that contains all your “girly stuff”, as Dean calls it. Tampons, tweezers and make up.

A swash of brilliant blue on her eyelids. Cherry red on her cheeks and lips. You leaned over her, hands pressed into the bedding beside her head, studied her. 

“You’re perfect,” you said, and your girl had blushed.

You say it again, now with her on top of you, hands gripping her hips. How perfect she is, how sexy. Dean moans, barely listening. Seems like that hasn’t changed along with her body. She tunes out the world when she’s close. You love it. Love that you get to make her only focus on her pleasure for once. 

The rising sun is painting her features a soft orange. You’re parked somewhere by the harbor, the lot empty still. Her forehead is wrinkled in concentration. Her eyes squeezed shut.

Your own outfit is still mostly intact. Leather jacket pushed off your shoulders, down to your elbows, but no time to fully take it off. Dean fondled your boobs while you fingered her open with your cheek pressed against her naked arm, fully focused on the task, chased away her nervousness of having more than your fingers “up there” - her words, adorably innocent for someone with the sexual experience of a goddamn porn star. 

She didn’t get far though, already distracted by the pleasure you were giving her. You didn’t wear the skirt either, since you were packing, a last minute decision before leaving the room, so you’re in a pair of vintage Wranglers instead. You wouldn’t be surprised if the front of them is drenched by your girlfriend’s juices.

Dean drops her head forward, still focused on the way she is riding you.

“You can do it, baby,” you whisper to her, completely breathless yourself. “You’re doing so good. My beautiful baby girl.”

And she does.

The two of you left the motel room when her make up was done, walked down the street. No gay bars in this ass end of nowhere town, so a dive bar it was. You drank beer and shots, not making out, but everything short of it. You sat on a bar stool, Dean standing between your legs, both of you giggling like idiots. You kept an eye out for anyone staring at you for too long, knowing how some guys get when you dangle your sexuality, or really, your existence, in their faces. But it’s a weekday, nearly empty. 

When Dean let her hand run up your thigh, getting closer and closer to your crotch, she widened her eyes.

“I don’t mean to sound cheesy,” she muttered, “but is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” You snorted, then grabbed her hand and dragged her to the restroom.

After checking that all cubicles were empty, you kissed her. Deep and wet, your tongue going over her bottom lip, Dean immediately sighing the way she, and he, does. Ran your hands up and down her waist before pushing her back, against the wall next to the hand dryer.

Her pretty lips followed you when you pulled back, and then the rest of her body, before you brought one hand up to her chest, above her tits, pressed her back against the tiles. She understood. Stopped, stayed, watching you.

You didn’t break eye contact as you walked backwards until you hit the opposite wall. Still looking at her, her attentive gaze like kisses all over your skin, your hands going to your jeans. Unbuttoned, and Dean’s eyes widened when she saw the bulge in your briefs. You reached in, took it out. Hot pink and it jumped out almost, standing straight and pointing at her, all accusing. It doesn’t have that nice upwards curve Dean’s has. Had. Not currently.

You saw her swallow.

“Babe,” she said, “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” you answered, hand going to your dick as you gently ran your fingers along it. “You don’t have to. Just thought it’d be nice to have the option.” You said that, and you meant it, but you couldn’t help how nice it felt in your hand, the way you slightly rocked your hips. You needed some spit, or a needy girl’s wetness, to make the movement really smooth, but for the simple tease of it, it was enough.

You saw Dean chew on her bottom lip. Eyes on the price still.

“Do you wanna touch it?” you asked. Her gaze wandered up to your face. She was unsure, shy, and it felt like you’re corrupting her. It made you grab the dick a little harder.

She pushed off the wall, walked forward. You pushed your hips out, gave her access. She stood just to the left of it, the silicone dick against the leather of her pants making a brief squeaking noise that had you both huff a short laugh. Then Dean reached her hand up, lay it over your dick. Index finger tracing a fake vein.

“Bigger than mine,” she said, and you looked at her face. Let your free hand wander up, rest on her shoulder, thumb briefly caressing her face.

“Longer,” you said, “but not bigger.” She swallowed. You brought your hand to her cheek, cupped it, making her look at you.

“What are you thinking?” you asked.

“Does it hurt?” she asked. “When I think of getting fucked, I always think of it hurting.”

Well, there’s a world of things to unpack there. Later. Instead of going there, you lay your hand over where she was holding the dick, squeezed it.

“When you fuck me, does it look like it hurts?” you asked. Dean pursed her lips, a slightly impish smile appearing on her features.

“No,” she replied. You nodded.

“Because you get me all nice and wet and ready first, right?” you asked, and she nodded too. “Because you get me to a point where I’m begging for you to put it in me, to make me full and fuck me, right?” She nodded again, a little more sure, a little more… something, this time.

“Yeah,” she said, sounding a little breathless.

“Cause I need your beautiful cock in me then,” you continued, and Dean’s tongue went out to wet her lips.

“You do,” she said, barely a whisper. 

“Well,” you said, “how about we just see what happens? In the moment?” Dean looked down again, finger tracing the pink surface.

“But you won’t feel anything,” she said, pursing her lips. 

“Oh baby,” you grinned and she looked at your face again. “Believe me. I’ll feel it.”

So back into the bar you went, more drinks, finally turning to the jukebox. Dancing and singing along in shrill voices. Twirling each other. At some point, Dean cupped your junk from the outside. Looking like she was starving.

That’s when you find the Impala, parked by the motel. Get in it, sobered up, somewhat, by dancing, drive the two miles to the pier. By the time you drag Dean into the back, she’s nearly humping the seat.

Leather pants off, and luckily they’re the loose kind. Still, it’s a lot of work, and Dean bangs the back of her head against the window, hard. Hand goes there as she complains and groans.

“Let me make it better,” you say.

You edge her, while she’s on your fingers. She gets close and you stop for a few seconds, then start again. She groans and wiggles in frustration, but you do it anyway. 

“Fuck you,” she moans, and you grin.

Five minutes later she’s begging for you to fuck her with your cock.

You think you nearly go blind at the words, but instead you slap her ass, lean back. Open your jeans while Dean, shaky-legged, crawls over you. You look up at her, and she looks like God, or a grumpy saint. The rising sun just beginning to make her hair shiny and gold.

She pushes up on her knees, takes the dick and pushes it between her thighs. Sinks lower, but it slips out the back, runs over her ass cheeks. You grin.

“More towards the front, baby,” you say, hands on her thighs, and she huffs.

“I know where it fucking goes,” she says, and her tone is so offended that you can’t help but laugh. She takes it again, wiggles it around and you can see the way the head parts her lips, makes your own drop open.

“That’s so fucking sexy,” you breathe, and she presses lower, but it’s not quite slipping in. You stroke the outside of her thighs, her hips.

“It’s not–” she says, moving again, but the dildo only bends a little to the right. 

“Ssh, you need to relax, unclench,” you say, fingers trailing her skin.

“I’m not clenching,” she says and you laugh again.

“Yes, you are,” you say, grinning up at her, before your hands wander inward to her pussy. “Here, let me…”

You bring the head back to her entrance, then look up at her, keep looking until she looks back, stops squirming. With the fingers of your other hand, you ghost over her clit, the sweetest, softest touches, barely there. See the way she tenses her stomach.

“Feel that fluttering?” you ask. “You almost gotta push out, like, like you’re farting, but out the front.” You have to lay back your head, shoulders shaking with laughter when you see Dean’s expression.

“That’s what you do when we fuck?” she asks, shock in her voice. “Fart out the front?”

“Dean–” you say, another wave of laughter coming over you. “That’s– just try it, okay?” She groans, then stills, eyes narrowing in concentration, and you could just kiss her all over. You move the strap so the head runs over her, and then you feel the resistance disappearing.

“Okay, sink down a little,” you say, and she does, the head slipping in.

“Oh,” she breathes, and you pick the touching on her clit up again. “That’s–”

She’s wet enough that she sinks down without a problem, mouth forming an O-shape and eyebrows drawn together. You can’t keep the angle with your arm, so you reach around her, run your fingers over her lips from there. It pushes Dean closer against you, her tits into your face. 

You immediately wrap your lips around one of her nipples, tongue circling it as you hum, eyes fluttering shut at the perfect feeling of her all over you. You keep stroking her, then pull your hips back, only an inch with the leather seat under you, rock up again. Dean shudders, and although you can’t see her face right then, you know it’s a good sound.

“That’s–” she stutters. “I–” You pop your mouth off her nipple, look up at her, your chin pressing against her. Her eyes are closed, eyeballs moving behind the lids, her lips slightly pursed.

“That feel good, baby?” you ask, still rocking your hips.

“That’s not, ah,” she says, a tiny moan interrupting her. “Not what I expected.” You grin, then lick a long stripe between her breasts.

“But good?” you ask, and she nods. “Do you wanna try riding it?” She doesn’t answer for a second, too concentrated on your touching. Then she nods again.

You drag your hand out from between her legs, lay it over her ass cheek, stop rocking your hips. It takes Dean a moment to move, her eyes still closed, and you almost wonder if she’ll be able to do it. But then she begins.

She tenses her thighs, rising up, then slowly drops again. Does it again, and then again, straight up and down, your hands on her only guiding her. She still looks concentrated, but her bottom lip has found her way between her teeth. You know what that means. She does this as a boy too. Just when it starts feeling good.

“Roll your hips a little more,” you say, your own voice breathless from the insane arousal pounding away in you. “More forwards and backwards, not just up and down.” Dean’s movement stutters, and the way she does it isn’t exactly elegant, at least not at first. But then her lip slips from between her teeth, and she gives a little whimper.

“That’s it, baby,” you say, staring at her face, “that’s it, ride it. Now lean back a little.” Again, it takes her a second to follow your instructions, but then she does, and one, two rolls of her hips later, her eyebrows shoot up.

“Oh my–” she gasps, and you can feel her toes curling where her boot-less feet are pressed against your legs. “Fu–holy shit.” Your grin widens, and your own lip ends between your teeth as you match Dean’s rhythm with a slight rocking of your own. Your hands wander up her front, find her nipples, rolling them, softly for now. A noise comes out of Dean’s throat that you couldn’t explain if someone forced you to.

“This is how it feels when you fuck me,” you mutter, voice low, not wanting to drag her out of the feeling, but needing her to know. “Rub your clit, baby. This is exactly how it feels.” 

Dean’s movement stutters, and then one hand goes to your shoulder, while the other snakes between her legs. You watch the way her fingers dance over the nub of nerves, testing, like she hasn’t handled yours a million times.

You have a strange moment, almost of vertigo, as you remember, or imagine, or both, you on top of Dean, in this exact position - one of his favorites. He loves it when you ride him, when you enjoy his body and he just gets to watch, appreciate. Once said he loves the feeling of the leather under his bare ass, and while you chuckled at him then, you get it now. The coolness of it, the noises. Good give for what you’re doing. 

This is what he sees, what he experiences when you’re on top of him. He loves playing with your tits, rolling your nipples between his fingers, sometimes leaning in and sucking one into his mouth. Looks at you like you’re made of pure sunlight and gold.

Except of course Dean has an actual dick, usually, and a damn fine one at that. The aforementioned upwards curve, a thick head, and you almost think you see its ghost in her clit, full and plush as she is now. You would love to know what Dean’s pussy actually feels like, not just around your fingers, but around your own cock. If you could just magic one up for a few hours, that would be perfect.

You watch as she gets closer, watch as she goes faster. A gasp leaves her, and another, and her eyes are still closed, her focus on her pleasure so intense. You twist her nipples harder and as a reward, she moans loudly. Speeds up her hips.

“Son of a–” she presses out before her head drops back and she comes. 

You get this kind of view of your lover’s orgasm when you ride Dean, his body spread out under yours, and when you made her come earlier in the night, your face was buried in her cunt, so you take stock of it all now.

The expression like she’s in pain, the heaving chest. The high, throaty noises - an octave higher now, but just as delicious. Lips moving, like she’s trying to grasp for something, hands tensing, fingers digging into you. 

She’s perfect. She’s simply perfect.

She drops forward, both hands going on the top of the bench you’re on, hips still grinding, all stuttery, as she drags it out. You keep watching her, your hands wandering to her sides and then down until they rest on her hips.

And then, when she’s finally had enough, she drops her head to your shoulder. You press yours against her, hug her close. She whines and stills.

“Goddamn it,” she mutters, her breath tickling your neck. You chuckle. Goddamn it indeed.

She pulls her head back, eyes narrowed, studies your face. You blink at her. 

“I have a whole ass dick in me,” she says and you laugh, and she does too, face open and bright. You run your fingertips along her.

“Wish I could come inside you,” you say, one hand going up and stroking her cheek. “Get you absolutely loaded with my come.” She makes a face, a grimace, and you chuckle.

“You’re so crass,” she says, then brings her hand up too, runs a finger along your jaw. “You didn’t come.” You purse your lips.

“You came enough for the both of us,” you note, and she slaps your shoulder gently.

“Can I try something?” she asks, and you nod. She can try anything. You are completely at her mercy, but you don’t tell her that. Might go to her head.

She presses herself up, making a small hissing noise when she raises one leg, the dick dropping from her, then plops down next to you. She squirms, frowns.

“I’m sore,” she says, and you don’t point out that if you were to go another round, and it would be you on top, you’d be fucking her into next week. “Am I gonna be sore in my dick when I turn back?” You shrug, look at her.

“It happens,” you say, hand going to her thigh, stroking. “Sign of a dicking down well done.” She scoffs, sits up a little. Leans towards you.

You look at her face, watch her do whatever she’s gonna do. She brings her fingers to her mouth, collects some spit. And then, and for the first time in this magical night, you feel the control you’ve held slip, she brings it to your dick.

“Touch yourself,” she says, voice low. You blink a few times, then move one hand, push it under the strap. It’s a tight fit, the base of the dildo squashing your hand, but you find yourself heated and wet.

Dean waits until you begin circling your fingers, and then she begins slowly stroking the cock.

It’s like your breath is knocked from you and your whole entire body electrified with that one movement. You try to suck air into your lungs, but it’s difficult. You see the twitch at the corners of Dean’s mouth when she sees what she’s doing to you.

“Don’t look too proud of yourself,” you say, still touching, and your voice is much more cracked than you would ever admit. “You were a mumbling mess for most of tonight.”

“Exactly why you deserve a go,” she says, leaning her head forward, the tip of her nose running along your jawline and your eyelids flutter. “Not gonna have it said Dean Winchester doesn’t take care of her girl.” You bite your lip, tilt your head down so you can look into her eyes.

“Come from you stroking my cock?” you ask, and Dean’s eyes glisten. She bites her plush bottom lip, lets it slowly slip from her teeth. Goddamn seductress, with her sprinkling of freckles and the deep, green eyes.

“Your big fucking cock,” she says, and you sharply inhale at the gush of arousal it causes in you.

“Fuck, baby,” you mumble. And just like that, you’re a complete mess for her. Dean always likes to let you be in control, but when he takes over, it’s like Christmas and Easter and everything holy wrapped up in one.

She leans in again, presses her lips against your throat and you let your head drop back, give her room. It means you’re looking at where she’s stroking you through low lids, and you swear it’s her getting you high, not your own hand underneath.

“You’re good at this,” you say with a low chuckle. The words might seem like you’re on top of the situation, but you’re not.

“Had a lot of practice with mine,” she says, presses a soft kiss to your skin. “A lot of practice.” You watch her, watch the way her index finger curls up, giving the underside of the head some extra attention, and it looks exactly like when Dean touches himself for you, either to get himself hard, or because you’re giving him a little show.

“There I go th–thinking you’ve learned it from me,” you stutter through your arousal. Dean presses her nose against your throat.

“Learned something else from you,” she says. Her words almost don’t make it into your brain, that’s how thick and full you are with pleasure. Especially not when she pulls her head back, looks at you, pupils big and a slight blush to her cheeks. “How to give the best head in the world.”

And that you’re really too fucked out to understand, but then she moves, scoots further down on the bench, and with another sinful glance into your eyes, she lowers her head, and takes your dick into her mouth.

It’s more of a cry than a moan, because you swear, you swear, that you can feel her lips wrap around you, and then you see her bobbing her head.

“Oh my God,” you breathe, your free hand going to the back of her head, not to push her, but to grab a tight hold of her short hair. If you don’t hold on to her, you’re gonna float away.

“Yes,” you gasp, as Dean keeps going, and your hand keeps moving. “Yes, fucking take me deep, baby.” 

If you were a guy, you’d be inclined to be embarrassed about how fast you come once she takes you in her mouth. But it’s not you that’s been gender swapped by magic, it’s Dean, and you flick your fingers fast, needy, fucking desperate for the beautiful girl sucking you off. 

You press your head back and your hips up when you feel it tilt within you, like someone cutting the rope on a weight that then shoots up, thick and endless and all-encompassing, exploding in you. Dean’s made you come so hard you’ve squirted and cried, but despite it technically just being your fingers, you’re pretty sure this one’s going straight to the hall of fame.

It runs all over your skin, your shoulders pulling up, before a moan that echoes in the interior of the car cracks from you. An intense sob leaves you before you manage to get your head up again, eyes misty.

And then Dean, your fucking Dean, boy or girl or anything inbetween, wipes her hand over her mouth, like you really just shot your load. You drag your hand from your pussy, bring it to her jaw, fingers glistening from your slick, hold her steady. You can’t explain what you ask next, only that the need to say it propels the words out of you.

“Did you swallow?” you pant, bringing yourself close to Dean, and she nods, and then - goddess, perfection, your savior - opens her mouth, her pink tongue stretched out, clean, of course, but enough to support the illusion, and you moan before crushing your lips against her, suck her tongue into your mouth.

She grips your hair, your body, and she could tear you apart for all you care, that overwhelming is the love and need raging in you.

“Fuck me,” she breathes against you. 

You don’t know how you manage to wrangle her onto her back. Your ankle bangs against something hard as you kick off your jeans, but you don’t care. She’s reaching between your legs before you have the chance, guides you back to her entrance, and this time it’s no struggle entering her.

You snap your hips hard immediately, and Dean throws her head back, cries out, and through the fog of it all you mean to ask her if she’s okay, but then her hands grab your ass, pulling you harder against her. So you don’t stop. Of course you don’t stop.

You’re both panting and whining and moaning, the blunt, flat foot of the dildo slapping against your clit just barely, but you don’t need much. And neither does Dean, apparently, as her head shoots up, one hand grabbing the hair at the back of your head so hard your vision goes white.

Both of you come at the same time, or because of each other, or neither and both. All you know is that your open mouth is pressed against Dean’s, both of you breathing into the other and taking air away. She cries out, and your voice cracks, and then both of you shake. It feels like the world is rolled over you, the pressure and then the release. 

Your body goes slack, every muscle untensed, your forehead landing against her jaw as you both whimper. You’re panting, Dean’s tits pressed against yours.

The two of you lie like that, completely cramped and squashed and perfect. Small sighs and deep breaths. It must be a few minutes or maybe millenia before Dean suddenly moves, hands going to your arms. 

“Fuck, pull out, pull out,” she says, voice deep, and you blink yourself back to the present moment, no idea what’s happening but just able to immediately push yourself up on your arms, scoot low, your dick dragging out, thick creaminess covering it which your brain takes a delicious snapshot of. And by the time you look up at your girlfriend’s face again to see if she’s okay, she’s gone, and it’s your boyfriend instead.

You widen your eyes, and Dean blinks, violently, before his hands shoot to his chest, looking for non-existent tits. You huff, crawl a little higher, one hand to his cheek.

“You okay, baby?” you ask and Dean nods, then his hands shoot down between his legs. A soft grin spreads on his face.

“All there,” he says, that deep voice so familiar. “Fuck, that was close. Who knows what part of me you might have ended up in.” You chuckle once, and then, when Dean finally focuses on you, you do it again, and Dean follows suit after a second.

With a groan, you lean forward, all your muscles still too weak to hold you up for longer. Your cheek lands on his chest, and his hands cup your head.

“Looks like Bobby went ahead with lifting the spell without us,” you mutter against him, and Dean scoffs. 

“Looks like it,” he says. “Or it wore off.” Both of you are quiet for a moment. You turn your face, kiss his beautiful, flat chest.

“Hi, baby,” you say and Dean’s hands squeeze you. Quiet again, and you sure hope this won’t fucking turn awkward. That would totally ruin your post-climatic buzz.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters after a while and you lift your head, look at him. He looks down at you, and you steel yourself for whatever barrage of self-doubt over what just happened he’s gonna throw at you. That’s not what he does, though.

“I don’t have any clothes,” he says. “I’m not getting back in those leather pants, they’re way too small now.” You grin, then giggle. Lean down and kiss his chest again, before resting your cheek against him again.

“We’ll figure something out,” you mumble. “I’ll protect your decency, don’t worry.” Dean’s hands still, then squeeze you again, before beginning to make soft rounds on your shoulders and back.

“I know you will,” he says, and there’s a world of meaning in there. Something for later. Right then, you close your eyes. Let the bliss of loving this hard and being loved so fiercely sweep you away.

“Your dick’s poking me,” Dean mumbles after a while, and you smile against him, halfway to being asleep.

“You love it,” you mumble, and a small chuckle rumbles through his chest.

That’s the last thing you feel before sleep takes you, and morning finally breaks, giving you back your beloved pumpkin.

"Remind me why we're on Facetime while I'm in the shower?"

You could hear the faint huff of an amused exhale make its way through the speaker, his rough voice following a beat later.

"I missed you"

The unexpected, affectionate comment sent a shockwave up your spine. Your eyes snapped open as a cluster of bubbles rolled down your forehead and straight into your left eye. You winced, quickly squeezing them shut again while warm water cascaded down your face.

On the other end of the call Frank watched the whole thing, torn between concern and the urge to laugh. He settled on both.

"That's not meant for your eyes."

Smartass. In the short time you'd been seeing him, you already learned that he never passed up an opportunity to make a comment like that. You wanted to be annoyed, but as the sting faded and the blur cleared, all you could see was that damn smirk-the corner of his mouth still tilted up like he was proud of himself.

"I'm not exactly putting on a show here," you muttered, tilting your head back under the spray. Soapy water ran in streams down your throat and over your collarbones, disappearing under where Frank's view ended at the beginning of cleavage. "I'm scrubbing myself like I'm doing the dishes. Not sexy."

Frank's eyes tracked the path of water for a second before he answered, voice low and even.

"You could make anything look sexy," The words landed like a buzz against your skin, your stomach doing that familiar flip whenever he said something particularly exciting. Then, "Could think of a better way to get you clean."

You raised an eyebrow, your loofah-filled hand pausing at your shoulder. The room suddenly felt a lot thicker with steam than it did just a moment ago. "Yeah?"

"I'd help. If you wanted me to." his voice somehow dipped lower, a heaviness settling in. "Get in there with you. Take the soap. I'd do it proper; make sure I don't rush like you're doing right now." His gaze flicked lower on the screen again, and you could practically see his imagination running wild despite the limited view.

The truth was that you weren't rushing because you had somewhere to be. Admittedly, you were nervous to be here with him like this. It was all still so new, barely a month. He was older, more experienced by a mile. Regardless of your overwhelming attraction to him, there was always a lingering worry that he would notice how painfully out of your element you were.

Something in your expression must have given it away. Frank's face softened, his head tilting to the side as a crease formed between his eyebrows.

"You okay, sweetheart?" The question was simple, bringing you back to the present. But it still made your stomach twist. You suddenly felt too exposed despite Franks inability to see past your upper sternum.

"I'm okay. Just nervous." you sigh, "It's still so new. I keep feeling like you're going to notice how clueless I am with all of this.

Frank was quiet for a second. Thinking.

"I don't think you're clueless. You're just new to me. That's different." He paused. "I like you exactly how you are. You don't have to have everything figured out. We've got time."

You let out a slow exhale. A mix of relief and comfort. Then his eyes darkened just a fraction.

"Hey, why don't you take that shower head down for me, baby?"

You blinked, taken aback by the sudden redirection. Water continued to run down your shoulders, the bubbly loofah forgotten on the floor as you replied. "What?"

"The shower head. Take it down. Use the water pressure."

Heat immediately flooded your cheeks. Most guys didn't even know that was a thing. The fact that he did—and said it so casually—left you staring in shock. He must've read the surprise on your face because the corner of his mouth curved again.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

Silence settled between you for a moment, filled only by the sound of the spray. A war formed in your head; the choice between backing out and letting your sheepishness control you or doing what you truly wanted by following through.

The shower head tugged free from the bracket with an audible click. The metal was warm against your hand, the water spraying against the tile for a moment before you managed to control it. A wave of embarrassment washed over you as you guided the stream lower, angling it just right. The first touch of the focused spray against your clit made you jerk, a sharp involuntary twitch of your thighs. It was both too much and not enough all at once.

"There it is. Fuck, you're sensitive, huh?" He asked rhetorically. You just barely caught a glimpse of his hand slipping below the camera's view, followed by the clinking of a belt and the buzz of a zipper. The thought that he was touching himself while watching you was beyond flattering... and arousing.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the water pressure was relentless, hitting you just right. Your free hand braced against the tile in a desperate attempt to keep yourself upright. Frank groaned, the phone shaking faintly in his grip.

"You sound so pretty, baby. Makin' me feel so good. You feel good too?"

Your knees threatened to buckle, nodding eagerly in response. Water ran down your thighs out of frame, and the only thing he could see was the changes in your expression. But evidently it was more than enough. Your body was already tightening around nothing, heat coiled low in your tummy.

"Frank-." you gasped, "I'm so close..."

"Are you?" He asked, his voice calm but breathless. "Then ask me nicely."

Again, your face burned hotter than the water, the shower head trembling in your hand.

"l... what?"

"You heard me."

Your hand pressed firmer against the tile, your orgasm approaching faster than expected. Part of you wanted to hide away. But you needed this. Really needed it. And by the sound of Franks breathing, he was getting close too.

"Please," you murmured, voice barely audible over the water.

Frank's head tilted. "Please what, babygirl?"

You swallowed, throat tight. Your brain was scrambled at this point, and all you could focus on was just how close you were. "Please, can I come?"

An amused hum rumbled from his chest. Asshole.

"I think you can do better than that. Ask again."

"Please let me come. Please, Frank." You pleaded.

"Atta girl. Go ahead."

The second that you were granted permission, the wire inside you finally snapped. Your whole body tensed as the peak washed over you, shoulders hunching as the pleasure rolled through you. A broken moan tore from your throat as your clit pulsed in time with your heartbeat.

The shower head briefly slipped in your grasp, spraying water uncontrollably against your chest before you managed to steady it. Frank followed soon after, his hips jutting into his hand as he spurted over his pelvis in three thick ropes.

For what felt like an eternity, the only sounds were the running shower and two sets of uneven breathing. Then, "I think you're clean now."

You couldn't help but smile fondly at the comment. The scene of you two panting, red-faced, and cheesing was more wholesome than it should've been considering the activities beforehand. But nevertheless, your shower was completed and so was a new step in this relationship.

"Yeah," you smiled. "I think so too."

───────────────────────

Hi! You’ve made it to the end, I hope you enjoyed. Honestly, this fic was written while I was half asleep, running on Diet Coke and a dream. This is fully unedited, so I apologize for the quality of the story. This is definitely not my best work.

“We need her.”

The man’s voice is deep, a low, shallow growl in the abandoned barn he’s standing in; a black cloak is draped across his body, eyes narrowed as he stares at Dean, and Dean looks like he just saw a damn ghost.

“No… no, you don’t,” Dean protests, shaking his head, his hands stuffed in his leather jacket pockets. “There are hundreds of other virgins out there, nothin’ special about her.”

The impala runs idly outside of the barn, and you’re patiently waiting on the passenger’s side of it, waiting for Dean to come out. He said it’d be a quick exchange: the vial of virgin blood, your blood, in exchange for one of the four keys that he’s trying to retrieve, each key coming from a cult–burning the four keys would apparently put the curse to rest, and the town filled with people turning into zombies would snap out of the haze it was in. But clearly, these keys were hard to get, even if they had no idea what Dean was doing with them.

“No,” the man says sternly, slowly beginning to walk around him, circling him like prey. “We need the girl… the full body, flesh and blood–virgin flesh and blood–and then, the key is yours,” he suggests, shrugging.

“No way,” Dean refuses and shakes his head in disbelief. “I have the blood; it’s right here,” he mumbles, taking the vial out of his pocket–except, it’s not there.

“This vial?” the cloaked man says, raising it in the air, and Dean curses quietly–he should’ve known that this man had a few tricks up his sleeve, maybe like luring him into an empty barn. “We need it for everybody, Dean… the whole cult. This sip is enough for one of us, maybe two; do you know how many people… all of her could feed?”

Dean rolls his eyes at the idea and sighs heavily, licking his lips. “It’s not happenin’.”

“Then there’s no key,” he quips. “And you can kiss her goodbye.”

“No… no, the deal is off,” he refuses and shakes his head, his eyebrows knitting together. “If we get no key… then you don't get the girl. Is that clear?”

The man clicks his tongue, shaking his head, laughing as he begins to circle Dean once more. Dean’s eyes track each movement, each time the long cloak brushes the barn floor, and each time the man glances at the impala, and your figure patiently waiting for the deal to be made.

“Hm, that could be the case,” the man prompts, sliding the vial into his pocket. “But… we have the blood now, and we can track her… find her, take her, and use her.”

“No,” Dean barks, his voice almost turning into a growl. “Look; I don’t need a fuckin’ key, you can keep the blood, you can keep doing your cult shit–I don’t care, but you’re not putin’ a damn finger on that girl.”

“Oh, Dean Winchester,” The man starts, shaking his head. “If you can find… another virgin girl, and bring her to me… then the little girl out there is free,” he coos, smiling.

Dean shakes his head again–he’s not sacrificing some poor son of a bitch to this man, and he’s definitely not giving you up either. He rubs his jawline, refusing.

“Why can’t you just… go to a fuckin’ church or somethin’? Snag a girl there; why does it have to be from me?” he asks, lifting his hands in the air in frustration.

“Because, Dean… I know what you’re doing, and I know this is the fourth key, and I know why you’re trying to do… and I don't want you to. So go find me a virgin girl, or I’ll go out there myself,” he hisses, his words thick with threats, and Dean grits his teeth, and the dumbest idea pops up into his head.

“Okay,” Dean gives in, shrugging. “I’ll… get you the virgin girl, the one in the car,” he nods.

“Perfect,” the man says, nodding. “I’ll be waiting, Dean Winchester.”

Dean is out of the barn quicker than he thought he could move, and you sit up a bit straighter when you see him rushing towards the Impala. He’s immediately climbing in, not saying a word; his hands grip the steering wheel, and his boot hits the pedal, and you’re immediately heading out of the long driveway and back onto the dirt road.

“What… what happened?” you ask softly, your lips parted in surprise. “You have the fourth key?”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head, his jaw clenched. “He has your blood, though.”

“What?” you ask in disbelief, your eyes widening. “Dean–”

“I know… I know, I know, I know,” he rambles on, shaking his head again, his eyes focused on the dark, widening road. “He… he said he wants you, entirely; full body and all, not just a stupid fuckin’ vial of your blood,” he curses, hitting the steering wheel.

“Well… well now what? Do I just have a cult after my… my virgin body?” you ask, still staring at Dean.

“Basically,” he nods. “Unless…”

“Unless? Unless what? Dean… come on, I don't wanna be stalked by a fucking cult, or whatever the hell,” you complain, looking out of the window.

Dean grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the wheel. His idea wasn’t the smartest, and that Winchester mind had come up with better solutions before, but this was currently the only last idea that wouldn’t have either of you killed–maybe.

“What if… I hand you over to ‘em,” Dean starts, bracing for a hit against his shoulder. “But… they realize you’re not a virgin, and give you back…”

“But… I am a virgin–Dean, this makes no sense… one swipe of my blood, and they’ll smell it; it’s not like you can just lie,” you ramble on, leaning your head against the window. “I’m fucked.”

“You could be,” he jokes, the innuendo not going over your head, and your eyes narrow.

“Are you…” you ask, slowly looking at him.

Yeah, Dean Winchester was offering to take your virginity, to defile you and remove the purity aspect the cult was drooling over–he’d show you to them, they’d realize the tainted mess you are, and want no part of you. The two of you would be off the hook, even if they’d get a little pissed off that the two of you just wasted their precious time.

“C’mon,” Dean laughs, looking over at you. “It’s… it’s not a big deal.

“Yes, it is,” you shoot back, finally slapping his shoulder. “You’re asking to fuck me right now, that’s what you’re doing.”

“The world depends on it,” he replies, snorting at his own joke. “Besides, you know like… no men, I’m the one you trust the most… it would be fine,” he rambles on, the sound of Baby rumbling occupying any noise.

“Dean,” you scoff, shaking your head. “You think I’ll ever be able to look at you again? Knowing… you were inside of me?”

“Well, I think of it most… of the time,” he replies, a grin curling into his lips when he notices the disgust on your face, and he takes the Impala down a dirt road.

“Shut up,” you reply, rolling your eyes and leaning your head against the window. “I’d rather it be Tommy from tenth grade,” you add on, biting your lip, suppressing a dumb grin.

“No—no, you’ve told me stories about that son of a bitch, and he’d fuck it all up,” he shakes his head, his ring glinting against the moonlight. “This isn’t some final-ditch, let’s have sex with whoever we want moment… this is do or die.”

“No, this is fuck Dean Winchester or die,” you shoot back, and he smiles, shrugging.

You’re right, and he knows it, but it’s looking like the only option and part of you despises it, while the other half is intrigued—you’ve seen him with women, the way they stumble into the motels with him, and leave stumbling just a bit worse. You’ve heard him flirt, heard the pickup lines, those winks and smirks, and sometimes they worked on you, even if it was purely platonic. 

“Are we dyin’?” Dean then asks, glancing over at you.

“No,” you reply softly, swallowing. “I don’t want to die.”

Dean sighs. “I don’t think I want to either.”

There’s silence in the Impala, and it groans, the tires hitting the gravel as Dean begins to pull over. You blink slowly, gulping, realizing you’re really about to do this.

“No motel? Not even a bed?” You tease lightly, trying your best to ease the stirring in your stomach. “No candles?”

“We gotta bring you before the sun comes up,” Dean tells you, his hand quickly pulling the keys out of the ignition. “Trust me… I’d light candles, throw rose petals on the bed, make it feel like your fuckin’ weddin’ night night, but we don’t have time,” he shakes his head. 

“Dean, I haven’t even had my first kiss,” you confess to him, looking over at him, and his lips part.

“That’s… that’s fine, it’s fine,” he nods, his arm extending against the back of the seat. “It’s not a big deal.”

“To me it is,” you reply, looking down into your lap. “You’re… used to screwing girls, and leaving them. I’ve never done this before,” you mumble, shaking your head.

“Hey… hey, it’s fine, kid,” Dean says, sliding his hand down to wrap around your shoulders. “Just… imagine it like a job, you know? Part of the hunt.”

“That’s worse, Dean,” you reply, feeling his warm hand rubbing your shoulder. “I don’t want it to be my job…”

“Well, okay, then it’s not your job,” he replies, setting his lips. “I just really wanna have sex with you.”

You smile and roll your eyes, easily seeing the dumb smile curled into his lips, his canines showing against his soft lips. He always did make things easier, less awkward, smoother around the edges. He squeezes your shoulder, his thumb fiddling with the sleeve. 

“Okay,” you breathe out softly and nod, looking at Dean, who has already inched closer, his face growing closer.

“Yeah?” He whispers, tilting his head to the side. “Look at you, savin’ the world,” he mutters, leaning closer.

The words are cut off—you try to say ‘shut up—but Dean leans in, pressing his soft lips to yours, and a gentle brush, just warmth pressing into each other. He smiles when he notices you trying to kiss back, all wonky and lazy, trying to keep up the rhythm.

Dean’s hand lifts, and he carefully cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over the warm skin, focusing beneath your eye. He’s smiling, and you are too, but it disappears the second it deepens, and you both realize where this is really going. 

His tongue slides in, all drinks from the bar littering his saliva, and you whine quietly, your tongue joining in. It’s a messy tango, and he’s sliding his hand down, gently cupping the curve of your neck, bringing you closer.

“You okay?” Dean mutters, pulling back, your noses bumping, foreheads touching.

“Yeah… yeah,” you breathe out, and he grins.

“Good… good, sweetheart,” he adds, his voice low, that growl coming from the back of his throat. “Want you to feel good.”

A few gentle touches touch against your shoulder, your arms, and down to your waist as your head tips back, and Dean is lightly mouthing at your neck now. His lips are damp, slick with your saliva and his own, and drift down, nuzzling the crook between your shoulder and neck.

“C’mon,” he whispers, inhaling the scent of your skin, all warm and sweet. “Backseat…” he drawls smoothly, and now you’re really feeling like a Dean Winchester hookup. 

A few more touches and rough hands holding your back have the two of you in the backseat—it’s all soft laughs and fumbles, and Dean’s curious hands dipping up your shirt. You’re against the backseat now, your back to the leather, and he’s between your thighs, hands resting against your bare stomach.

“Mmm… gettin’ nervous?” He teases, sitting up, pulling back and reaching for his shirt. He pulls it off in one slow pull, the fabric giving in and sliding off.

Your eyes widen at his broad chest, his built figure—it’s all soft, but firm, too; muscle against his chest, softening around his stomach, leaving him the slightest tummy. You smile, biting your lip, nodding.

A curious hand flattens against Dean’s chest, and he feels an internal pull of guilt. This really is your first time, and you’re curiously touching his body, feeling a man for the first time, and he’s watching in awe, blinking slowly. 

“S’like a porno,” Dean mutters, his lips pulling into a wolfish grin. “New, inexperienced—“

“Dean,” you cut in.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his head, and he leans forward, hiding his face in your neck. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Dean begins to gently mouth at your neck now, one hand sliding up your shirt, cupping your bare waist and ribs, a thumb roving over each rib. You shift beneath him, the leather seats squeaking with the subtle movement.

“Always thought you were real pretty,” he confesses quietly, licking a stripe up to your ear. 

“Stop,” you breathe out softly, gazing up at the Impala's ceiling, the silence almost unbearable. 

“What?” He asks quietly, kissing you by your ear. “It’s foreplay,” he grins, feeling your body tense in his grip.

Dean’s hand drifts up further, his hand now lightly cupping your breast through your bra; his hand holds the soft swell, his thumb rubbing the soft fabric, his dull nail scratching at the lace trim. He squeezes.

“Ah—“ you breathe out, not used to hands touching you.

“I know,” he whispers, nodding. “Trust me… you trust me.”

His hand lightly palms your breast now; light squeezes, his thumb trying to locate where your nipples poke, but he’s also focused on gently kissing at your neck, over to your shoulder next.

Your hand is against his broad shoulder, feeling the thick muscle beneath the tanned skin—all from hunts, the layer needed for protection, his body’s natural reaction for the things he has to face. You squeeze this time. 

“How about we get this shirt off, hm?” Dean mumbles, and his hand leaves your breast, sliding down to the hem, and he’s carefully helping it off of you.

“It’s cold,” you breathe out quietly, biting your lip.

“It is, baby,” he agrees, glancing out of the Impala windows, seeing the light fogging already.

“I don’t like it,” you whimper, and his lips curl into a grin—he knew you were innocent, knew about the inexperience, but the way you’re acting…

“I’ll get you warmed up,” he promises, nodding, and a hand dips behind you, two fingers unclipping your bra. Yeah, he’s done this a few times.

A soft groan leaves your mouth when he removes the soft fabric, dropping the bra onto the ground of the impala, and he looks down; your breasts, soft and full, your back arching off the seats. He sighs quietly, wetting his lips.

“Yeah… you are cold,” he teases lightly, already reaching down to cup your breast, bare this time. 

“Ah—“ you whimper, feeling his thumb pressing over your nipple; it was stiff and poking upwards, and he immediately pressed his thumb over it, rubbing.

“Always lookin’ at these,” he teases, licking his lips. 

“Stop,” you whimper, feeling your cheeks flooding with warmth, but you moan the second he flicks the stiffened peak.

“You say stop, but then you’re moanin’,” he whispers, kissing the other side of your neck, sucking beneath your ear. “Always been indecisive, too.”

Dean kisses down your neck, lightly moving over your chest now, the valley between your breasts, peppering light pecks against the warm, soft skin. He listens to you breathe heavier, the tiny gasps. He grins.

“Rate it outta ten,” he comments, his eyes peeking up at you—he’s always been a dick.

“Ten,” you whisper, nodding, your hand lightly dipping to hold the back of his neck as he kisses a bit lower. “Feels good.”

Dean grins against your stomach, placing chaste kisses over the soft skin. He stops at the button of your shorts, and parts his mouth, his teeth tugging the metal clasp.

“What—“ you mumble nervously, and those green eyes find yours in the darkened car.

“Relax,” he breathes out, letting the button pop open. “Foreplay, baby,” he teases again, two fingers now working down the zipper of your denim shorts.

Dean helps them down your legs, his large palm and even longer fingers moving the rough fabric. It gets tossed to the side, piling where your bra and t-shirt already are, and he looks back down.

“Mmm… a present, for me?” He asks, his rough thumb gliding over the tiny ribbon on the elastic band. “Don’t mind if I do…” he teases, listening to your breathing pick up.

He’s always been an asshole, arrogant; quick remarks and shoots back, and he’s doing it right now, even as his hands carefully work down your underwear. His fingers graze your thighs as he does it, and he feels the muscles tense and clench. 

Dean’s eyes dip down, and they widen—even the weight of the situation pulls on him right now; the innocence, the way your thighs are trying to close but he’d wedged between them. He looks up at you, swallowing hard.

“You’re… really fuckin’ wet,” he breathes out, his hand sliding down, lightly cupping your core. “Jesus, baby…”

A string of shined leaves your mouth the second you feel his warm palm against you, that rough glide over your core, collecting the slick—sticky and leaving a residue, and he has to hold back a groan.

“I’m sorry…” you whimper, and his head quickly shakes.

“No… no, don’t be sorry,” Dean mumbles. “Just… feel bad, your body is just—god,” he says in disbelief. 

He watches your hips shift and squirm, a few shifts against the leather seats of the Impala, and your eyes flutter shut the second he begins rubbing in slow circles, his palm moving.

“Dean,” you whine softly, your back curling off the back seat, and he shushes you quietly, looking over his shoulder.

“I know… I know, I’m here, baby,” he whispers, his voice switching tones, etching into a sweet, softer one. “You’re okay.”

Dean continues to cup you, palming you gently, his eyes focused on you, watching your face contort; eyes closing, your mouth hanging open, your breasts almost moving with how heavy you’re breathing. He nods.

“Atta girl, I got you,” he reassures softly, nudging the heel of his palm against you, keeping it pressed hard onto you. “You’re so wet, sweetheart.”

“I know,” you whimper, nodding. 

Dean uses his free hand to reach down, undo the clasp of his belt, unbuckle it, and slip the leather out of the loops. He’s quick to zip down his zipper and pop open the buttons, and he’s already hard beneath the fabric—he has been since you made that joke about him being inside of you.

He groans softly as he reaches his hand in, wrapping his palm around his hard cock, and he pulls it out—he groans again, realizing pre-cum had already leaked out, spilling into his boxers slightly, and he looks away.

“Okay,” he breathes out, his jaw clenching. “Mmm… never seen one of these, have you?” He jokes, stroking himself, positioning himself further between your spread thighs.

“Of… of course I have,” you mumble in response, swallowing hard.

“Yeah, but…” he mumbles, lightly guiding the hardened tip to nudge between your folds, the slick making it easier. “…never like this,” he adds, pressing slightly, emphasizing his words.

Dean watches your head tip back against the backseat, your eyes squeezing shut at the sting, that burning as your body stretches around just the head. He rubs your bare hip, sliding his body up further, his necklace dangling in your face.

“You’re okay… deep breaths, sweetheart,” he whispers, lightly nudging in a bit further. “Just… one deep breath in, baby, and then…”

Dean slowly pushes in a bit more, watching your eyes squeeze shut even harder, your eyebrows knitting together in pain, and he leans down, kissing against your cheeks, your nose.

“Ah… yeah, you’re okay,” he whispers, peppering damp kisses along your skin. “You’re… so tight,” he grunts out, the words almost accidental.

He stays pushed deep inside of you, letting his cock bury itself in your walls, flush against them as they tighten and clench, eagerly reacting to how big he is. He knows he’s big, and the way he’s hesitant to thrust shows it. 

Dean starts a gentle rocking, just a few rolls of his hips, and he hovers over you. His necklace dangles there, lightly rocking as he starts too, and you’re whining quietly, your head tipped back.

“There you go… c’mon, baby,” he encourages, one hand holding your hip, the other holding himself up. “Feelin’ so good around me—you feelin’ the same?”

You nod quickly, whining even louder, your head tossed back. The windows are already fogging up, the car shifting with each of Dean’s stronger thrusts, and it’s getting harder for him to hold back the grunts.

It has to be done, though, you know this; the lives of people weigh on this—yeah, losing your virginity, and you can barely think straight as Dean continues to thrust, keeping up that solid rhythm, back and forth. He groans, his own head tipping back.

“Fuck,” Dean groans out, his hands gentle against your body, a contrast to the thrusts as he drives himself deeper. “Takin’ me so good… so, so good, sweetheart,” he breathed out, gripping your hip.

His larger hand splays by your head, keeping himself propped up, and his hips continue rocking back and forth, grinding slowly, keeping your body moving with his. You grab at his shoulder again, feeling the sweat glistening on his skin, and he grunts and groans.

“Dean… Dean,” you cry softly, and his eyes flicker down; he sees the girl he’s helped on hunts before, who’s been down and injured, when he’s patching her up, and now she’s beneath him; whining, moaning, and losing her damn virginity. To save everybody. 

“Shhh, you’re doin’ so good,” he coos, nodding slowly. “Doin’ so good… I promise, baby—promise,” he groans, his necklace still touching your face, and you’re whining, shaking your head.

“I’m—“ you grunt out, feeling that tightness growing, that deep-seated churning, and you’re shifting against the seats more and more, your thighs clenching, your eyes fluttering. 

“Yeah? Gonna… you’re gonna cum?” Dean questions, keeping the pace the same, knowing it’s what’s getting you this close. “C’mon… cum, sweetheart,” he encourages, his hand on your hip leaving, shifting down so his thumb presses to your clit.

The mixed stimulation makes you groan, your back curling, and Dean can feel you clenching around him, a constant push and pull, and he’s groaning too, burying himself deep inside of you—the both of you finish at the same damn time.

Dean’s is all groans and grunts, heavy pants as his hips snap against yours, purposely filling you, letting himself pump you full. You were helplessly moaning; all whines and cries, clawing at his shoulders, leaving long scratches down the side of him—they’d show the next day, soft welts lifting from his smooth skin. 

He presses his face into the crook of your neck, panting, rubbing your hip again. He’s grinning too, eyes peeking up and noticing the windows; fogged and warm, the impala quiet, and the forest just the same. It’s all just your breathing, your limbs limp.

“Just… saved the fuckin’ world,” Dean breathes out, smiling, kissing at your jawline. “How do you feel?”

Then, barely awake, your eyes fluttered a few times, adapting to the dark like usual. Watching the dark ceiling above you, you shifted slightly closer to the other side of the bed. Closer to the warmth that should be beside you. That usually rests next to you, that usually clings to you.

Only there was no warmth.

Your hand raised up from under your ear, then moved across the mattress, fingers stretching apart.

Expecting to find Frank.

Trying to find that solid shoulder of his, bruised and so full of memories. Or at least the sleeve of that ridiculous chequered grey robe he insisted on wearing on the boat.

Your fingers met nothing.

Empty space on the mattress.

And that stopped you. You frowned faintly, your eyes slid from the dark ceiling over the whole room to the other side of the mattress. And you finally met the sight on the other side. The space beside you is empty. No sight of the man.

The blanket was thrown completely over you, rumpled at your feet. Definitely put over you when he stood from the bed and left. But Frank was gone.

He had been there a little while ago. Before you went to take a rest. He had been there snugged against you beneath the dark blanket, his body pressed against yours with the familiar warmth and the comfortable weight he dropped over you when he was slightly resting over your body. One of his arms is thrown over your waist, head on your chest or sometimes shoulder. Then sometimes, you are on his shoulder or on his chest. Even his arm too. The slow rhythm of his breathing raises up his chest against your body.

Maybe, he had a nightmare.

And that’s makes you sit up. Far too quickly.

You pushed yourself onto one elbow, the blanket slipping down your shoulder as you let your gaze settle towards the other side of the bed. Your palms spread over the mattress as you’re sitting up. With a sigh, you let one hand up and rubbed it over your eyes. Hard, making tiny colourful shapes swim around your vision for a few seconds. Then they’re gone. Eyes adjusted to the dark, faint outlines of the familiar world now smooth in your eyes.

You looked towards the doorway, the door was shut. With furrowed brows and a tiny yawn to let the tiredness go away, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed. Dark socks rolled up on your feet. Frank always told you to keep them on, you tried to keep the boat clean. Both of you tried. But it just felt like the floor was never clean even if you scrubbed it for hours.

Now standing up, you move towards the door, open it and slip through. The sleep is still clinging to your legs, forcing you to walk slower than you had intended. Moving through the small metal boat hallway, you move straight down. On one side are the cramped doors leading to the toilet, bathroom and the little supply rooms that stayed there from the last owner. At the end of the hallway is the spare room with its old, but still very nicely kept bunk bed, the room that you mostly call the guest room. A funny thing. You call it that jokingly. Just because there is the very real fact that you never really have guests over.

So, where the hell is Frank and why is he not sleeping?

You pass the bathroom, the light is not turned on. He is not there.

Then you pass the toilet, the light is as well not turned on. So, he is not there either.

Then in the few supply rooms, you open the first door and peek inside, dark and no sight of Frank in it. You don’t bother to check the other supply rooms, if he is not in this one, he won’t be in the other ones. Maybe, he’s outside. Watching the water, the cityscape and the birds fly by. It calms you both, it’s a nice view from down there.

You push through the heavy doors of the guest room and he is not there either. But the lights are on, though. So, he must have been there. You barely glance at the bunk bed as you slip past, your thoughts already moving towards the only room of the boat you can imagine him now being in.

You reach the kitchen door and wrap your fingers around the handle, pulling it open. You then push the door open by your palm. The light spills onto you and you catch the sight of a person in the kitchen. But almost immediately as the door opened, something snapped against the back of your hand. Or stuck up onto your hand. A weird sensation, a weird material.

You freeze instantly and look down.

You try to instinctively pull your hand back from whatever had landed onto your hand, it glues over the back of your hand, on your skin and the door’s metal surface. Caging your hand on it like it is supposed to be holding it together.

What the hell is that?

Your head snaps back up quickly, eyes widening a good bit.

“Who is–” a very unfamiliar voice yelps out, a younger voice.

“Woah!” a woman’s voice rings out just then too.

You jerk back as another thing of whatever you have on your hand flies towards you. You dodge it. Finally, the white thing flies past your face and attaches itself to the metal wall of the tiny kitchen beside you. You stare at it. And you finally realize what that thing is.

A white web.

You snap your head back up towards the kitchen so quickly. And then you finally see what is going on in your tiny, cramped kitchen beyond the doorway you’re standing in.

A figure in red and blue with a mask on.

One hand raised up, fingers bent in that very familiar position you saw too many times on the news, pictures and kids doing when you were in the city.

It’s Spider-Man.

And beside him is another figure.

A young woman, visibly confused and nervous. A coat on, hair slightly pointing to all directions as if she had flown here.

You have no idea who that woman is.

And there is a smell. A quite familiar one. Warm one, spicy one. Chilli. Frank mentioned that he was planning on cooking it throughout this week. Coming from where the burners are still going, steam coming up and smell flying around.

And next to them, is the only person you wanted to find in this room.

Frank.

He is standing there in his chequered grey robe, one hand holding the pot that he is making chilli in and his eyes wide, fixated on the sudden chaos at the doorway in his own kitchen at his own boat. His house! Your house!

His expression changes the instant he sees you. Eyes softening, a small smile coming up. But the second he sees your expression and then the web on your hand, the soft eyes disappear as if they weren’t there before and the smile turns into a strong frown.

A mad one.

“Shit, kid!” you finally hear the man’s voice. Loud and angry.

Frank moves immediately towards you, dropping the hot pot back onto the burners.

“The hell you doin’ with those fuckass webs in my fuckin’ kitchen?” he yells out angrily, storming over to you with a loud hit of his boots against the metal floor of the boat. He looks at Spider-Man with an expression that makes him want to crawl away and before he can do it, Frank barks out and points angrily with his pointer finger at him, “don’t do that again!”

His voice fills the tiny kitchen like a loud storm and thunder. It’s sharp, and makes everyone shut up very quickly. Frank is already crossing the kitchen in stern and quick steps.

He shoves past Spider-Man with enough force to make him stumble and the younger girl steps aside to not get hit by the angry man. You barely have time to register what is happening before Frank reaches you. You literally just woke up.

“Frank—” you don’t get a chance to ask a question. Only his name makes it past your lips.

“What the hell is goin’ on with ya’, kid?” the older man snaps once again, words meant for the masked person in his kitchen. He looks over his shoulder again and then looks towards you. His wide eyes search you up and then he ends up grabbing your shoulders. His hands gripping both shoulders as if he needed to see that you were real.

Pulling you closer and looking you over as if you had been shot. Not webbed by the kid in the mask that is somehow standing in your shared kitchen.

Spider-Man stares at you, the white eyes wide. The woman nervously looks, arms crossed over her chest. This is all so confusing. A fever dream, maybe you’re just sick and this is a dream. Maybe a nightmare.

“Who—who is that, Frank?” the younger voice demands out, high pitched and surprised. The masked boy starts pointing at you with the same hand from where he shot the webs at you.

Frank quickly turns his head and pulls out another grimace on his face, “none of yer damn fuckin’ business, kid.”

“Woah, okay,” the other woman quietly says under her breath and nods her head a few times, leaning her hip against the counter in the kitchen.

There is a brief silence.

Then he stares at the masked person for a few brief seconds before he turns towards you. His face easing up, the furrow leaving and eyes softening at the sight of the only person he wanted to have in his kitchen tonight.

“Man! You never told me–” the loud voice of the masked boy started to boom across the kitchen before getting cut off by a yelp and the sound of a hand hitting something. The younger girl slapped the masked hero on his shoulder, shutting him up. The man in robe starts to turn his head over his shoulder, but he quickly gets stopped.

“Frank.”

The tone of your voice makes the man in the robe stop from barking out something at the kid. Anchoring him in the spot.

“Listen–” Frank starts to say, but you cut him off.

“Why the hell is Spider-Man in our kitchen?”

“Listen to me–” he tries again, his voice dropping, trying to softly explain the situation. But he does not get a chance to continue again. His words are cut off by your own ones.

“And why is my hand webbed to the door?” you cut off the man again, moving your gaze down to where it is still stuck to the metal door.

His eyes drop to your hand and then he groans out loudly that it makes Spider-Man turn around awkwardly, moving further away from the angry man and you.

“Okay, in my defense—” the masked boy starts to speak again, defending himself and his little webbing problem that he threw in this tiny boat kitchen.

“No,” huffs out the older man. Not turning around to face the masked boy.

“You never even told me you had someone else here! What was I supposed to do?” the masked hero throws his hands up in the air, voice raising up.

“Ehh–definitely not shoot a damn web, kid!” Frank then finally, but pointedly looks at him over his shoulder, his hands ripping off the sticky web that holds your hand and the door together. Clinging stubbornly to his own hand, disgusting little thing.

The web sticks to his fingers and he makes a disgusted grimace, lips turning down and nose scrunching, throwing it into the opened garbage bin next to the door. Frank then exhales sharply through his nose, warm breath fanning over your face when he turns back towards you, rubbing a hand over his face in a manner that makes his emotions very clear. It’s an utter joke. This whole situation is one big joke. Spider-Man once again mentioned the stupid Staten Island and that’s what made him accept this favour, according to the spider’s words, he owed him for that. Even though he and you knew it was bullshit. The guy wouldn’t get Frank in any possible scenario and the spider is exaggerating it all.

You stare up at Frank and it feels a bit awkward with the two new additions in your kitchen. Frank shakes his head and his hand shoots up, fingers wrapping around your wrist and he pushes you backward. Pushing you towards where you had come from, the spare guest room.

“I’ll go put some pants on,” he huffs out with a low voice to the guests in the kitchen. Irritated as ever. He was afterall still wearing his stupid grey robe. Then he continued, “and gon’ explain this bullshit to ya’,” he looks down at you at the second part.

He guides you back to the room and shuts the heavy metal door behind him. His hand unwraps from your wrist, but before he completely lets go off you. He raises it up to his mouth gently, his head bending down and plants his lips against the skin of your knuckles. Soft, gentle like he was holding something precious. The big, bad Punisher, kissing your knuckles like a piece of an angel.

Frank whispers out against your knuckles, muffled with another kiss that he gave your hand, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Then he follows you into the bedroom. You lead the way, him trailing right behind you. When you enter the room, Frank reaches for the light switch and switches it on with a faint click, it flickers a few times before a familiar, yellow-ish light fills the small room of the boat that you both share as a bedroom. Frank then walks straight towards the closet, opening it and reaches for the pair of pants that he is not currently wearing. Black, like always.

Then without turning towards you, no sly remark, he pulls the black pants on with a huff of breath. Then he unwraps the grey robe from his waist and hastily throws it onto the bed without turning around.

“You let Spider-Man and his friend into our boat because he claimed that you… owed him for Staten Island? I guess?”

Frank’s silence answers you. He told you about it multiple times, the kid kept mentioning it whenever he’d run into him. Your eyes narrow at the silence that the man gives you.

“Frank.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“He’s dang annoying and wants to keep his girlfriend safe. I was… gon' tell ya’,” he speaks with that rasp in his voice and rubs a hand over his jaw, still turned with his back to you, staring at the opened doors of the closet. Looking at the shelves and hanging clothes.

“When?” you ask the man, stepping closer to the doorway. Leaning your shoulder against it, finding a comfortable stance.

Frank looks up towards the ceiling with a long sigh, “...soon.”

You chuckle at that. He turns at the sound of that and sees your stance. Arms crossed over your chest, shoulder resting against the doorframe as you watch him closely and Frank pauses. Genuinely pauses, life stopping in his chest. Breathing stopped too. And for a good few moments, neither of you speak up.

Then he comes towards you, crossing the room in a few steps. The space between you and Frank shrinks until there’s barely anything left between the two of you. Chest touching chest. Then, his arm slides around your waist, going from your stomach to your back and to your side, his firm hand pulling you closer to him. The other hand comes up under your jaw, fingers slipping over your skin until his hand holds your jawline the way he wants, the familiar way you know. With his hand, he then softly tilts your face towards him, making you stare up to his brown eyes, rough with memories and soft with your presence. He pulls your head up with a gentleness that doesn’t match the sight of him. The sight of how they called him, the Punisher.

Your own arms unlock from where you have them crossed over your chest and loop around Frank’s neck, fingers settling at the back of it. Hands holding the nape, the hairs shuffling between your fingers. Then you rest your weight on the back of his neck, pulling him down. Even closer, if that’s possible. Frank exhales and then he dips down. Down against your mouth.

He kisses you.

Lips slotting against lips.

He tilts your head up to his, adjusting the way your mouths move. His hand at your waist tightens a bit more as he leans into it. Down into the kiss. The hand under your jaw slides slightly up, the palm of his hand now covering your cheek and his thumb rests under your eye. Pulling you in, deepening it like his lips and your lips were the only thing holding him up.

Frank shifts you back without breaking the kiss you are having. He slowly starts guiding you backwards until your entire back meets the doorframe behind you, not just your shoulder. His hand at your waist slides up and then down, hunching your shirt up and then letting it down back down. Then he tilts your head to the side, your neck moving and your ear nearly touches your shoulder. He goes the opposite way, moving the kiss without your noses colliding. It wasn’t messy, just passionate and a good heat involved. Sweet, warm and delicious. Like a dream. Mouth opening, lips wet and hands wandering.

Then his lips fall from your, now the tips of your lips touching. A small, warm feeling.

The man then pulls a bit away, your lips far for another kiss to be done. He doesn’t step away though, keeping you against the doorway, body facing the hallway. His back turned towards the guest room.

“Now,” Frank says with a deep voice, his hand moving slightly higher at your side. The other hand drops from your cheek, moving to the side of your neck, “...’bout the kids in our kitchen.”

He glances briefly towards the guest room, his warm breath fans over your face as he looks over his shoulder and then turns his head back towards you.

Frank does that noise of his before he speaks, “eeeh–kid has been talking ‘bout that goddamn Staten Island shit and how I owe him for tha’,” he chuckles out with a disbelieving expression, “his girlfriend is in danger, apparently needs my fuckin’ help for tha’.”

“Isn’t he already sick of that story about Staten Island?” you chuckle a bit louder, a smile forming on your face.

“That’s exactly what I asked him!” he barks out loudly, shaking his head. His head dips down and he lets his lips fall upon your cheek, planting a kiss there. Warm and gentle. Then he raises his head back up, staring down at you with a hint of a smirk that lays on his lips.

“Listen, sweetheart, he bothered me in the city too. I told ya', ya'know. At that fuckin’ tank. Jesus. The kid’s gon’ tell me what he really needs me t’ do and then I can figure—” the man’s words get once again cut off. This time differently. You pull his hair again, the tiny strands at his neck that aren’t buzzed up into that fade he has on, and he instantly shuts himself off and drops his head down. Lips falling onto yours, slotting to the position like they were before.

His hand instantly slides from your neck back up to your jaw, pulling your head up and making you stand up higher than before as he deepened the kiss. His hand settles against your cheek and jaw, his hand big and heavy on your face. He leans further down, trying to enter himself into your mouth with his own lips.

You pull away, a catch of breath trying to be made, but then Frank, like the man he is, goes back down. Lips finding yours messily, first falling on the corners and wetting them up. Then he moves to the lips, fitting together with a heavy push of his lips against yours. Your fingers grip, tighten up in his hair, pulling.

His name escapes your lips.

Making the sound against your lips, somewhere in between a whine and a prayer. His name is a whisper, a soft and debilitated pronunciation of his name.

His lips turn, pulls slightly from yours into a faint little Castle smirk. And then he pushes further, another kiss and another and another. His lips pull your top lip, his nose nudging your closed eyes. He was so pushy, so full of want and love.

Frank’s hand moves to your side in a different way. With a push, he guides you out of the doorway of your shared bedroom, he turns you towards the wall of the hallway. Not the bedroom. Then neither of you is blocking the doorway, now standing sideways in the boat’s hallway. Your back is against the metal wall and you realize it after he pulls away again, for a breath that fills his mouth.

“Frank. Frank, Frank, Frank,” you manage out, voice not delivering the right tone for the words, voice a bit uneven, “we have—Frank. The kitchen—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he flaps out. No care in his voice.

He continues with the mess, his grip tightens. Fingers dig to your sides, head turns from side to side, tongue swipes and wets. Lips move in a dance that can’t be performed any other time. It’s almost impossible to describe the utter feeling inside your chests, it’s everywhere. Frank is everywhere. His lips, especially. His hands, too.

The guest room doors at the end of the hallway swings open.

Fucking hell.

Then Spider-Man steps out first, mid-sentence, still talking with that high voice of his, gesturing vaguely with his hands in the air, waving and doing shit. Your and Frank’s heads snap towards the sound, both eyes wide.

“—I’m just saying, his whole boat will get burned down because of–”

“–won’t burn because of a chilli!”

Both Spider-Man’s and the girl’s voices stumble over each other, overlapping each other. Louder than every other word they say, trying to get themselves together to form a good sentence to let each other know about the kitchen’s awful smell. The girl steps to the view too.

Spider-Man’s head snaps upward the hallway.

He sees you.

He sees Frank.

And sees the position at the end of the hallway.

The girl looks later, still talking about the chilli that Frank had been cooking. Her eyes snap wide open when she sees the pair of other wide eyes staring at her from the end of the boat’s hallway. Her entire body turns on instinct. Fully away.

“Oh my God.”

And then she is gone.

“Cool, cool, cool! Very cool, so sorry. Sorry–” the younger boy stumbles over his own words, holding his hand out in front of his eyes as if it would cover whatever was happening. It’s not like you and Frank were naked or having a brutally intimate situation in the middle of the hallway, just a slight kissing with a sprinkle of something deeper. Spiderman follows the way of his friend, moving away from the hallway.

Frank’s voice is loud. Very loud. Deep, but loud.

“I swear to God, kid, I’m gonna kill you!”

Spider-Man’s voice comes right back, “your chilli is burned!”

“I don’t give a flying shit about the damn fuckin’ chilli!”

He yells back, his voice rising. His hand leaves your cheek, the other one still rests on your side, the grip no longer the same. Somehow, the boy in the mask continues, “you were cooking it, Frank! I thought you–” he doesn’t get the chance to continue as the older man practically yells out like a soldier back at him.

“Why the fuck can’t you leave me and my wife alone for five fucking seconds?”

And then it’s quiet.

But then you hear muffled voices, hushed. Trying to talk quietly. The girl’s voice and the boy in a mask. In your kitchen with that stupid, burned chilli that Frank was making before he brought two guests onto your boat. Their voices fade farther away, they’re probably shutting the door to let you two have a moment to compose.

You look at Frank, gaze moving from the end of the hallway.

Frank is looking down the hallway. Furrow between his heavy brows, frustration filling his face.

A small chuckle escapes you. You can’t help it. Then he turns and Frank’s eyes slowly move towards you, looking down from where his frustrated face is.

“Eeh–it’s goddamn funny, huh?” Frank nudges you with his voice. He doesn’t find it as funny as you do. You shake your head, disagreeing with the man, even if there is a small smile on your lips. Trying to cover the truth.

You slide your hand from his neck to his chest and smile up at him, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Nope.”

He gives you a long, exhausted look that says too many things to you. As if he is reconsidering every decision he has made today, he hates this entire day and night. The moments with you fill the blanks with good parts, other than that it's utter bullshit and a waste of a day. Spider-Man and his nonsense. Then a kiss, on your lips. Tiny and gentle before he pulls away and lets you stnd back up from the wall of the bot, moving slowly down the hallway with a blush in your cheeks that you could feel on your face and with a special feeling in your chest that sits there right now.

Behind that closed door, behind the guest room and another closed door is the kitchen. And in the kitchen are two guests who seemed to get quite updated on the life of a certain someone. Specifically Spider-Man who has known this man for a good while. He just did not notice, that’s all. MJ is making it a big deal.

“Wife? Wife?” Spider-Man throws his hands up, his voice is loud and high-pitched, “Frank is married?”

“You didn’t know that Frank had a wife?”

“No, I didn't! How was I supposed to know?”

“The ring on his finger?” MJ’s face is full of disbelief.

“What?

“What what?” she shakes her head so swiftly from side to side, wide eyes staring at him.

“He has a ring?”

“Oh my God, and you call yourself–”

“Well, sorry! I don’t notice rings on people’s hands when they’re shooting at me and others!” he exclaims loudly, throwing his hands up into the air as if he is throwing out some confetti.

“He had it on his hand right now! And you never even asked him–”

“No, I didn’t! Forget it, MJ. I did noooot know.”

And he knows that he is going to have an amazing conversation with Frank himself the next time.

୨ৎ feedback is very appreciated!!!!

i LOOVEDD spiderman brand new day, i saw it twice and i need to rewatch lol!! also obsessed with frank in this movie he's so silly! a bit diff in the show iyk lmfaooooo hope u enjoyed this!! <3

While Peter gapes beneath his mask, Frank sips on his coffee. “Did you need something? It's early.”

“How'd you two meet?”

Frank sighs roughly, shaking his head and closing his eyes in annoyance. “Christ.”

“Can’t I know? We're supposed to be friends!” Peter rounds and sits at the table eagerly, like a child cozying in bed for a bedtime story.

“What is this, like a wellness check?” Frank grumbles and takes another chug. “Kid, it's early. Go home. Sun’s barely up.”

Peter whines, “Come on!” when Frank pulls him by the ear and drags him out. He asks, quickly, “Is she nice? Does she eat your chili? Can I meet her—”

“Yes, no, and no,” Frank answers in rapid succession. He pushes Peter out the door. “She's a well-kept secret and it’ll stay that way.”

A slam from the front door rattles the bedroom. You yawn when Frank comes back to bed moments later, shrugging his robe off and slipping under the covers with you.

“Who was that?” You ask, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Frank clicks his tongue and settles on your pillow. "Just the kid.”

You throw your arm over his waist and nuzzle into his chest. “What’d he want?”

He grunts, rumbling his chest under your ear. A hand smooths down your hair while the other keeps your arm close. “Don't worry ‘bout it. Just sleep.”

“He should come over for dinner.”

“Baby.”

“Alright, alright,” you concur, dozing off and him with you.

his stubble catches against sensitive skin and your leg twitches.

“easy,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “’s just me.”

as if that helps. your hands tigthen in the sheets when he kisses higher, closer, your whole body going stiff with anticipation before he’s even really done anything.

his mouth is right at the edge of you. he breathes you in, then looks up, eyes are dark and steady. “look at me.”

you do. barely. your face is hot.

you stay quiet. you always stay quiet. it isn’t even something you mean to do anymore. every little noise catches somewhere between your chest and your mouth and gets swallowed before it can escape, embarrassment arriving faster than pleasure ever gets the chance to.

dean leans in and drags the flat of his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke.

you jerk.

he does it again, slower this time, tasting you properly. “fuck, baby… you taste so good.”

he settles in, hands spreading your thighs wider. he licks you open, tongue circling your entrance before sliding up to your clit, sucking gently, then harder, then soft again. every time you try to stay still he just keeps going, patient and filthy.

“you don’t gotta be quiet,” he says against you. you can hear the smile in his voice. “nobody’s here but us. let me hear you.”

you bite your lip. a tiny sound still escapes. barely a breath. dean’s eyes flash.

“that’s it. just like that.”

he slides two fingers inside you, curling them carefully until he finds the spot that makes your whole body go tight. he rubs there in slow, steady circles while his tongue works your clit.

the wet sounds are loud in the quiet room.

he doesn’t rush. he just keeps licking, sucking, fucking you open with his fingers.

“so pretty like this,” he murmurs between strokes. “all soft and shy and taking everything i give you. you feel how wet you are? drippin’ all over my hand.” he curls his fingers deeper. “gonna make you come on my tongue, honey. but i want a sound first. just one. can you do that for me?”

you shake your head, but your hips are rolling against his mouth now. he chuckles low, the vibration shooting straight through you.

“stubborn.” he sucks your clit harder, fingers pumping a little faster. “come on. i know it’s in there. let me hear how good it feels.”

your thighs start to tremble. he kisses the soft skin on the inside of one, then the other, never stopping the steady rhythm of his tongue and fingers.

“that’s my girl. so quiet but your body’s tellin’ me everything. clenchin’ around my fingers like you don’t want me to stop.”

he flattens his tongue and licks you in long, filthy strokes, then focuses back on your clit, circling, sucking, teasing. the pressure builds slow and heavy. you can feel it coiling tight in your stomach.

dean lifts his head just enough to speak, breath hot against your soaked skin. “gonna keep eatin’ this pretty pussy until you give me something. a moan. a whimper. my name. anything. i’ll wait all night.”

he dives back in, more determined now. his fingers curl harder. his tongue works you with precision. the praise keeps coming.

“so good for me. taste so fuckin’ sweet. look at you tryin’ so hard to stay quiet. but i got you, baby. just let it out.”

your breath hitches. your hands fly to his hair. when the orgasm finally hits it’s quiet at first—your whole body locking up, thighs shaking around his head—then a soft, broken sound slips out of you. half-moan, half-gasp. barely anything.

dean groans like it’s the best thing he’s ever heard. he keeps licking you through it, gentle now, fingers slowing until you’re trembling and oversensitive.

he kisses your clit once more, soft, then presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh. “knew you had it in you.”

he crawls up your body and kisses you slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you stay quiet against his mouth, but your arms wind around his neck and hold on tight.

dean smiles against your lips. “next time i’m gonna get more than that. but that little sound? fuckin’ perfect.”

@violets-library requested ⠀ ݁⠀ 𓂂　 a Dean version of ‘soft sounds’