bea’s reads & rants

"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 was laying in your lap as your back rested on the thick tree trunk, your free hand carding through his thick hair as the other he was holding to his chest, pressing the occasional kiss to the back of it. But in this case, he let the kiss trail down your fingers, and his mouth lingered. 

Clay couldn’t help himself and nipped at your fingertips like a bird would to show their affection. 

You pulled your hand back from his mouth, and a surprised laugh escaped you. “What was that for?” 

“Just felt like doing it.” Clay sent you a smile, his eyes lidded from your nails scratching at his scalp. 

You pressed your thumb against his smiling lips. “So you’re a biter huh?” 

Clay laughed, grabbing your wrist and pulling your hand away from his mouth. He sat up from your lap, his face getting closer to yours. “Maybe.” He murmured. 

“Maybe?” You parroted back as you leaned closer to him. The scent of pine, amber, and tobacco filled your lungs as you rested your forehead on his. 

“Would you like to find out?” His hazel eyes glittered with desire as his lips ghosted over yours. 

And found out you did once you got back to your apartment. You traced the faint imprints on your skin from his mouth as you looked into your mirror after your shared shower. He came up from behind you, pressing apologetic kisses to the bite marks that littered your skin. 

“M’sorry if I bit too hard.” Clay murmured into your neck. 

“It’s fine, I kinda asked for it.” 

Clay pressed a gentle kiss to the crook of your neck before turning you around his arms. You let your hands rest on his bare chest as he looked down at you with a serious gaze. 

“If it’s too hard, just let me know okay?” 

“I promise.” You reassured Clay, seeing the concern in his eyes. 

“Good.” He murmured before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

From then on, Clay would casually bite anything he could reach in the comfort of either of your apartments. They were never too hard, just little nips anywhere he could reach, your fingers, forearm, neck, inner thighs—the only time that they were was when Clay lost himself in you as he chased his release. 

His hips pistoned into you, Clay’s face shoved into your neck, nipping and biting at the skin there, marking you up as his own. You couldn’t help but let out moans at the feeling of his teeth on your skin as sweat coated the two of you. 

Yeah, he was definitely a biter. 

the backseat of the impala became your most cherished spot, it's the one dean will rush you in when he desperately needs to feel your burning skin pressed under his aching muscles, allowing you to find shelter away from his brother's nosiness.

you love it when he pushes you against the cold leathered bench in the backseat, giving him full view of your flushed face, adorned by the soft streaks of moonlight. it feels much more intimate than any motel rooms, with none of your soft moans piercing through the walls for sam and a bunch of strangers to hear.

the almost routine-like feeling of it all makes it exiting, and you anticipate the moment he'll drag you to his car in the middle of the night with a cocky smirk on his face. it always end up with dean casting shadows over your body, kissing you sloppily until spit slides down your chins.

it's deliciously obscene, the sounds you both make, so visibly turned on but too caught up in the act to do anything about it. until dean's hand trails down from its familiar spot on your throat to your waistband, before tugging on the stretchy material of your underwear, a smile twisting his reddened lips upwards when it hits your sensitive skin with a smack.

dean never refrains himself from teasing, especially when he's buried deep inside you, because he knows damn well you'll get your revenge as soon as possible, and he secretly enjoys it.

it's almost like your pussy has been carved for him, fitting perfectly against his palm. your walls are shaped to the size of his fingers, working inside you so beautifully each time to the point where nobody else can make you cum like he does. and when you're alone, desperately trying to reach this high, you find yourself blushing and panting, wishing dean could just appear right at the foot of your bed to help you finish.

dean genuinely likes it, knowing that you can't even satisfy yourself fully anymore. it's a type of pride you've never seen before, the way he always wants to be the one to offer you a release. even if he's not seeking sex, which is rare, he'll never turn you down when he notices how flustered and needy you are.

he likes to say that he's giving you a hand, as if it were a simple act of service. that's not exactly the term you'd use when he's got you squirming and whimpering, his fingers endlessly pumping in and out of you as he strokes your hair like you're some sort of fragile porcelain doll.

"you're doing so good, baby" his raspy voice always sends you over the edge, as it is often accompanied by innumerable sweet praises that he whispers against you mouth when you're too weak and struggling to kiss him back.

dean also loves to make you ride his fingers, seeing you propped up on his lap while you bounce on him, the cold metal of his ring making you shiver; it all paints a perfect picture he wishes for no one else to see.

this is what he loves most about you; knowing that you're entirely his, as much as he is yours.

You could smell it wafting down the hall, dragging you forward as your fluffy slippers padded along the tile. Sam was sitting at the kitchen table, and Dean was cooking at the stove, both pairs of eyes flitting to you as you appeared at the door.

‘Morning,’ you yawned, patting the top of Sam’s head affectionately as you passed. He watched as you reached in the cabinet for a cup and your tiny sleep shorts rode north of your thighs and immediately averted his gaze. But Dean didn’t. He glanced at you as you appeared as his side, eyes dipping to the swell of your chest as you pushed in leaning across him to reach for a piece of bacon he’d loaded up on a paper towel beside you.

As you successfully nabbed a piece and chomped on it you looked up at him grinning smugly before you toddled over to Sam.

Normally he’d have offered you something. A bit of banter, some teasing, a swat on your behind with the spatula sitting limp in his hand.

When he didn’t you hesitated and when you looked up, he was still, like he was thinking before he declared, ‘okay, I can’t do this anymore.’

‘Dean,’ Sam warned, shooting his brother a stern look.

‘No Sam, it’s driving me crazy and don’t pretend like it’s not for you either,’ he sighed.

Then both of them turned to look at you. You’d been nibbling on a piece of bacon but stopped when you found them watching you. You paused, and swallowed a jagged piece of it before you said, ‘…what’s going on?’

‘Sweetheart, you’re killing us here,’ Dean admitted.

‘What?’ you frowned, looking between them. Sam dropped his gaze to the table.

‘The clothes, the flirting, the touching. Everything. It’s torture,’ Dean said, stepping away from the stove to stand near Sam, his eyes locked on yours.

You felt yourself flush immediately, your tank top and shorts suddenly feeling very revealing. But it wasn’t exactly conscious. Well it had been at first. You liked how Dean watched you when you wore something tight or low cut, you liked Sam pretending not to. You liked yours and Dean’s back forth, played like a game of tennis until the room was palpable with sexual tension. You liked making Sam blush. You liked that when you drove home Dean made Sam give you the front seat because you liked lying on him. You liked putting your feet in Sam’s lap when you read in the library. You liked that on hunts you got to pick who to share a bed with, how rock, paper, scissors was now serious because Dean wanted to win this time.

You’d thought it was just harmless fun. Clearly, they felt differently.

‘Oh…I didn’t know it bothered you,’ you mumbled, stomach sinking.

‘It doesn’t,’ Sam said gently, finally meeting your eyes.

‘Then what?’

‘It bothers us that’s it both of us,’ Dean said.

And that stopped any response. Because you hadn’t meant to hurt them.

‘Look what Dean means is… we get it. If this is just a bit of fun for you and you like it but it’s…’ Sam said but he shifted uncomfortably, ‘what I mean is-’

‘It’s starting to become not fun for us,’ Dean cut in, his jaw tight.

‘What do you mean?’ you whispered.

‘Do you really have to ask?’ Sam murmured.

‘We like you,’ Dean said.

‘We both like you,’ Sam corrected, ‘and it’s starting to cause friction-’

‘Oh,’ you said.

You were causing a rift between them. You’d meant it light-heartedly, but deep down you’d wanted more. You just assumed it couldn’t happen because you loved them both so much. Which was why your heart sank as Dean said, ‘so we want you to pick.’

‘Pick?’

‘One of us. The other backs off, no harm, no foul,’ Dean promised. You looked to Sam for confirmation this was ridiculous, but he just looked at you expectantly.

‘Guys,’ you started, but the rest of the words got caught in your throat.

‘Look you don’t need to decide right now,’ Sam offered.

‘But what if I can’t,’ you whispered.

‘What?’ Sam asked

‘What if I want you both?’

‘Both?’ Dean paled.

You could see the shock in their faces. Shock. Like they’d never considered it because who would. They were brothers, closer than that, but still you couldn’t expect them to be fine with sharing, or whatever mad idea you’d stored in the back of your mind hoping you might get it. You watched them shift, that tiny imperceptible to the outside world thing they did when they were discussing something in that eerie ESP way.

It didn’t matter. You wanted the ground to swallow you hole. To get you away from the words, from the shame of admitting it, from them.

‘Never mind, forget I said anything,’ you mumbled, tripping over the bench as you started to flee.

‘Hey, don’t-’ Sam started.

‘Just forget it,’ you said, throwing him a dismissive hand but never looking at him.

‘Sweetheart come on-’ Dean sighed trying to reach for you, but you got away before he could get closer, fluffy slippers thwacking down the hall as you ran away from them.

‘Well that went well,’ Dean grumbled, sinking into a seat at the table.

‘Tell me about it,’ Sam sighed, though as he looked at Dean, the heavy question hanging between them.

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A week.

You hadn’t spoken to the boys in nearly a week. In fact you’d barely come out of your room. You’d heard them both come to your door at different points, soft footsteps, shifted weight. You were sure one of them had even hovered a hand against the wood ready to knock but had thought better of it even though they knew you were in there, even if you had stopped breathing for that minute.

It was only manageable when they went out on a hunt, You could at least use the kitchen and bathroom in peace.

You wished you’d never opened your mouth. Wished you’d told them that you didn’t want to cause issues and would stop whatever it was you kept instigating between each of you. After all you didn’t want to cause trouble. No friction. That was the word they’d used. You couldn’t cause issues between them. If they didn’t want you around fine, you’d leave. It’d devastate you but you would.

You were just on your way out. It was just going dark, but you needed groceries, well rations for your confinement. You’d heard movement, one of them down near the boys’ rooms, someone in the bathroom. So you spied your chance and moved quickly.

You were just past the kitchen door when Dean appeared calling your name. You stopped, hiding your wince before you turned around and offered him a smile.

‘Got a minute?’  

‘Oh, um I was just-’

‘Only I dropped something down the side of a bookshelf and it’s stuck, my arms are too big to fit,’ he explained, his face falling as he added, ‘Jack’s out.’

‘Oh, okay,’ you nodded.

Dean gestured for you to head to the library, and you headed that way, your heart flip flopping inside your chest. Only when you got there Sam was sitting at the table, a chair pulled out for you expectantly.

You immediately turned, trying to flee but Dean caught you, a solid wall of muscle as you protested, ‘Dean.’

‘Not a chance,’ he said grabbing you and steering you into a chair opposite Sam.

You sat down, folding your arms across your chest as Dean rounded the table and took the seat next to Sam. You felt them both watching you, but you refused to meet their eye feeling like a moody teenager at a job interview.

‘Okay awkward,’ Dean mused earning himself a glare from you an elbow from Sam whose face was softer, kinder as he explained, ‘look we just figured we should clear the air.’

‘You know so you can stop pouting,’ Dean added.

‘I’m not pouting,’ you grumbled.

‘Hey, I’m all for it. Makes you look cute,’ Dean countered, making your lip twitch despite yourself.

‘What Dean means is we talked about it,’ Sam said carefully, ‘about what you said.’

‘What I said was embarrassing.’

‘Oh yeah, what was it? You have such a burning desire for both of us you just can’t choose?’ Dean mocked.

‘Dean,’ Sam warned, though his mouth curved up in a smile, ‘but yeah that.’

‘What did you say?’ you asked.

‘We came to an agreement,’ Sam said.

‘What is it?’

‘You said you can’t pick,’ Sam began.

‘So we’re not gonna make you,’ Dean finished. You let out a sigh of relief.

‘Okay so we can just move on. I’ll stop flirting, I’ll get it go-’

‘No we meant you can have both of us.’

You weren’t sure which one of them had said it. It didn’t matter because your brain had malfunctioned as soon as the words had come out.

‘What?’

‘You can’t pick. And to be honest, neither of us want to give you up,’ Dean said.

‘I don’t,’ you said, leaning forward your head spinning, ‘what exactly are you saying?’

‘Look were not exactly normal we get that,’ Sam started, leaning closer, hand brushing against your wrist that made your breath hitch, the absence of him this week magnified by one touch.

‘I mean were not weird either,’ Dean said quickly.

‘Yeah, no crossover,’ Sam said, his ears tinging pink, ‘but we can…share.’

‘What am I, a condo in Boca?’ you asked.

‘You know what we mean,’ Sam said gently, his thumb brushing against your wrist.

You looked it and then at him.

You looked down at Sam’s hand, then up at Dean. Dean looked steady and sure; Sam looked warm and reassuring.

‘So I date both of you?’ you asked.

‘If you want,’ Sam said. Dean nodded.

‘How do we…I mean are we gonna have to work out a custody agreement,’ you chuckled nervously. Dean smirked, ‘yeah. Sam gets days, I get nights.’

Sam rolled his eyes.

‘I don’t think we need that. I mean we work and live together. We find our own time with you already I don’t think it’d be that hard to work out,’ he shrugged.

‘Yeah. And if all else fails, we’ve always got rock, paper, scissors,’ Dean joked, pulling a small laugh from you that died too soon. Because you wanted so badly to agree but you could hear their words in your head.

‘What about friction?’ you asked, shooting Dean a warning look before he could offer the retort he wanted to, ‘you said it was coming between you. I don’t wanna be worrying about causing issues. I don’t want you two falling out because of me.’

‘We talked about that,’ Sam assured, ‘we agreed that if anything comes up, we talk about it.’

‘You two?’ you asked raising a sceptical eyebrow.

‘Hey, we can work well together, when we want something,’ Dean countered.

You contemplated it for a moment.

‘You’re sure about this?’ you asked.

Sam nodded. Then Dean.

‘Okay,’ you breathed, squeezing Sam’s hand before you stood up. Both of them watched you curiously.

‘Where you going?’ Dean asked as you started headed back to your room.

‘I’m going getting ready,’ you said, looking expectantly at them as they looked confused, ‘I have a date tonight.’

‘With which one of us?’ Sam asked.

‘Whoever wins rock, paper, scissors, duh.’

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supernatural/sam/dean tags

“easy, baby,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, voice low and warm. “just let me hear you. that’s all i want.”

your cheeks burn. you’re so shy it hurts sometimes, the way noises try to crawl up your throat and you swallow them back down.

sam knows. he loves it.

the way you bite your lip, the way your hips twitch like you can’t decide whether to push closer or hide.

he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss right above your clit. you suck in a sharp breath, fingers twisting in the sheets.

“there you go,” he whispers, smiling against your skin. “give me one more.”

his tongue slides through your folds, flat and warm, tasting you like he’s got all night. a tiny, broken whimper slips out before you can stop it. your thighs try to close on instinct. sam’s hands hold them apart.

“don’t hide from me,” he says softly. “i love every sound you make. even the quiet ones.”

he licks again, slower this time, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue before sucking lightly. your back arches off the bed. another whimper, higher, shakier. you press the back of your hand to your mouth, trying to muffle it.

sam groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “fuck, baby. do that again.”

he sucks harder, tongue flicking fast and perfect. you can’t help it—a soft, needy moan escapes, then another when he slides one long finger inside you, curling just right. your hips jerk, squirming under his mouth. the wet sounds of his tongue and your slick fill the room, embarrassingly loud to your own ears.

“s-sam…” it comes out tiny, almost a whisper.

“louder,” he encourages, voice rough with want. he adds a second finger, thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays on your clit. “let me hear how good it feels.”

you’re panting now, chest heaving, trying so hard to stay quiet and failing beautifully.

every lick, every curl of his fingers pulls another whimper, another broken moan from your throat. your legs shake. your free hand fists in his hair.

sam’s hips rock against the mattress in time with your sounds. he’s so hard it hurts, cock straining against his jeans, leaking just from the shy little noises you’re giving him.

he doesn’t touch himself. doesn’t need to. your whimpers are enough.

“you’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs between licks, voice reverent. “so wet for me. so shy and still letting me hear you. god, i could stay here all night.”

a particularly loud moan tears from you when he sucks your clit between his lips and hums. your whole body squirms, hips bucking up into his mouth. you’re close, embarrassingly fast, the pressure building tight and hot.

“sam— please—” the words come out whiny, needy, nothing like your usual quiet voice.

“that’s it,” he praises, fingers moving faster. “come on, baby. let go. let me hear you come.”

you do. the orgasm crashes over you in waves, and for once you don’t try to stop the sounds. soft cries and whimpers spill from your lips, growing louder as pleasure rolls through you.

sam moans against your clit, hips grinding harder into the bed, chasing his own release just from the sound of you falling apart.

he works you through it, tongue gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive, little aftershocks making you whimper softly. only then does he pull back, lips shiny, eyes dark with lust and affection.

you’re still breathing hard, face flushed, when he crawls up your body and kisses you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “beautiful,” he whispers against your mouth. “every single sound.”

your heart flutters, shy again now that the haze is lifting. but sam just smiles, nuzzling into your neck, his own breathing still ragged. he came untouched, just from listening to you. and the way he holds you after, like you’re something precious, makes the shyness feel a little less heavy.

you tuck your face into his shoulder anyway, hiding the small, satisfied smile that won’t quite leave your lips.

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’

Under the stream of lukewarm water, you leaned against the slick tile, letting the grime and iron-scented blood wash off your skin. Every muscle in your back burned, locked tight from the fight.

In the main room, Sam was already in full post-hunt lockjaw. The steady, rhythmic clink of gun parts hitting the formica table meant he was stripping down his Glock, hyper-focused, oblivious.

Then came the soft, familiar click of the bathroom latch sliding open.

You didn’t jump. You just closed your eyes, letting a slow, quiet smile pull at your lips.

Dean didn't announce himself. He never did. But his presence filled the cramped room instantly—heavy, warm, smelling of stale Impala leather, gun oil, and rain. The thud of his heavy work boots hitting the linoleum was followed by the soft rustle of denim and flannel dropping into a heap on the floor.

You opened your eyes as a shadow blocked the dim light through the semi-translucent curtain. Broad shoulders, the familiar jagged line of a scar running down his ribs, and those unmistakable green eyes locking onto yours through the haze.

He tugged the curtain back. Steam rushed out to meet him as he stepped into the stall, his weight making the porcelain tub creak beneath his feet.

"You're taking all the hot water," Dean grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp straight off a twelve-hour drive.

"I was here first," you murmured, spinning around to face him. "And you're supposed to be watching the door, Winchester. Sam's ten feet away."

"Sam's got his headphones in, drowning in research," Dean said, the corner of his mouth curving into that cocky, familiar smirk. "He won't hear a damn thing unless you start screaming."

Before you could reply, his hands—rough, calloused, and slippery with water—cuffed the back of your waist, yanking you flush against his chest. The shock of his warm, bare skin against yours pulled a sharp breath from your lungs, but Dean caught it, smothering your reaction with a mouth that was hot, demanding, and utterly relentless.

It wasn't gentle. It never really was with Dean—it was pure, unfiltered adrenaline and survival instinct disguised as a distraction. He kissed you with a bruised desperation, his tongue sliding past your lips, claiming your mouth like he was trying to burn off the lingering stench of the grave they'd just closed.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his wet hair, pulling him deeper into it. The heat between you turned the cool shower water hot where your bodies pressed together.

Dean groaned into your throat, his grip tightening on your hips until his knuckles dug into your skin. He pushed you back until your spine hit the wet tile, his thigh sliding firmly between yours. Every point of contact was searing—his chest heavy against your breasts, his mouth trailing down the line of your jaw to bite gently at the sensitive pulse point under your ear.

"Dean..." you gasped, a hand going to his shoulder, half to push him away, half to hold him closer. "Keep it down. If Sam walks in—"

"He isn't walking in," Dean growled against your skin, his hands tracing down your spine, pulling your lower body tight against his. His breath was ragged, hitching in his chest. "Let him worry about the lore. Right now, shut up and let me handle this."

His lips found yours again, harder this time, a fierce, wet bruise of a kiss that stole whatever protest you had left. His hands were everywhere—slick, heavy, and possessing—leaving red marks on your skin that you both knew you'd have to cover up with high collars before sunrise.

The sudden, heavy double-knock on the bathroom door cracked through the steamy haze like a gunshot.

"Hey," Sam’s muffled voice called out from the main room, punctuated by the metallic thunk of him setting a gun part down on the formica table. "You almost done in there? I can't find Dean. Thought he was out checking the Impala, but his keys are on the nightstand."

You froze, your eyes going wide, a sharp breath catching in your throat.

Dean, on the other hand, didn't even flinch. If anything, the sound of his brother’s voice three feet away only lit a fuse behind his eyes. A dark, wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at you, those green eyes gleaming through the dripping wet bangs plastered to his forehead.

"Yeah!" you called out, your voice tight, trying desperately to sound normal over the steady drum of the shower head. "Just—just wrapping up!"

"Alright, well, tell Dean when he gets back that the revenant lore didn't account for—"

Sam’s words were completely cut off in your head because Dean’s hands slid down to the swell of your thighs. Before you could even register the movement, he hoisted you straight up off your feet. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist to keep from slipping on the wet tile.

Dean’s back flexed, his calloused hands anchoring you firmly against his hips, pinning you to the shower wall.

"Dean, stop," you whispered, the words barely a breath, your hands frantically gripping his slick shoulders.

He didn't stop. He leaned in close, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his ragged, hot breath giving you total chills. "Make me," he growled under his breath, voice barely an inch above a whisper, laced with pure, filthy challenge.

"Did you say something?" Sam asked from the other side of the door, his footsteps pausing right outside the frame.

"No!" you squeezed out, burying your face into the crook of Dean’s neck to muffle a noise as his lips dragged down the sensitive skin of your throat, biting down just hard enough to make your chest heave. You bit your lower lip until you tasted copper, hands knotting in his wet hair, half trying to push him off, half pulling him impossibly closer.

Dean was relentless. Holding your entire weight with effortless, stubborn muscle, he rocked his hips forward, a low, vibration of a groan buzzing in his chest against yours. His mouth found yours again—harder, hotter, suffocating any chance of a slip-up. It was a filthy, dangerous game, and Dean was loving every second of it.

"Okay..." Sam’s voice sounded confused through the wood, lingering for a excruciating beat. "Well... ask him if he wants food when he gets in. I'm hitting the diner across the street."

You broke the kiss just enough to catch a desperate lungful of steam, your knuckles white where you clung to Dean’s shoulders. "Sure! Yeah, I'll... I'll tell him!"

The sound of the heavy motel door opening and clicking shut echoes from the bedroom, followed by silence.

The second the main room was empty, Dean let out a rough, dark laugh against your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed you deeper into the wall, completely taking over.

"Now," he murmured, his eyes burning into yours as he tilted your head back, "where were we?"

The neon sign of the roadside diner buzzed like a trapped hornet, bleeding harsh pink light over the cracked vinyl booth. For three days, Dean had been running his usual play—flirting with every waitress from Toledo to the Kansas state line, throwing out flash-of-the-grin charm for extra pie, free coffee refills, or just because he could.

So when the burly, tattooed bartender at the dive across the street leaned over the laminate counter, you didn't pull away. You leaned in. You smiled, lingered on the conversation a second too long, laughed at a mediocre joke, and let your fingers brush his forearm when you picked up your drink.

Dean didn't make a scene. He didn't drop his glass, and he didn't pick a fight.

He just stopped.

The charm evaporated instantly. The quick-witted banter died in his throat. He set his beer down with a deliberate, heavy clack, his jaw clenched so hard the muscle pulsed under his skin. He didn't look at the bartender, and he didn't look at you. He just stared straight ahead into the dark glass of the bar mirror, his eyes pitch-black and unreadable.

That sudden, suffocating silence was ten times worse than a shout.

The ride back on Route 50 was agonizing.

Up front, the tension inside the Impala was thick enough to choke on. The engine roared, the tires hummed against the asphalt, but Dean hadn't turned on the radio. No cassette tape, no Led Zeppelin, no engine-revving bravado. Just two hands locked on the steering wheel at ten-and-two, knuckles white, eyes fixed rigidly on the dark highway ahead.

You leaned your head against the passenger door, watching the streetlights flicker across his rigid profile.

"You done?" Dean's voice cut through the dark—low, dangerous, and scraped raw.

"Done with what?" you asked, keeping your tone flat, refusing to give him the upper hand.

"Making your damn point."

"What point, Dean?" You shifted in your seat, turning to face him, matching his stubbornness beat for beat. "I was ordering a drink."

"Right. And I suppose touching his arm was just part of the ordering process?" He didn't turn his head, but his grip tightened on the leather wheel until the material squeaked. "You were laying it on thick."

A sharp, humorless laugh escaped you. "Laying it on thick? Are you serious right now? Dean, you’ve been batting your eyelashes at every girl with an apron across three state lines! I sit there and swallow it every single night while you play the charming hunter, but God forbid I smile at a guy handing me a whiskey?"

"That’s different, and you know it!" he snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh, fierce whisper.

"How is it different?" you challenged, leaning closer, your chest heaving with built-up irritation. "Tell me, Dean. Explain the math to me. Because as far as I recall, we don't have rules. We're just two people sharing a bad bed in a trashy motel when we're bored, right? Isn't that what this is?"

Dean’s jaw worked furiously. For a fraction of a second, his green eyes darted to yours—flashing with something raw, vulnerable, and furious—before the shutter slammed down completely. The truth was sitting right on the tip of his tongue.

But he was a Winchester. He was built out of armor, stubborn pride, and deep-seated fear.

Instead of saying it, he swallowed the confession whole, shoving it down into the dark place where he kept everything that terrified him.

"You know what?" Dean growled, his gaze snapping back to the empty road ahead, his features hardening into stone. "Forget it."

"No, don't 'forget it,'" you pushed, refusing to let him retreat behind his walls. "Say what you actually want to say for once in your life."

"I said forget it," he snapped coldly, reaching out and brutally slamming the cassette deck shut, shoving a tape in just to drown out the rest of the conversation.

The heavy, distorted opening riff of "Bad Company" blasted through the speakers, shutting down the air between you. He kept his eyes glued to the black pavement, jaw set, leaving the unspoken words hanging heavy in the dark, suffocating space of the car.

The tape rattled the rusted speakers of the Impala, filling the cabin with heavy, distorted riffs, but it did nothing to cut the static between the two of you.

​You sat frozen in the passenger seat, staring at Dean's profile. The dashboard lights threw sharp, sickly green shadows across his face. His knuckles were bone-white against the leather steering wheel, his jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grinding over the bassline.

​He thought music was a shield. He thought if he turned up the volume, the conversation was officially over.

​Reaching over, you hit the eject button.

​The music died instantly. The sudden silence in the car hit like a drop in cabin pressure.

​Dean didn't jump, but the muscle in his jaw twitched violently. He didn't turn his head. "Put it back," he rasped, his voice smooth as broken glass.

​"No," you said, your voice dead even. "You don't get to pull the broody martyr card every time things get real, Dean. You don't get to act like I smashed your heart on the floor when you won't even admit you have one."

​"I told you to let it go," he growled, his eyes fixed on the long line of dark asphalt stretching into the Kansas night.

​"I know what you said. But I'm sick of playing this game where you get to mark your territory in dark bathrooms and act like a stranger the second we step into the daylight." You leaned toward him, lowering your voice. "If I'm just a warm body, act like it. Stop looking at me like I owe you something."

​That hit home.

​Dean’s hands tightened on the wheel until the leather groaned. For three long seconds, the speed needle flicked up—eighty, eighty-five—before he caught himself and slammed his foot back onto the brake, pulling the Impala hard onto the gravel shoulder of the highway.

​The tires crunched to a stop in the pitch-black void between streetlights.

​He cut the engine. The sudden silence was deafening, save for the ticking of the cooling metal beneath the hood.

​Dean turned his body toward you, dark and looming in the narrow space of the front seat. The cool act was completely gone, replaced by a raw, furious heat that made the hair on your arms stand up.

"You know what?" Dean spat, his voice dropping into that dark, jagged register he used right before a fight broke out. He leaned over the center console, invading your space, his green eyes burning with a mean, defensive edge. "You knew what this was when it started. Nobody forced you into my bed. Nobody forced you into this car."

"Oh, don't spin this on me, Dean!" you snarled back, the anger boiling over, hot and thick behind your ribs. "You dragged me into this half-assed, secret little arrangement because you were too much of a coward to admit you actually give a damn!"

"A coward?" A harsh, ugly laugh barked out of his throat. "That's rich coming from you. You want a label? You want me to play boyfriend while we're dodging wendigos and digging up fresh graves? Look around, sweetheart. People like us don't get happy endings. Everyone who gets close to me ends up six feet under or torn to shreds. So yeah, I keep my distance. I keep it simple."

"Simple?" You shook your head, a bitter smile breaking across your face. "There is nothing simple about the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. There's nothing simple about how you nearly lost your mind back at the bar!"

"I don't give a damn about the bartender!" Dean yelled, his temper snapping like a dry twig. "I care that you're pulling this drama bullshit! You want to know why I flirt with waitresses? Because it's easy! Because they don't mean a damn thing to me, and neither does this!"

He gestured violently between the two of you, his jaw set in stone, firing off the absolute sharpest, meanest defense mechanism he had left in his arsenal.

"You're just convenient," he rasped, every word dripping with cold venom, designed specifically to draw blood and make you back down. "You were there, you were willing, and I needed to blow off steam. Don't go making a tragedy out of a body count."

CRACK.

The sound echoed sharply inside the dead silence of the Impala.

Your palm connected with his cheek before your brain could even process the movement. The force of the slap cracked across his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

For one long, suspended heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The sting in your palm pulsed in time with your racing pulse.

Dean slowly turned his head back to face you. A faint red imprint was already blooming across his cheek, contrasting sharply with his pale jaw. His expression didn't harden with anger.

It emptied completely—a cold, shut-down void that was infinitely worse.

"Fine," he said quietly.

He reached across the center console, unlocked the passenger door with a sharp click, and shoved it open into the black Kansas night.

"If that's how it's gonna be... get out."

You stared at him for half a second, the breath hitching in your chest. Then a sharp, humorless laugh escaped you.

"Oh, don't worry. I was planning on it."

You snatched your denim jacket off the dashboard, shoved the door the rest of the way open, and climbed out onto the gravel shoulder.

"You know what?" you shouted as the biting night wind slapped your face. "You're a jackass!"

Dean didn't answer, his eyes fixed dead-ahead on the empty highway.

You slammed the heavy passenger door hard enough to make Baby rock violently on her suspension.

"Go flirt with another waitress!" you threw over your shoulder.

"I just might!" Dean hollered back through the open window, his knuckles white on the leather steering wheel.

"Great!"

"Great!"

You spun on your heel and started marching down the dark asphalt, hands shoved deep into your pockets, anger burning a hot hole in your ribs.

...

Thirty seconds later...

The low, familiar rumble of the Impala crept up right beside you.

Dean had dropped the car into first gear, rolling alongside your stride at little more than walking speed. He kept his head straight, staring through the windshield, his profile turned to stone.

"You done?" he asked, his rasp cutting through the dark.

"No."

"You made your point."

"I haven't even started."

"You planning on walking forty miles in the dark, sweetheart?"

"If it means I don't have to breathe the same air as you? Absolutely."

Dean let out a sharp, dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "You are the single most stubborn person I've ever met in my life."

You kept walking, not breaking your pace. "Look in a mirror, Dean."

"Yeah," he muttered, his thumb tapping a restless rhythm against the wheel. "Difference is, I've got the three-thousand-pound car."

"You've also got the emotional maturity of a teaspoon."

Dean barked out a short, disbelieving laugh, his green eyes darting to you for a fraction of a second. "Oh, that's real cute."

"I'm serious."

"You slapped me."

"You deserved it!"

"You really think so?"

"I know so!"

Another hundred yards passed in heavy, static-filled silence. Neither of you gave an inch. Dean kept the Impala crawling beside you like a giant, dark, incredibly annoyed guard dog.

You stubbornly kept your eyes locked on the dark line of the road ahead.

Dean drummed his fingers against the leather steering wheel, his patience visibly fraying. "Last chance."

"No."

He slammed the car into park.

The V8 engine idled, low and heavy in the quiet night. Behind you, the driver's side door creaked open.

You heard it and immediately picked up the pace. "Oh, don't you dare," you warned without turning around.

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are absolutely doing something, Dean!"

Heavy work boots crunched rapidly across the loose gravel. You spun on your heel just in time to see him closing the last few feet, broad shoulders dark against the glare of the headlights.

"Dean—"

"Nope."

"I swear to God—"

"You had your chance."

"You touch me and I'll—"

Before you could finish the threat, Dean stepped right into your space, hooked a thick, calloused arm securely around your waist, and hoisted you clean off the ground like a sack of grain.

"What the— Dean!"

Your boots kicked uselessly through the cool night air.

"You are impossible!" you yelled, twisting against the solid wall of his chest, your hands digging into the worn leather of his jacket.

"So I've been told," he grunted, not even breaking a sweat as he turned back toward the car with the absolute determination of a man hauling an unruly duffel bag.

"I'm gonna scream that I'm getting kidnapped!" you yelled, glaring down at his damp hair.

Dean didn't even break stride. "By who?" he shot back, his grip tightening like iron around your hip. "Me? Sweetheart, we're in the middle of nowhere. The cows aren't gonna testify."

"You are insufferable!"

"I've heard that one, too."

"You've got exactly five seconds to put me down."

"Nope."

"Four."

"No."

"Three."

"You done counting yet?"

You huffed in frustration and gave his shoulder another ineffective smack.

"Ow," Dean deadpanned, not even flinching. "Careful. You almost hurt the flannel."

"Oh, I'm aiming way higher than the flannel."

He snorted, a low rumble against his ribcage. "Yeah, I figured."

By the time he reached the driver's side, rain had started coming down in earnest, drumming against the lacquer roof of the Impala in heavy, uneven drops.

Dean yanked open the back door with his free hand.

"You are not—"

Your protest ended in an undignified yelp as he unceremoniously deposited you onto the vinyl back seat, the springs squeaking violently beneath you.

"There," he grunted, slamming the door shut before you could scramble back out onto the gravel.

You glared at him through the rain-speckled glass, breathless and furious. "I hate you."

Dean rested an elbow on the roof, rain dripping off his nose, breathing a little harder than he'd ever admit out loud. "No, you don't."

"I am one hundred percent reconsidering every life decision that led me to this exact moment!"

"Fair," he called back dryly.

He rounded the hood in three long strides, threw open the driver's door, and slid inside. The cabin instantly filled with the scent of wet leather, rain, and heat.

The second the driver's door clicked shut, you leaned over the bench seat and smacked the back of his head.

"What the hell!" Dean barked, rubbing the spot, turning his head to glare at you with wide, disbelieving green eyes. "What was that for?"

"For manhandling me!"

"I carried you!"

"You threw me into the back seat!"

"I placed you!"

"You tossed me like a duffel bag full of silver rounds!"

"You were yelling loud enough to wake the dead!" Dean shot back, resting his arm over the steering wheel, his jaw set, though the fierce tension between you was finally starting to crack under sheer absurd exhaustion. "You were gonna attract every damn raccoon in Kansas!"

"I was making a point!"

"Point made!" Dean growled, his gaze locking onto yours through the shadows of the car, his voice dropping into that dark, low rasp that made your chest tighten. "Point made loud and clear. Now sit your pretty ass back, put your seatbelt on, and shut up before I throw you in the trunk!"

The tension in the motel room was thick enough to cut with a hunting knife.

Three days had passed since the side-of-the-road fiasco, and while the bruising silence had eased into their usual brand of dry sarcasm around Sam, the real damage was still sitting right beneath the surface. Normally, a fight like that ended one way: a locked door, a bruised lip, and a furious, sweat-slick makeup session where actions did all the talking Dean was too terrified to put into words.

Not this time.

Sam had finally crashed out, dead to the world in the far bed with his pillow pulled over his head, snoring softly.

You were sitting on the edge of the second bed, drying your hair with a faded towel, when the mattress dipped. Dean slid onto the sheets beside you, smelling of cheap beer and Old Spice, his hot, heavy hand settling over your knee.

Without a word, he leaned in, his green eyes dark and heavy with that familiar, possessive hunger, angling his jaw to press his lips against the sensitive crook of your neck.

You didn't move. You didn't lean in. You just sat there, rigid as iron, towel hovering in your lap.

"Dean," you said, your voice dead even.

"Hmm?" he grunted against your collarbone, his fingers digging into the denim of your jeans, pulling you an inch closer.

You brought your hand up and pressed your palm firmly against his chest, holding him off. "Hands off."

Dean paused, his lips resting right against your skin. Slowly, he pulled back, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "What?"

"I said, keep your hands to yourself," you murmured, keeping your voice low so as not to wake Sam, though your eyes were blazing. "Go find a body count to blow off steam with."

Dean’s jaw clenched instantly. The ghost of his own words from three nights ago hung between you like a physical wall.

"Are you serious right now?" he rasped, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "That was three days ago."

"Oh, I'm sorry, is there an expiration date on being called 'convenient'?" You offered him a tight, sarcastic little smile. "Because last time I checked, I'm just a warm body filling space in your car. And frankly, Winchester, this body is officially off-limits."

Dean stared at you, his green eyes darting over your face, looking for the joke, looking for the usual play where you'd give in after five seconds of heavy eye contact. But you didn't break. You just stared right back, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

"You're unbelievable," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face in total frustration. "I picked you up off the side of the highway!"

"You kidnapped me off the side of the highway!"

"I saved you from pneumonia!"

"And I'm saving myself from another one of your emotional brick walls," you shot back smoothly, shifting backward on the mattress, out of his reach. "Go play with your guns. Go flirt with the girl at the front desk. Do whatever you want, captain. But you don't get the bathroom perks anymore."

Dean let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh, throwing his head back toward the ceiling. "So what, you're cutting me off?"

"I'm setting boundaries, Dean. You love rules, remember? 'Keep it simple.'" You patted his cheek—right on the spot you'd slapped three days ago—with mocking sweetness. "Consider it simplified."

Dean’s eyes narrowed into dark slits, his pulse visibly jumping in his throat. He looked like he wanted to argue, like he wanted to grab your wrist and prove to both of you that he could shatter your resolve in ten seconds flat.

Instead, he just gritted his teeth, letting out a sharp, frustrated breath through his nose.

"Fine," Dean growled, pushing himself off the bed so hard the springs creaked in protest. "Fine. Have it your way."

He yanked his leather jacket off the back of the vinyl chair, throwing you one last, furious, desperate glance over his shoulder.

"I'm going to check the Impala," he lied badly, his voice scraped raw.

"Tell Baby I said hi," you called out sweetly.

Dean slammed the motel door shut behind him, leaving you sitting alone in the quiet, smelling the faint trace of his collar, knowing for a fact that for a guy who hated talking about his feelings, his complete lack of a cold shower was driving him absolutely insane.

The neon light outside the window flickered with a persistent, high-pitched buzz, painting the water-stained wallpaper in pulses of pale blue. A full week had dragged by, a week of suffocating silence broken only by clipped remarks about job leads, salt rounds, and mileage.

Sam grabbed his duffel bag, tossing his laptop inside. "Alright," he said, zipping it up and looking between the two of you with the cautious weariness of a man who’d spent seven days walking on active landmines. "The hunter in Lincoln says he found a ghost trail near the old grain silo. I’m gonna hit the library down the street, grab some regional history archives before they close."

"Take your time, Sammy," you said smoothly from the edge of the bed, cleaning the barrel of your silver-plated dagger. "No rush at all."

Sam glanced at Dean, who was aggressively cleaning a shotgun at the small laminate table, his jaw set in its permanent, stone-hard clench.

"Right," Sam muttered, backing toward the door. "If you two kill each other, try not to do it on the carpet. We need the deposit back."

The second the latch clicked shut and Sam’s heavy footsteps faded down the exterior breezeway, the air in the room instantly pressurized.

Dean didn't move for three long seconds. Then, he set the cleaning rag down with a heavy, deliberate thud, pushed his chair back, and stood up.

He didn't rush over. He didn't pull the cool-guy routine either. He just walked over to the foot of your bed, broad shoulders blocking out the flickering neon light, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. He looked like he’d rather be facing a horde of demons with a broken stick than standing in front of you right now.

"Sam's gonna be gone for an hour," Dean said, his rasp low and rough around the edges.

You didn't look up from your blade. "Fascinating. Need me to write it down so you don't forget?"

Dean let out a harsh breath through his nose. He took one step closer, the floorboards creaking under his boots. "Drop the knife."

"No thanks. I like the knife. It doesn't throw temper tantrums or pretend I'm invisible when its feelings get hurt."

"I'm not pretending anything," he growled, though there was no real bite to it—just the raw, exhausted friction of a man running out of armor.

He reached down, his fingers catching the flat of the steel blade, and gently pulled it from your grip, setting it on the nightstand behind you. You raised an eyebrow, leaning back on your elbows, waiting.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, his thumb tracing the jagged line of his jaw. His green eyes darted to the floor, then to the water-damaged ceiling, anywhere but your face, before he finally forced his gaze back to yours.

"I'm an idiot," he rasped out, the words sounding like they had to be torn out of his throat with pliers. "Alright? Satisfied?"

You didn't crack a smile, though your chest tightened. "That's a start, Dean. But we both knew that three years ago."

"I mean it," Dean pushed, taking another half-step until his knees were nearly touching yours. He leaned down, placing his large hands flat on the mattress on either side of your hips, trapping you in his space. The familiar heat of him—smelling of Hoppe's No. 9 gun oil, black coffee, and cheap leather—flooded over you. "What I said in the car... about the body count stuff. About you being convenient."

He stopped, his throat working as he swallowed hard. His jaw twitched violently.

"It was bullshit," he muttered, his voice dropping into that dark, quiet register that usually only came out in the dark. "It was cheap, and it was mean, and I said it because you were backing me into a corner and I panicked like a dumbass."

"You panicked?" You matched his gaze, refusing to let him off the hook easily. "You told me I didn't mean anything to you, Dean."

"Because if I admit that you do..." Dean snapped, the sheer, frantic weight of his Winchester trauma breaking through the cracks, "...I don't get the damn apple-pie life. I suck at it. You know I suck at it."

He exhaled heavily, his forehead dropping for a split second until it rested lightly against yours, his damp bangs brushing your forehead.

"I don't think you're convenient," he whispered against your lips, his ragged breath warm and erratic. "I just don't know how to do this."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his hands shifting from the mattress to slide up your waist, his calloused thumbs hooking firmly into the belt loops of your jeans.

"I bought you those double-chocolate pies from the diner three towns back," Dean added, his usual defensive, cocky smirk trying—and failing—to hide the raw sincerity in his eyes. "They're in the cooler. Even let you have the last plastic fork."

You stared at him, feeling the steady, frantic thud of his heart against your chest where his jacket pressed against you.

"A pie isn't a full apology, Dean." you murmured, though your hands finally rose, resting against the broad expanse of his chest.

"I know," Dean growled, his eyes darkening as he felt you give in, his grip on your waist tightening until he lifted you an inch off the bed, pulling you flush against him. "Consider it a down payment. Now shut up and let me fix it before Sam comes back with a stack of hundred-year-old property records."

Dean’s hands tightened on your waist, pulling you so close there wasn't a whisper of air left between his chest and yours. The cocky, familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though his green eyes were still dark with that raw, intense focus.

"A down payment, huh?" you murmured, a slow, teasing smile finally breaking across your face as you toyed with the soft collar of his flannel. "You really think two slices of diner pie buy you out of a week in the doghouse, Winchester?"

"It was double-chocolate," Dean deadpanned, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting circle over the hip bone exposed by your shirt. "That’s practically a proposal in my book."

"You're an idiot."

"Guess you're stuck with me." he rasped out, his mouth dipping down to brush against the corner of yours, teasing, warm, and tasting faintly of stale coffee. "Now are you gonna keep lecturing me, or are you gonna let me make up for lost time?"

"Depends," you whispered, leaning in until your lips grazed his jawline. "Are you gonna behave?"

"Not a chance in hell."

Before you could laugh, Dean’s mouth slammed over yours in a kiss that instantly killed any remaining smart-aleck comeback in your throat. It wasn't the frantic, desperate scramble of the shower; it was slow, heavy, and completely possessive, his tongue sliding past your lips like he was reclaiming lost territory.

You let out a soft sigh into his mouth, fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. Dean groaned, a low vibration in his chest, as he shifted his weight, backing you up onto the mattress until your back hit the worn sheets.

His broad shoulders blocked out the flickering neon sign from the window as he hovered over you. His hands were everywhere—slicking up under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingers burning hot against your bare ribs, while yours frantically worked at the heavy silver buckle of his belt.

"Dean..." you gasped out, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second as he unbuttoned his flannel and tossed it onto the floor, his bare chest heavy against yours. "Sam... the library..."

"Sam's reading a hundred-year-old census," Dean muttered against your throat, biting down gently at the pulse point under your ear, making your toes curl into the mattress. "He's gonna be at least an hour. Shut up."

Your shirt joined his flannel somewhere on the carpet, followed quickly by the metallic clink of your dagger hitting the nightstand as Dean carelessly shoved it out of the way. The heat between you was suffocating, every press of skin against skin burning away a week’s worth of frustration and built-up tension.

Dean pulled back just far enough to tug his jeans down, his chest heaving, those green eyes completely blown out as he looked down at you. You were already half-scrambled in the sheets, panting, reaching up to pull him back down by the back of his neck.

"You're insufferable," you breathed, kicking off your jeans as he slid back over you, his heavy thigh forcing its way between yours.

"You love it," he growled, a dark, breathless grin flashing across his face right before his lips locked onto yours again.

He pinned your wrists to the mattress beside your head, his weight pressing you deep into the springs, every breath a tangled, desperate mess of heat and skin—

CLİCK.

The motel door unlocked and swung wide open.

"Hey, so the library was closed for renovations, but I found a local history book at the gas station—"

Sam froze dead in his tracks.

The silence that hit the room was instant, absolute, and utterly horrific.

Dean didn't even have time to move off you. He was completely shirtless, jeans half-tangled around his knees, pinned directly on top of you in the middle of a tangled wreck of blankets.

Your brain short-circuited. With an undignified, squeaking yelp, you yanked the faded motel comforter straight up over your head, burying yourself into the mattress in full-on, absolute embarrassment mode, shielding your face like a bunker blast was incoming.

"Oh my god—" Sam gagged, instinctively throwing a giant hand over his eyes and spinning on his heel toward the wall so fast he almost tripped over his own boots. "My eyes! Couldn’t you two do it in the bathroom again?!"

Through the thick layers of the comforter, you froze.

Beside you, Dean—who had been scrambling to yank the sheets over his waist—pushed himself up on one elbow, his brow furrowing in pure, bewildered shock.

"...Again?" Dean echoed, his voice cracking slightly.

"Yes, again!" Sam yelled at the wall, his face redder than the neon sign outside. "Do you think I'm deaf?! Two weeks ago outside Topeka, I was standing right outside the door while you two were practically breaking the plumbing! I had to go sit in the Impala for twenty minutes!"

From under the blanket, you peeked out with just one wide, horrified eye. "You... you knew?!"

"Of course I knew!" Sam practically shrieked, gesturing wildly at the closed door while keeping his eyes glued to the ceiling. "You guys aren't slick! You're terrible at this! The lingering looks, the 'checking the Impala' three times a night, the fact that Dean suddenly started wearing cologne—which smells terrible, by the way—"

"Hey!" Dean barked defensively, sitting bolt upright, his face a vivid shade of crimson. "It's classic!"

"—I've been living in a war zone for six months!" Sam cut him off, reaching behind his back, blindly grabbing the door handle. "I am going to the diner. I am buying a coffee. And if you two are not fully clothed and sitting on opposite sides of the room by the time I get back, I am burning the Impala!"

The motel door slammed shut behind him hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.

Silence fell over the room once more.

Dean sat in the middle of the bed, chest bare, hair sticking up in three different directions, staring at the closed door in absolute, speechless utter disbelief.

Slowly, you let the comforter drop from your face, sitting up in the tangled sheets, your face burning so hot you were pretty sure you had second-degree burns on your cheeks.

Dean slowly turned his head to look at you, rubbing the back of his neck, a weak, stunned laugh threatening to bubble up out of his chest. "Well... I guess the cat's out of the—"

"Forget it!" you snapped, shoving his shoulder hard enough to make him tilt sideways, quickly hauling the blanket up around your collarbones as you glared daggers at him. "I am not in the mood anymore! I am never being in the mood again!"

"Come on," Dean wheezed, a genuine, wheezing laugh finally breaking through his embarrassment as he reached out for your waist. "Sweetheart, Sam's a big boy, he'll get over it—"

"Touch me and I will stab you with my silver dagger, Dean!" you yelled, kicking his shin under the blanket and scrambling off the far side of the bed to hunt for your pants. "I hate you! I literally hate your entire face!"

"No, you don't!" Dean called out, lying back against the pillows with a wide, smug, completely satisfied grin spreading across his face, hands laced behind his head despite being utterly thwarted. "You love me. And hey—at least now we don't have to hide in the shower."