lt. Columba... He keeps on returning...
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lt. Columba... He keeps on returning...

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PLEASE more golfer guy!!!! Heâs somehow the most normal (natural?) man in the universe, and not at the same time???? I want to bite him (lovingly lol but he might like the hint of pain too - our lil weirdo đĽ°)
you could take a literal bite out of golfer guy, and he's still looking at you with stars in his eyes. in return, he's taking bites of you. not actual ones 'cause that would be crazy... right? it's only enough to taste and, if there's one thing the man can't get enough of, it's you.
your flavor.
he's saying shit like "you're the best thing i've ever tasted," and he hasn't even eaten you outâyet. just had you show up at the room after working all day so he could snog your neck and finger you.
"i think you're the best thing i've ever tasted," he swears, words all mumbly since he doesn't feel like pausing his licking at your skin to let you know his truth. "every part of you just... fuck, c'mere."
he curls his fingers with slow, slow pumps so he can hear you whine while he uses his other hand to cup your jaw and press you closer.
if golfer guy were a vampire, this is where the bite would ensue. now is when he would sink his teeth to drink and tie the two of you together for eternity. instead, he just sucks with wide laps while you grind into the palm at your center.
when he reaches just under your ear, you rock with a gasp. golfer guy grins against you, releasing a chuckle that's deep and knowing. curls his touch inside you and feels a squeeze that hints to him you're close. getting there, at least.
although it's one of the most difficult things he's ever had to do, golfer guy slicks his wet fingers from you. he shushes your whines, 'cause it'll be okay. you'll come, and that's a promise, but not yet.
gotta wait 'til you work up enough of a sweat so he can keep tasting you... stick his nose on your neck or inside your leg and enjoy his favorite meal of the day.
me projecting onto mute knight as:
he is quiet, at most giving grunts as a response to let you know heâs listening to your mindless chatter about court gossip. but he cares for you in his own way, picks little flowers when you two are out of the castle in nature. will help with your needling while holding the yarn. even gifting a dagger he paid with his own coin, for an achievement you made
yay or nay đŠ
-đĄ
PREVIOUS PART | INBOX â
tws: some fluff, good bit of smut (mdni), might be calling him shadow but idk we'll see; 0.6 words !
five grunts. thatâs your record for one day, and youâre determined to reach higher. what he lacks in words⌠he makes up for with trinkets.
gifts.
treats.
he's being compensated well for watching over you, listening to you go on and on about your thoughts on any matterâthat of which you have very many. therefore, it's rare for you to go a day with receiving something from him. you've got everything you could ever want, yet he still finds something for you to have.
from him.
sometimes it's whatever flora the market was featuring. sometimes it's a dagger he requested the women at the forge to craft just for you. or maybe he makes sure to pluck an extra piece of fruit from the kitchens for you to eat during court gatherings. you'd fall asleep otherwise. not that he wouldn't carry you from the room if it ever came to that.
other times, it's the knight himself. bouncing you about in your bed, and finally making noise that's more than his practiced silence or daily grunts.
he always sounds broken when he fucks you, but in the best way. you've already got his very soul in the palm of your hand, even more so after he's shoved himself balls deep into the prettiest prize of all.
you're pinned to the jolting bed with his body smushing yours, chin buried against the arm he has curled around your neck.
he doesn't say words. he can't. of course, it doesn't stop him from wailing, choking, panting like he's in battle upon every sticky, gushing thrusts inside your hole.
the both of you are filthy. you were supposed to take a bath and he was supposed to watch upon the returning from your two day's journey. instead, him escorting you to your quarters and seeing you slip off your gown led to the knight mounting you in similar fashion to the horses that brought you home.
a mess of slick and sweat forms between the snag grip he's got of you. the knight's wide, battle-scarred back shines in the candlelight as he pounds into you deep. the dull handle of the dagger he'd gifted and fucked you with you a week prior held nothing compared to the sloshing split that his cock stuffs you with. his tip is a reaching, nudging certainty that finds the places you need most, the steady pump of his hips and smack of balls have your muscles limp, but insides wringing his cock dry of milk.
a mix of rough pants and pitiful groans knock against your ear each time you come. thrice so far, and your knight fucks you as if he's expecting at least two more. desperate and weepy and deeply, almost mumbling the syllables of your title and something in the native tongue of his ancient home. words you wouldn't understand even if he were to truly say them. vision going but a blur as his cock pulses and he can cream himself into to a heap of heft and bitten back growls above you.
only after his cock drools cum for a second time and you're nothing but a mess of him and you and him, does he reach to bend your neck with heavy hands to place upside down, slobbering snogs against the corners and centers of your mouth.
for a tongue he often holds, he swirls it well. laps it between your lips before pulling away to stare at your sweaty forehead and fucked out gaze. he's always staring.
then he hums at you with pinching eyebrows. a deep, wordless you are alright?
the knight doesn't move after you nod. keeps his hands at your face, his figure sagging heavy atop yours, really looking at you.
you bit your lip at the heat of the stare with slow, sleepy blinks. the knight sighs. his head and chest fill with swearing butterflies.
all the bodies he's slain, all the soldiers he's led.
war. blood. death and worse.
yet you are the one to break him. you and all your words.
you start as a paralegal at some big-name law firm the same week as another guy starts as an office assistant, and he's... interesting.
big and goofy and big. you have no idea how he fits into those expensive ass button ups or how the seams hold up through the workday, and yet. he's got a habit of knocking things over, dropping stuff, and getting things wrong. but somehow has managed to keep himself from being fired.
a himbo, if you will.
he's also, for some reason that eludes you, worships the ground you walk on. he says that the two of you have some kind of special bond since you started on the same day and share lunch sometimes. the guy legit looks at you like you're the only reason the sun hangs in the sky.
oh, and there's the friends with benefits thing.
the friend part is cool. he's easy to talk to and impress. likes to carry heavy boxes of documents for you whenever he can. but it's the benefits that have you both feeling like you're under spells... fucking each other like it's the last time you'll get to touch someone else.
because of his general size, he's thick. has to stretch you out on his fingers before and is happy to do it. his fingers are no easy feat either, but he's kissing you the entire time (your moans and groans taste like a sunset, according to him⌠whatever that means). sucking on your tongue, pumping his hand 'til you're ready for him to push in, then telling you to hold onto his biceps to he can pound you properly.
âŚsomehow, it takes you a month to figure out he's one of the top partners' sons.
something something he falls in love with you a little cause youâre the first person to make him come no hands with a strap-onâŚ

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the thing that bothers me with 7 deadly sin based characters is when they cant decide if they embody the sin by suffering from it or by drawing it out of others. ie. if your gluttony demon is a guy who loves eating then your lust demon should be a gooner sex pest. and if your lust demon is a seductive girlboss then your gluttony demon should be a 5 star chef. does this make sense.
golfer guy who sees right through the whole ditzy act you put on while working one of the carts at a country club to get more tips from the group he's with. after a while, he starts coming on his own so he can talk to you for real... ya know, make actual conversation with you, hear your real voice instead of the one you put on for everyone else.
you soon learn he's very direct. he talks in plain, normal sentences instead of trying to butter you up. does not give a shit if you don't smile at him, just hands you a few extra $20s if he notices you're having a bad day. when you're up for it, conversations with him always land in a comfortable spot between small talk and exhausting questioning.
one morning, he's out there early. you trade him his usual of a blue gatorade for the price of the drink plus an extra $40. after a swig of the liquid, he looks you right in the face. squinting because of the sun.
"can i eat you out later?"
you blink. he waits with a loud patience. leaning onto his club.
"i'm... i'm on my period, actually. so...."
golfer guy shrugs. "okay. got a towel in my car if you need it."
you blink again. uh. "o-okay. i get off at 7."
nodding, golfer guy leaves you with a nod of his chin and a friendly pat on the arm. back to golfing.
Youâre never too old to collect figures.
Youâre never too old to be in a fandom.
Youâre never too old to play video games.
Youâre never too old to listen to music.
Youâre never too old to enjoy things.
âIn the end, I got it wrong. Quite seriously wrong, actually.â
Bronson (2008) Director: Nicolas Winding Refn
Bronson (2008) Directed by Nicolas Winding Refn

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DIRECTOR: Hey Tom Hardy here is some weird shit we're gonna put on your face to hide your beautiful little kissy lips pretty boy mouth
TOM HARDY, ENTIRELY NOT LISTENING BECAUSE HE'S BUSY FORMULATING AN ACCENT NO HUMAN BEING ON EARTH HAS EVER FUCKING HAD: Sure boss
whats prev's element
water
fire
earth
air
aether
Simon wasnât really sure when he stopped being Ghost. The easy answer would be getting his leg blown off, forced to retire as an amputee. He was lucky enough to keep his knee, the faux leg was a weird adjustment but not impossible. He had a lot of phantom pains, but heâd always had that- one more irritation.
Maybe it was when he burned his field mask, watched the plastic melt and flare in the fire. Price on on his right, Gaz on his left and Soapâs dog tags wrapped tight in his fist. âEvery month, check in. Promise me you wonât off yourself out there. Get a dog, find a nice lad.â Price murmured to him.
He checked in as promised, tried to keep a routine like the mandated therapist said. It was.. boring. He was bored. Every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Johnnyâs glazed over eyes and the gore of his own leg shredded across the floor. No amount of footie and beer could drown it, he knew that. The mutt he got- a big slobbery pitbull he didnât bother to name anything other than âdogâ kept him from giving up entirely.
Then- you moved in. In the apartment next to his, a tired little thing. Your eye bags were nearly as deep as his, despite your civilian life- easy grin on your lips, the smell of food cooking always leaking through the walls. Eventually you just asked him to come eat, inviting him and the mutt into your much more well furnished apartment.
Simon started staying in your apartment so often he just started giving you his paychecks as penance- always passed out with the dog on the couch when you got home from work. He kept things clean, got groceries- kept your cunt happy too. His mouth and fingers helping you relax, cock kept snug in your pussy as you relaxed on top of him- cooing and kissing up the side of his face.
âMy handsome puppy, so good for me. Dropped right from the heavens into my lap, hm? So sweet, such a good cock,â youâd murmur, laughing at the way Simonâs eyelashes would flutter and his first two loads of cum leaking out as his hips gently grinded upwards. âFuck- baby please- cum around my cock again, please?â The huge man whimpered against your lips, his thick hands squeezing and groping at your ass.
âShhh, I will baby, just relax,â youâd murmured.
You got him new clothes, despite his insistence not to- his favorite piece of clothing became a deep green cotton sweater you picked up from the thrift store. Simon wore it religiously, sometimes catching himself in the mirror. His blonde hair an overgrown buzz- ten years ago he never let it grow. Colors gracing his pale skin, soft striped sweat pants with warm colors something he wouldâve never been caught dead wearing.
Hm. Ghost was gone, that was for sure. Maybe he truly left it behind when you coaxed him and Baby Man (the dogâs name, according to you) into your life.
au where you and robby were married for a short, unsuccessful stint before an uncontested but still messy divorce happens. shit was said. insults were hurled. you gave him back the ring and told him to figure himself the fuck out before ever speaking to you again. the next week, the pitt gets word you're taking a much-needed sabbatical, and robby is pleased as punch because the sight of you makes him feel like he's on the worst kind of fire. to put it kindly, the man can no longer stand you.
...three months later, you return. and you're glowing.
you changed your hair, got a tattoo, and look genuinely happy. there's chatter about how good the time off seems to have been for you; day shift, night shift, everyone has noticed... including a bitter robby, who finds himself lucky that you switched to nights. your ex-husband gets a sick feeling in his stomach when he sees how well the night crew takes to you, but at least he can leave almost as soon as you get here. the times he does talk to you (because he'll never get his true wish of not having to), it's like he's talking through you, to nothing. which you're completely fine with, making sure he knows it by always being intentional about looking him in the eye.
you and your fresh scrubs and the grating laugh he no longer likes. seemingly winning at life, while he feels stuck under the shadow of your return.
with the way he's acting, you find it completely fine that robby doesn't know you've been fucking jack for the past month. jack doesn't seem to be very wary about it either, given how fan-fucking-tastic the "just sex" is.
ćąć¸çŤćśăspideypool

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ââś Ë・â Demolition Lovers.
SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking deadânot in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k
WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.
Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.
Heâs faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. Heâs fought enough demonsâboth physical and metaphoricalâto drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his fatherâs body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for Godâs sake.Â
But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.Â
The first time it happened, he didnât even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even nowâweeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminatingâit still blows his fucking mind.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.Â
But itâs not like it mattered if he paid attention, itâs all Greek to him anyway.
It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Babyâs side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.Â
He opened the driverâs door and rested his arms on Babyâs roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.
Sammy was leaning against the front seatâs backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything thatâs happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.Â
The memory of Johnâs words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseatâlong legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.
You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesnât dwell on it.
He also didnât dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. Heâd gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time heâd gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.Â
Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.Â
His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Onlyâs.
He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammyâs mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.Â
âBlue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.â The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didnât get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the townâs cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. âJust like dark skin.â
âYes! Thatâs also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. Itâs a mutation to protect their eyes,â you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. âAnd, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.â
Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.
That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.
âHow did you even get there?â he asked, voice dripping with laughter. âThe last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.â
âOf course it was, horndog.â You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. âWe were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.â
âRight, obviously.â He scoffed. âYouâre gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.â
âMay I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?â
âNo, you may not.â
You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?
âI thought youâd be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.â
Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Babyâs roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, itâs between him and the voices in his head.Â
âIâd think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.â You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. âCall Professor X, Iâve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.â
Youâre such a fucking idiot.Â
How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldnât do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of âsome random chickâs cunt and man up. Focus on whatâs important.âÂ
God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Deanâs hands are coated with sacrilege.
âThatâs three Wâs.â It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasnât pleasepleaseplease.Â
Just once, just one time.
I need you so bad, itâs killing me.
Please.
âIâll call it the 3W-gene, then.â You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that heâd never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. âWhich Iâd have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.â
Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.Â
âBut Iâm⌠white? I mean, I know I donât really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, butââ
âNo, I meanââ You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didnât realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. âI was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.â
Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. âWhatâs wrong with my eyelashes?â
âJesus Christ.â You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. âForget it, Dean.â
âNo, no. Wait!â But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.Â
He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas stationâs Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.Â
âWhatâs wrong with my lashes?!â
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
He didnât get it the second time either.Â
Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so⌠unimaginable.Â
Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.Â
But Dean missed every time.
You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.Â
Being a hunter meant that knocking on loveâs door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.Â
Love wasnât an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.
He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldnât mop over it. Heâd gotten what he wantedâor all he could afford to wantâand youâd just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.
But then youâd turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and youâd stayed.
Through his twenty-first birthday, through Samâs escape to college, through Dadâs death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.Â
Dean doesnât get it, but once again, he takes the graceâmiracle, he would call itâand does everything he can to keep it.
No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.Â
It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it mightâve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.
Heâs good at pretending. Itâs all heâs ever done.
At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupyâlike tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. Itâs barely enough.
All of this to say, youâve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.Â
Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. Heâd pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in â98.Â
Because thatâs just how the universe worksâDean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You donât flirt, and you sure as fuck donât call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.
That time⌠yeah, Dean shouldâve probably gotten it then.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.Â
You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witchâs shadow book heâd forgotten back in the motel. Youâd all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.Â
Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until youâd found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.Â
It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Deanâs throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.
Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.
You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.Â
His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.Â
You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.Â
At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.Â
âWatcha reading?â He couldnât keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.
âGothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.â With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. âYouâd like it, if you could read.â
âHey!â He kicked you softly in the shin. âI know how to read, thank you very much!â
âYou do? Woah, news to me.â
âIâd be the worst hunting partner if I didnât. Research would take us ages.â Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. âAt least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.â
You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Deanâs gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Deanâs hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.
âSam and I always do the research anyway.â You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.Â
âSo whatâs my job then, attack dog?â
A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. âNah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.â
The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.
âWhat?â
âEvery team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.â Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? âThough you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the teamâs positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.â
A lot was going on, Deanâs brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didnât stop.Â
âYou think Iâm pretty?â
Not his smoothest moment. Heâs not proud.Â
You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, heâd thought you blushed. âPlease, Dean, everyone thinks youâre pretty.â
No they donât. They think heâs hot, or handsome, or badass. Heâs heard beautiful a few times. Pretty⌠he doesnât hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.Â
âYou have never said it, though,â he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.Â
There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.
âDoesnât mean I donât see it.â Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. âThat I donât know it.â
His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractiveâpretty, even⌠it was life-ruining.Â
All of his defenses started to crack.Â
âYouâve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.âÂ
You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Deanâs grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.Â
âItâs that freakinâ Winchester gene, Iâm telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.â
âSo you think Sammyâs pretty too?â
He wished his voice hadnât been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.Â
âYouâre the prettiest, De. You should know that.â
Well, he knows now.Â
He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, heâs only human.Â
You didnât have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. âItâs not the comfiest, but itâs something.â
This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening. Â
He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.
Heâd learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.
âI wish youâd put them out on me.â
The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.Â
Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isnât sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.Â
If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.
But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.Â
Youâd driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.Â
He didnât know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.Â
âYouâre the prettiest, De.â
Even motel rooms didnât serve as a relief. Youâd still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.Â
He thought that being at Bobbyâs would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between youâother people around and open windows and air conditionerâhe could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadnât shattered all of his careful guards.
But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.Â
Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Babyâs keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.
Heâd been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impalaâs undercarriage, the old car creeper heâd stolen from Bobbyâs garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.Â
There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasnât up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.Â
Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.
But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.Â
He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.Â
Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Deanâs grip on the wrench tightened.Â
âBrought you some libation, so you donât pass out under that thing.â
âHey! Put some respect on her name.â Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.Â
You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.Â
âWhat are you working on, anyway?â
He didnât have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldnât really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.Â
âUhmârightâŚâ You nodded, like youâd understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldnât bore you any more.Â
The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didnât need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.Â
If Dean was a little cheesier, heâd say youâre soulmates.Â
Because heâs Dean, he says youâre just trauma-bonded.
A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Deanâs shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.
Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.
Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.
âTake a picture, darlinâ. Itâll last you longer.â
Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Deanâs face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.Â
âLeft my phone inside. Such a shame.â He wasnât expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. âYou shouldnât stay out here for too long, De. Youâre gonna roast under all that metal.â
Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.Â
âHey, itâs a good way to go.â He gave you one of those relaxed, Iâm-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. âIâve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.â
Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?
This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.Â
âGreat philosophy, really.â You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. âWell, you can choose now. Which one will it be?â
For a second, Dean wondered if heâd drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But heâd barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.Â
His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasnât your best friend who youâre inescapably in love with is making a move on you.Â
There wasnât any. Thereâs only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.
âIâm just a hardworking mechanic, maâam. Iâm trying to do my job here.â It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness thatâs been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.Â
âMhm.â You grinned foxilyâwhich was newâand then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended legâwhich was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Samâs laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. âI think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Donât worry, I can pay you well.â
You winked at him, and Deanâs breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldnât happen.Â
He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.Â
âYou canât just come into my workshop and demand to be served, maâam. Thatâs no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.âÂ
Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. âI think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.âÂ
His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.Â
"Youâre gonna let me take a look, then?â
Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandmentânothing unfixable.Â
This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.
Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.Â
With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.Â
Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.
There was no coming back from this. He wasnât ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasnât sure this was even happening in the first place.Â
He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.
That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.
âI thought IâI heard a rattle.â Heâs not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.Â
âOf course, Mister Mechanic. Iâll stop bothering you.â You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Deanâs breath stutter. âDonât stay here too long, or youâre actually going to faint.âÂ
âSure.â He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.
You giggled, this time tender and almost⌠enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.Â
He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobbyâs house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.Â
He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.Â
He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.Â
His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.Â
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but youâve done irreparable damage to his desireâs grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, youâve resuscitated something invincible.Â
Heâs doomed, even more than before.Â
Because itâs not just desire anymore. Now itâs also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.Â
Oh, what have you done?
It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, heâd gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.Â
He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.Â
The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.
Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when heâd ultimately made his peace with never having you.Â
He didnât know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didnât know exactly what you needed. Because thatâs the scariest part of all.Â
Just to what extent do you want him?
At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteenâto fool around.Â
Maybe youâre lonely. Dean hasnât seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasnât caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasnât heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.Â
Maybe youâre wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.Â
Dean isnât sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after youâve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.Â
So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesnât accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didnât mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didnât quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammyâs occasional side-eyes.Â
Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-onlyâs made it to the list.Â
If only he was a better man, maybe youâd want all of him.Â
If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existedâthat one wasnât new, but it always stung like it was.
If only you could love him, the way he loves you.
That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if heâd even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.Â
But then, incident four happened.Â
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
Dean was struggling with his necktie.Â
He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasnât helping.Â
He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time heâd gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, heâd been pretty fucking good at it.Â
But his hands hadnât stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didnât want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when youâd be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men whoâd shot themselves within the past week.Â
Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.Â
âI canât tie this stupid thing, Sammy. Câmere and help me.â
He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didnât expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.
He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.Â
âHello there, Agent Dracula.â You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadnât been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.Â
âHey.â He hoped he didnât sound as sulky as he thought he did. âHow did you get in?â
You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes flutteringâand Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.Â
You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.Â
âSammy gave me the second key, just in case.â Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.Â
âThe little fucker told me nothinâ.â Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adamâs apple. âYou should knock, yâknow. I couldâve been changing.â
You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. âAnd we wouldnât want me seeing that, would we?â
He didnât dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew heâd lose. He might as well give up now.Â
Of course, you couldnât even give him that.
You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.Â
âThere you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.â You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.Â
âWhat better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husbandâs suicide, am I right?â At least he could still joke. That was a relief. âYou might wanna give that key back, so you donât walk into one of my private investigation sessions.â
He wasnât sure what he was looking for with that. He hadnât brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chickâs home. Encounters which, heâd never admit, were starting to happen less and less.Â
It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.Â
You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.Â
âYou donât need to do all that. Youâre smart, youâll find another way to make them talk.â
Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, heâd have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.Â
If you left. Dean wasnât sure if he wanted you to.Â
âI thought I didnât know how to read?â
You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.Â
âYou can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.â Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. âDonât fuck any widows, Winchester.â
âWhy?â
âBecause I donât want you to.â
The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.Â
He whispered your name, pained.Â
âNot now,â you whispered back. Outside the room, Babyâs engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. âJustâcome back to me tonight, mh?â
Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after youâd made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.Â
Dean was just as lost.Â
But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasnât casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldnât fake that look in your eyes.Â
He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homesâall for you.Â
He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.Â
âGood.â You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. âGood night, De.â
¡ ¡ â ¡âśÂˇ â ¡ ¡
 And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kidâs soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.Â
He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.Â
If-onlyâs start to spiral into maybeâs. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.
With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.Â
His boots are still on his feet, of course, so itâs easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.Â
Heâs already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.Â
The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.
The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.Â
He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.Â
âJesus Christ.â He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. âWhat the hell?â
âItâs hot as fuck.â You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. Youâd dropped one of the motel towels over the spot youâre sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. âYouâre naked too, you know?â
âIâm more modest than you, thatâs for sure.âÂ
With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Deanâs were a second ago.Â
âI was using that, you know?â Maybe one day heâll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. âI couldâve just handed you a new one.â
âBut whereâs the fun in that?âÂ
âGive it back.â You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. âFuckingâwhatever.â
His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.Â
âStop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.âÂ
âWhy are you doing this to me?â
His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.Â
âWhy do you think?âÂ
Heâs way too dizzy to process the words, and it isnât until youâve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.Â
âBecause you want me dead?â
You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.Â
âI love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didnât you?â The way youâre looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.
In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, thereâs only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find themâyes, itâs easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.Â
âI know.â He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. âIâI love you too.â
Heâs said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretiveâwith the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.Â
But here, when heâs shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, thereâs nowhere to hide.Â
You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.Â
âHow do you love me?âÂ
He murmurs your name dejectedly. âDonât make me say it.â
âPlease, Dean. Iââ You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask youâve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. âI need you to say it.â
âI love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. Youâre part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I donât care, because I fucking love you.â
Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.
âFuck, fuck.â You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow whatâs happening. âI love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.âÂ
Deanâs hands have barely landed on your thighs when youâre already engulfing his mouth with yours. Itâs desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.Â
âWhat the fuckââ His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. ââis happening?â
Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Deanâs hands canât stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to himâcalloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didnât know of before, his mouth waters.Â
âIâm in love with you, Winchester. So in love Iâm fucking dumb with it. Thatâs whatâs happening.âÂ
Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isnât dreaming.Â
âWhat changed your mind?â
You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Deanâs tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.Â
âIâve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.â Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. âBut when you used to flirt with meâwell, you know your reputation, De.â
He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.
âIt wasnât like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now⌠I wouldnât know what to do without you.â
âI know,â you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. âI know now.â
âHow?â
Itâs hard to focus on talking when youâre sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.Â
âDo you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?âÂ
Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldnât stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.Â
So heâd made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldnât go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Samâs phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.
Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.
âYouâre a good liar, Winchester, but you canât lie to me. I knew something was up.â Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. âSo I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very⌠insightful conversation with your brother.â
âYou really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?â
The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, heâs rewarded with another smoky kiss.Â
âHe looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.â
Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. âIâm gonna gut him.â
âNo, youâre not.â You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. âBecause without him, we wouldnât be here.â
He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. âWhat was all the torture about, then?â
âWell, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.â You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. âBecause I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?â
Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. âNot anymore.â
You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. Thereâs nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as youâre with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting goâyouâll be okay.Â
âYou know,â He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. âI demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasnât fair.â
You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. âI still canât believe you freaked out so bad.â
âI can.â He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. âLook at you, of course I freaked out. Still, Iâm ready for it now.â
âCalm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.â
âDo we?â He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. âBecause I might have a list of things I want to try.â
âOf course you do, horndog.â Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. âWe can try whatever you want. Iâm yours, De. Iâve been yours for a while.â
âThatâs a dangerous offer, baby girl.â His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. âYouâd really let me do anything I want to you?â
âItâsâA-ahh. Itâs that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.â
Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.Â
âYouâre really obsessed with that.â
Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. âWhat can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though itâd be good to dial back on the bad luck.â
Deanâs brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because theyâd be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.Â
âThatâs it.âÂ
With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.
Thankfully, youâd left your roomâs door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.Â
Babyâs keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesnât bother picking them up. He doesnât plan on leaving this room any time soon.Â
Suicidal husbands can wait, Deanâs been waiting for too damn long.Â
Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesnât feel scared anymore.Â
The door he thought didnât exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.
NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.
my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!
anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3
TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @mfstargrll @stars4birdie @cccayliexx @madslxz @spaghettiwoes @crumpledroses @madyyyslovs<3
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Heated
âŚRead on a03! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist⌠âŚsummary: Dean's refusing any help to get over his sex curse, no matter how many women you find for him. If only he'd just tell you why⌠âŚwarnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, sex pollen, angst, pining, Dean being a dummy (it's okay we love him), big emotions (sex pollen does that), just the nastiest smut (praise kink, soft!dom Dean, finger sucking, fingering, some car sex, dirty talk, oral f!receiving, sex pollen appropriate stamina, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, creampie), love confessions during sex, light fluff at the end⌠âŚwc: 10k⌠âŚauthor's note: voted for my the people! this might be the horniest thing i've written ever like i got possessed plz enjoyâŚ
This room is going to suffocate you.
Outside, thereâs a chilling breeze that bites at your ears, and you had to turn the heater off after an hour of Dean whining about it. Youâre wearing a few layers and thick, fuzzy socks that slide on the floor. When you look at your fingers, theyâre developing a purplish tint under the nails, and youâd think your nose was bleeding if you could feel it at all.
But youâre burning alive. Deep in your stomach with shame, and an arousal youâre not allowed to indulge. Itâs wrong, right now, to have flushed cheeks and sweat gathering under your clothing. A tingling heat thatâs hidden under the collar of your shirt, and restless fingers as you work, itching to touch something.
Yourself. Just a rub between your thighs for a little pressure of relief to help you focus.
Dean. Lying on the bed, moaning lewdly and humping the sheets like youâre not even in the room.
Heâs apologized fifty times. He apologized when you left that old, moldy house and he started staring at you and palming himself in the car. Apologized when youâd been walking inside, and heâd doubled over in pain on the side walk. Heâd grabbed your hip for support, and while youâd been trying to figure out if he was okay, his hand had slipped up to your inner thigh. Apologized when you went to get him some iceâheâd said he was warm, youâ d been worrying about a feverâand you had to come back to find him lying in your bed, head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut and groans slipping from his lips.
At least he hadnât been touching himself. Heâs managed not to do that at all, which youâd be impressed by if you werenât so worried.
Sam says itâs a pretty basic sex curse. Maybe a pollen, from that mold. Nothing you need to worry about finding a magical cure for.
âWeâve seen these before.â Sam had said. âItâs run-of-the-mill. Dean knows what to do.â
Run of the mill.
Simple.
Sam had said it like youâd be clear in an hour. Nothing fancy required.
Dean gets laid, the fever goes down, everyoneâs good.
And it mightâve been simple. You mightâve been done an hour ago, if Dean just got it over with and left when he was clear. You wouldâve sat in your bed, running the sheets between your fingers while you read. Trying desperately not to think about Dean only a door over, about the sounds creaking through the wall as he railed someone else into oblivion, about how heâd look.
Probably just like this. Wrecked and hungry, his eyes blown out and skin slick with sweat. Every muscle in his body straining, hair stuck to his brow, mouth hanging open as heâd hover over some lucky girl, showing her a heaven even angels didnât get to experience.
Your heart wouldâve silently ached, a wound youâve been letting fester opening wider and wider. Your hands wouldâve tugged nervously at the sheets, trying to gather whatever heâd left over like a twisted little souvenir for your perverse brain.
The brain that wonât stop being in love with him, no matter how much logic you offer to counter it. Youâve spent nights staring at the ceiling, acting like love was a debate. Like if you reasoned with yourself enough, all the blood in your body would simply stop flowing in a song of his name. Your heart would shift into a new rhythm, no longer a war drum trying to call for him. Your eyes would stop looking for tiny bits of evidence he loved you too, in just as much silence as you love him.
Heâs about ten years older than you. He opens doors for you, and that can be a secret desire thing. Heâs not emotionally available. He talks to you, about his dad and complicated fights with Sammy and his past, and that has to mean something. Heâs got anger issues. Heâs stubborn, heâs reserved. You have issues too, and youâre more stubborn. Heâs fucked up- Youâre fucked up, and heâs also sweet and loyal and handsome and the best kind of stupid a man can be, where heâs a dumbass that never pretends to be incompetent. Heâd probably be possessive. Youâd like to be possessed. Thereâs no future there. Yet.
Youâve always lost the debate. You stay in love with Dean, because your heart wasnât even kind enough to give you a crush. A brief and intense high of adoration and lust wouldâve been manageable. You wouldâve recovered.
Instead, itâs love. Not even love with a half-life, weaning off with just a little time. Deep, long love.
The kind of love that has you looking at him now, and crudely thinking that heâs being a bit of a pussy. Itâs not a fair thought. Heâs cursed, has a fever of a hundred and two, and his body is probably trying to convince him to do things that heâs not on board with.
But you live like that every day, and you donât whine about it. Youâve felt like if he didnât touch you now youâd die, youâve gone sick with your own perverse thoughts about what youâd let him do to you, youâve been delirious with adoration until Sam clears his throat, and mutters that youâre staring again. Maybe the mold shouldâve crawled into you, or however this works.
You wouldnât have been such a massive bitch about it.
You wouldâve had nasty motel sex with a stranger an hour ago.
You wouldnât have made Dean sit in a room with you while you pillow humped, forcing him to look for a sex partner to break your back.
You wouldâve been home by now.
But Dean wants to be a little fucking bitch.
âYouâre being a bitch.â You say it plainly, because maybe it will snap him out of whatever the fuck this is.
Instead he just chuckles, twisting to give you an amused look. âOuch, sweetheart- Shit-â
The movement looks like it made his dick brush against something, and now heâs back to cowering in the sheets. Jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, visibly pained, and whatâs wrong with you that heâs never looked so hot-
âYouâd be a bitch too.â He mutters, groaning as he rolls back onto his stomach. âI feel like Iâm dying-â
âYouâd stop feeling like that, if youâd just pick someone to fuck.â
âIâm tryinâ-â
âNot hard enough.â
âTrust me, Iâm plenty hard enough- Fuck-â
You throw one of his pillows at his face, and he makes a strangled noise like you hit him with a bullet.
âYouâre gonna attack a dying man-â
âI can do whatever I want, when Iâm helping you find a fuck buddy.â You stick your tongue out at his back, then return your attention to his phone. âHow about Miranda? Sheâs thirty-six, sheâs got really nice hair, and- Oo-â You scroll a little further down the page. âShe likes boats! Those are like water cars, you guys could bond over that.â
Dean laughs again, shaking his head. âBoats arenât water cars.â
âThey are. Think about it.â
âThey donât have a big engineering overlap, I donât know shit about boats-â
âThen you can just fuck her stupid, you nerd.â
Deanâs silent for a long moment, and you hover your thumb over the screen, fully ready to subject yourself to the worst torture possible for Deanâs stupid, cursed sake.
âShe looks nice.â You mumble, praying he doesnât hear the exhausted, hopeless pain in your voice. âI think youâd like her.â
Dean grunts. âNo. Next name.â
You sigh, and swipe left. Adding Miranda to the long, long pile of rejected applicants.
Itâs been like this for two fucking hours. Dean lying in your bed, you cross-legged in his, absolutely no progress on curing the curse. He barely even looks at you anymore. Heâs been facing the opposite wall since you sat down, burying his face in your pillow every time he moans, trying to hide the roll of his hips under the sheets and failing miserably.
The tingling pain between your legs is almost unbearable now. Youâd call Sam and ask if the pollen was transferable, if you werenât terrified of the answer being no. Thereâs no way itâs not just Dean anyway. His thick arms stretching up to grip the pillow, his broad, muscled shoulders and back bare, the fact that sometimes when he humps fast and rough, the sheets ride up and you swear you see the tip of his cock. Itâs wrong. So fucking wrong, to be getting off to him like this.
But itâs your own personal hell, to have this responsibility. To have him right there, and not be allowed to touch him.
Youâll deal with your shame later in the shower, where you can wash it off and maybe cry from a few different places over your body.
Later. When heâs not dying, and doing absolutely nothing to help you save him.
âHannah.â You read out the next profile, pulling your knees to your chest. âSheâs got curly hair, really nice brown eyes. Looks like sheâs a nail artist. That could be nice.â
Dean snorts. âWhat, you think Iâm gonna have her get me a manicure after?â
âNo, I just-â You take a long breath. Youâd rather have a living Dean that doesnât love you, than a dead Dean, who also doesnât love you.
Dean starts to twistâheâs going to try and look at you againâand you clear your throat.
âIt might be nice to look at. Aesthetically. Or- arousing.â
He mutters your name, but you push on.
âFor a handjob. Nice nails, going- Up and down your- Um- Your dick-â
Dean lets out the loudest moan yet, and your jaw snaps shut. That sounded like your name. He was probably just trying to warn you to shut up, but that still sounded like your name-
âSorry-â
âStop talking.â He snaps, and you nod.
Without him asking, you swipe left on Hannah. He seems to have forgotten about her, and you have no desire to let her and her perfect nails anywhere near his dick.
It takes a while for Dean to request the next candidate. Long minutes of him just panting and grunting, burying his face in the pillow and thrashing in the sheets like heâs having a nightmare.
You see the head of his cock again. Itâs thick looking and red and shining with pre-cum. Angry and hard and Jesus fucking Christ-
âEmma!â You shout to the room. You need this to be done. âSheâs a nurse, that can be a kink thing-â
âStop.â
You sigh, turning down the phone screen. âDean-â
âNo. Donât want Ella-â
âEmma-â
âDonât fuckinâ care. Weâre not doing more of this- Shit.â
âAre you just swearing, or is that an adjective-â
âSweetheart.â Heâs almost growling, a hand slipping out from the sheets to fist the mattress. âStop. Talking.â
You close your mouth, bowing your head as shame floods your body. Youâre trying to help. Youâve given your whole night just to help the man youâre hopelessly in love with have sex with someone else, and youâre tired. Tired of doing this to yourself, tired of him shooting everyone down like suddenly heâs got the highest sexual standard in the world, tired of acting like itâs not killing you and tired of watching him like this.
Heâs in so much pain. You can hear it straining in every word, tensed in every movement. Youâre not allowed to touch him, but the last time you made him check his own temperature, it had gone up again. With how heâs looking, how heâs muttering to himself under his breath, youâre willing to bet itâs gone up another handful of degrees.
Deanâs going to die, if he doesnât deal with this. And if he dies, youâre not going to deal with it.
You donât want to think about what youâll become, if he goes. You might be the one that turns into a ghost, haunting this goddamn hotel room and growing up the walls like that mold. A shell of a person, caught in a million what-ifs, her heart ash in the wind with his body.
Dean wants to be done with this.
Youâre not done with him.
You swipe right on Emma.
For an hour, you let him keep moping and groaning. You flirt with Emma for him, because youâre the best friend in the world, and pretend you canât see him trying to move a pillow between his legs to offer extra pressure.
âDean.â You say softly, and he grunts.
âBaby, I need you not to talk-â
âYou can take it out.â You mutter, keeping your focus on Emmaâs texts. âIf you need that. Iâm a big girl, I- I wonât mind.â
Thatâs a lie through more than just your teeth. If he starts touching himself in front of you, all the poetic fawning about how your love is killing you wonât be dramatic anymore. Your heart will beat right out of your ribs, your head will get so light youâll float away, your need for him will become so consuming youâll either fall to your knees and open your mouth for him to use, or simply just explode.
But if it helps him. Youâll do anything to help him, even if itâs searing the most sinful, impossible image into your head for the rest of your life.
Dean with his cock in his hand, head thrown back, beating himself right next to you. Maybe moaning under his breath, thrusting up into his fist, accidentally looking at you as he cums, mouth hanging open and eyes hooded as thick white ropes paint the sheets-
âNo.â He grunts, and you blink.
âItâs okay-â
âNo. Iâm not doinâ that to you.â
You swallow, heated shame rushing through you. âI- I could leave the room-â
âNo, donât-â He almost shouts your name, flipping over suddenly.
Looking at you.
His eyes are almost black with lust, his face red and slack, expression desperate. He hissesâthe movement likely too muchâbut still reaches out a shaking hand, like heâs going to try and grab you.
âDonât go, just- Fuckinâ-â His words trail off, eyes locked on your face, and another moan escapes his lips.
You push up on your knees, fear clenching at your heart. âDean-â
ââm fine-â
âYouâre not fine-â
âIâm- Son of a bitch-â His eyes widen on yours then slam shut. His hand curls into a taut fist, face pulling in pain, and thatâs enough.
âFine. Donât masturbate, see if I care.â
He says your name, low and rough, and you shake your head.Â
âYouâre not fine, you fucking idiot. Youâre dying.â You push to your feet, grabbing his phone from the bed.
Emmaâs very nice. Nice in the kind of way thatâs going to make you hate her, and you feel sort of bad. She was doomed to your loathing from the moment she swiped right.
But sheâs going to help. Sheâs going to save Dean, and youâll offer her grace for that.
Deanâs eyes had opened, when he heard you moving. Heâs looking at you like a lost street dog, opening his mouth to say something that only comes out in a panting groan of your name.
Whatever protests he has, you wonât hear them. Heâs not allowed to die.
âGet up.â You snap, tossing his clothing onto his face. âGet dressed. Iâm starting the car in ten minutes, and if youâre not there, Iâm coming back and youâre having sex with me.â
You donât look over your shoulder to see his reaction. The sounds of torment leaving his chest are bad enough.
It hurts. It cuts deeper than a blade, the idea that he detests the idea of sex with you that much. Youâre good at sex. Youâve gotten raving reviews, youâre batting a hundred, flawless reports and a hundred percent customer satisfaction rate, even if you donât really enjoy most of it yourself. Most people you have sex with donât manage to make you cum, and when they do itâs a tiny little shudder through your body that you forget about in five minutes.
Dean witDean would be lucky to have sex with you. Youâd worship him. Youâd get on your knees and let him use you until he was leaking out of every hole. Youâd let him fuck himself back into you, youâd let him throw you around, youâd do anything-
Itâs probably a good thing your threat works. Dean stumbles out of the motel right at the nine-minute mark, pallid and flushed all at once, hunched in pain and wearing a massive raincoat over his jacket to hide the boner.
You never wouldâve forgiven yourself, for taking advantage of him like that. Itâs better like this, no matter how much it hurts.
You smile when he gets into the car. âNice fashion statement-â
âShut up.â He grumbles, glaring out at the road. âWhereâre we goinâ.â
âA bar.â
He makes a sour expression. âWhy.â
âBecause you have a date. With Emma the nurse.â
Dean goes dead quiet. He tenses next to youâyour elbows brushing for a split second, before he recoils like your skin is coated in toxinsâworks his jaw, then shakes his head.
You sigh. âDean-â
âNo. I told you, Iâm not doinâ that.â
âYes, you are.â
âNo-â
âYes!â You slam the brakes harder than you mean to, as you approach a stop sign.
You expect Dean to snap about you being careful with his baby. Maybe try to make a joke about how maybe the frustration is rubbing off on you, or argue about how this is his dumb choice to make.
And it is. But he made the wrong choice, and you are not letting him die.
He mutters your name, and itâs the same way he said it earlier. Soft. Almost pleading.
You take a deep breath, and twist to look him in his pretty, glazed and dilated eyes.
âYouâre going into that bar. Youâre going to flirt with Emma. If she asks if you have a fever, you tell her you work construction or something, and youâd just been at a shift. You run hot. Nothing for her to worry about.â You drum your fingers on the wheel, forcing down the lump in your throat. âYouâre going to tell her sheâs pretty. Youâre going to call a fake uber, and Iâm going to drive you to the motel. Youâre going to fuck Emma until youâre cured, and then we can go home. Understand?â
Deanâs throat bobs. He opens his mouth, a glint in his eyes like heâs going to argue. You donât give him the chance.
âNo. Youâre doing this. If you donât, youâll-â You cut yourself off, pressing your lips in a tight line. You wonât cry. You wonât.
Dean says your name, and he has to stop doing that. Itâs too gentle. Too close to something real.
âYouâre not allowed to- To go.â You look out at the empty road, praying the night is hiding the glossy tears, pricking at your eyes. âI canât- I wonât- Youâre not allowed to.â
You raise your chin, your breathing too shaky to speak for a moment. The silence hangs in the car, even the sound of Babyâs engine not enough to drown out your thoughts.
âOkay?â You snap, trying to sound stronger than you are.
Dean lets out a low sound, but nods. âOkay.â Then, under his breath. âFor you.â
You pretend you donât hear. Thereâs too much weight in those words, and you donât have the time to pick them apart, donât have the energy to ask him what the fuck that means.
Instead, you just give yourself the easiest out. Dean does love you as a friend. Youâve never doubted that for a second. Heâs doing it for you because youâre the one demanding he go have sex.
What a horrible friend you are, making him get laid so he doesnât die.
You huff a dry, pitiful, laugh to yourself. Your drink swirls in its glass, untouched and mocking. You ordered it when you got here, about thirty minutes ago. Made Dean take a possibly dangerous dose of Advil and Tylenol to make him lucid, then hidden yourself in a booth on the other side of the bar. Where you can see Dean and Emma, but only Dean can see you. Heâs supposed to give you a thumbs up, when heâs about to call the ride. Right now, he seems so engrossed in her that youâre worried heâs going to forget.
Emmaâs pretty. Just as pretty as her pictures. She lit up, when she spotted Dean, and youâd felt a sickening, loud hatred take root in your chest.
Everyone should be happy to see Dean, but none of them are happy like youâre happy. You know him. Heâs the love of your life, and your joy is born of that, not just seeing a pretty man. You love seeing him because you know youâre going to be safe. Because heâs going to smile and the world is going to be alright, youâre going to talk and heâll listen and look at you like thereâs no one else in the world, heâs going to make jokes and youâre going to laugh.
But heâs making Emma laugh right now. Sheâs got one of those high, insufferable giggles, and youâre being needlessly mean but you hate her. You have a giggle like that. It comes out for Dean all the time, and it has a little snort on the end that you hated until Dean casually mentioned that he liked it, and youâve felt like the most beautiful thing in the world.
It doesnât really matter though, whose laugh Dean likes more.
Emmaâs the one going home with him. Youâre being left here.
You focus on ignoring their laughter and voices from the bar. You canât drink, but you sulk and focus on the music floating through the bar. Your fingers drum on the table, pull at your sleeves, shred three napkins before gripping the cold of the glass like a lifeline. Your vision is going unfocused with envy. Every second you feel the wound in your heart tearing open, an infection of jealousy taking root, and you might actually be about to throw up-
Dean grunts your name, and your eyes shoot up.
Heâs standing outside your both, hands in his pockets and a deep scowl on his face. Emmaâs not with him. Or at the bar. Â
âWhere-â
âShe left.â
Your mouth falls open. âShe left? I- What the fuck happened-â
âI told her to. Wasnât gonna work out.â
âDean, you-â Your voice cracks, every thought in your head getting louder. Heâs dying, heâs dying, heâs dying. âYou promised-â
âI know.â Heâs jaw tics, eyes darting away from yours. âJust couldnât.â
âCouldnât what? Couldnât fuck her? What the hell was wrong with her that somehow doesnât meet Dean Winchesterâs if itâs got a hole standards?â
Dean flinches, and it was a low blow, but right now you donât care. Heâs going to die. Why doesnât he fucking care that heâs going to die and leave you.
âCome on.â You snap, slamming a few bills on the table and shooting up. âWeâre chasing her. Youâre apologizing.â
He frowns. âNo, Iâm not-â
âThen weâre going back on the dating app, and finding someone else.â
âI donât want someone else.â
You roll your eyes, shoving the bar door open and marching to the car. You have Emmaâs number. Youâll do the apology yourself if you have to.
Deanâs stumbling after you into the parking lot, and you canât stop yourself from looking over your shoulder every few seconds. Just to be sure he hasnât hurt himself. He calls your name, voice pained, and you freeze. Turn slowly, your arms crossed over your chest.
âIâm not doinâ this.â He snaps, stalking towards you in uneven steps. âYou can bitch and whine about it all you want, sweetheart, Iâm not fucking that girl.â
âIâm bitching and whining?â You laugh, the sound crude even to your ears. âIâm not the one who decided the best time to become a fucking celibate was when he got hit with a sex curse. Youâre the one acting like a fucking child here-â
âIâm not acting like a child-â
âThen youâre acting like an idiot!â You scream, taking a large step forward.
Dean goes rigid. Takes a long step back, like youâre poisonous. It just fuels the burning, exhausted fire, kindled by every bit of fear, of love, of fury that heâs putting you through this with almost no remorse.
âItâs not like you have to marry her!â You shout, barbed wire tightening around your throat. âItâs just sex! Fuck, you donât even have to look at her, itâs- I donât understand why this is so fucking hard for you all of a sudden, itâs not like youâre some virgin fucking pussy-â
He mutters your name, a low warning, and you ignore it.
âIâve spent all day trying to save you, Dean! I was going to be your- Your fucking sex chauffer, and I havenât been complaining, but you canât do me one fucking favor and have sex with a pretty girl?â
You take another step forward, and this time he isnât fast enough. You jab his chest, and he stumbles back like you shot him, eyes panicked and wide on yours.
âWhat the fuck is wrong with you?!â You shriek, shoving him again. âDo you want to die? Are you trying to fucking kill me? Do you hate me, Dean? Is that what this is?â
He rasps your name, and you shake your head.
âIâve been trying so- So hard to save you. I- I told you that I canât- If you-â Your words are getting choked, and the pain is too heavy to just shake off. âYouâre not allowed to go! I told you, I wonât let you, but you- You fucking hate me-â
You try to shove him again, hot tears burning down your face, but this time Deanâs ready. He catches your wrist, and you try to pull back but heâs got more strength left than you thought.
He squeezes his hold on you, stalking forward. A fire lights in your core, at the intensity of his gaze. Unyielding and hot, searing into you as your back hits the Impala. He towers over you, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring as he takes in your open mouth and slack expression. You donât know how you expected him to react, but it wasnât this. This makes your knees weak, your heart hitting a dangerous pace at the top of your chest.
You can smell his cologne, smell his. A salt, deep musk thatâs just Dean, that might as well be a drug for how itâs making you freeze. Your free hand moves to press flat against his chest, but you donât push.
He grunts, his muscles rippling like you just threw a rock into water. He seizes up, head bowing, and thereâs nowhere for you to hide from him.
Deanâs tongue darts over his lips, and your breath hitches.
âDonât do that.â He grunts, and you just nod.
Lean a little closer, until the heat of your breath is fanning over your cheeks. Your eyes flutter, and when you risk meeting his gaze he looks almost predatory. The hunger in his eyes sends a pleasant shiver down your spine, your thighs pressing together, and itâs hot, so hot-
âI donât hate you.â
You blink at him. Youâd forgotten about that. âDean-â
âI donât.â He snaps. âDonât fuckinâ- Never think that, alright? I donât hate you.â
âThen why are you doing this to me?â You whisper desperately. âWhy couldnât you just go have sex with Emma-â
He shakes his head. âI donât want Emma.â
âThen let me find you someone you want, please-â
âNo.â
âWhy-â
âCause I donât want any of them.â He hisses, your foreheads bumping as he leans further down. âI donât want some random fuckinâ chick you pull for me, I donât want to fuck her, donât wanna touch her, hell, I donât even want to goddamn look at her.â
You take a shaking breath, a haze overtaking your head. âDean, you need someone-â
âYou think I donât know that?â He pushes his hips forward, and you can feel it.
His cock, straining through his jeans, pressing against your thigh. You bite down a moan, completely still in his arms, trying to make him understand with just your eyes. Itâs not fair for him to do this to you. He doesnât understand, this is all youâve ever wanted and heâs just taunting you with it-
âI can feel it, sweetheart.â He mutters, rolling slightly against you, making that fire in your core threaten to sweep you away. âI feel myself dyinâ. My muscles are hurting like I ran a mile, Iâm sweating through ten damn layers, think the fever is getting me so bad I might be about to go fucking crazy. But I didnât even notice âtill you started getting all worried. You know why?â
It takes you a second to realize youâre supposed to answer. You barely shake your head, before heâs squeezing your wrist, leaning down to whisper in your ear.
ââCause of you.â He breathes, voice soft and dangerous. âI always feel like an animal when I see you. Spent the whole car ride back from that damn house wanting to hump your leg and didnât think twice. You just do that to me, and you got no fuckinâ idea.â
You gasp slightly, turning your head to look him in the eyes. Theyâre hooded, almost feral on yours. Youâre so dizzy, youâre worried you might be walking through a dream.
âDe- Dean-â
âYou can keep looking for some random girl for me, if itâs gonna make you feel better. But I wonât fuck âem. I canât.â His lips ghost over yours, and you lean forward.
âDean-â
âSex barely even works for me anymore, baby.â He mutters, tongue flicking over his lips. âNothinâ does. I get kicked out of bed âcause I call your name. So just fuckinâ-â He squeezes your wrist again, drawing slowly back. âStop. If you wanna give me a dying wish, cut it out and let me go in some damn peace.â
You gape at him as he pulls away, his grip going slack on your wrist.
Dying wish.
He still thinks heâs allowed to die.
âWhat- What if you fuck me?â You say, so quiet you barely even hear yourself.
Deanâs head jerks up, and he says your name with a harsh, unforgiving snap. âNo. Iâm not askinâ you to do that just because Iâm some perv who canât get it up-â
âYouâve got it up.â You smile at up, pressing your knee up into his crotch.
He groans, doubling back down so youâre caged against the Impala again. âBaby, donât fuckinâ- Iâm not bending on this shit, alright. Iâm not gonna be some pity fuck-â
âItâs not a pity fuck, Iâm saving your life-â
âI told you, no-â
âDo you not want to have sex with me?â You challenge, and Dean gives you a pleading, wrathfully frustrated look.
âDonât ask stupid questions, course I wanna have- Fuck-â He groans, eyes fluttering as his brow presses against yours. âYeah. Yeah I want to. But- I wonât ask you to. So no.â
You swallow. Itâs probably the fever making his tongue so loose. Heâs so hot it almost burns to be this close, but that might just be Dean.
Itâs always just Dean. And he has to know that.
âWhat if I want to have sex with you?â
Dean grunts, shaking his head. âDonât say that if you donât mean it-â
âI mean it.â You fist your hand in his shirt, dragging him a little closer. âDo you?â
He stares at you again. Scans over your face like heâs looking for one clue that youâre just indulging him, that thereâs a single doubt running through your head.
There isnât. Your breathing is uneven, but your heart is going too fast for it to be anything else. Youâre flushed with an unending, arduous hunger to just have him, however he needs you.
Slowly, testing the waters, Dean slides a hand onto your neck. You raise your chin, holding his gaze. He squeezes slightly, and you lean into him, tugging on his shirt for more.
His thumb moves up, dragging over your lower lip. You part your lips, and his nostrils flare.
Dean pushes his thumb slowly between your lips, and you close them obediently around him. Your eyes flutter as you suck, letting your tongue circle around the thick finger, tilting your head and letting your eyes flutter. He pushes a little deeper and you moan. Your hand flies up to grab his wrist, holding him against you, and Dean groans. His eyes are clearer than theyâve been all night, shining with something like awe.
You smile, grinding up into his torso and humming with pleasure.
Dean mouth hangs slack.
âJesus fuckinâ-â
He cuts himself off, pulling his thumb out with a pop and grabbing your jaw. You giggle happily for a second, and Dean swallows the sound, crashing his mouth against yours.
Youâve pictured this kiss a million times, a million ways, almost every night since you met him. Somehow, this is better than any slow, fairytale kiss with swelling music and sunlight hitting both your faces like a spotlight.
Deanâs not taking his time. Heâs kissing you like youâre the last thing he knows, the only thing heâs ever wanted. Like a man whoâs been starving himself, finally allowed a feast and wasting no precious seconds on manners. Itâs urgent and forceful, words he canât say being pushed down your throat with his tongue and spit. You kiss him back with everything you have, your fingers digging into his chest through his shirts, your head spinning as you neglect breath just to taste a little bit more whiskey and salt on his tongue. But nothing you throw at him Dean canât seem to double.
You yank at his shirt, and he pulls your hair back. You try to grind up again, and he grabs your leg, hiking it over his hip. You grab his face, trying to kiss harsher, give more, and Dean slams down like a tidal wave, dominating your mouth with unforgiving need.
A moan escapes your throat, your body going limp in his arms, and he grunts. Ruts up into your core once, making your legs spread in a shameless invitation.
Dean grunts, yanking back like someone pulled him on a leash.
He stares at you for a long moment, his thumb finding its way back to your cheek. He smears a bit of spit over your cheek, and you tilt your head into the touch.
âYouâre sure-â
âYes.â
He nods tightly, takes a heavy breath, and leans away. âGet in the car.â
Itâs a short, curt order. You donât think twice before you obey.
You scramble into the driverâs seat, fumbling with the keys and slamming them into the port like youâre about to enter a car chase. Deanâs barely in the car before the engine is rumbling and youâre reversing out of the spot, gripping the wheel with white knuckles. Itâs happening. Itâs happening.
âEasy, baby.â He chuckles, the sound raspy and sending more shivers through your body. âYou that eager-â
âYes.â You snap, and Dean hums.
A light, almost taunting hand lands on your thigh. You glance over and find him palming at his crotch, his eyes wholly black and mouth hanging open. Itâs an animalistic expression, his chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and when you murmur his name he barely seems to hear.
His fingers dance up the inside of your leg, and you take an unsteady breath, spreading your legs wider. A deep, rumbling sound leaves Deanâs chest, those infernal fingers curling on the sensitive spot where your leg meets your core. Little electric shock rush through your body, and thatâs just through the jeans.
âDean.â You whisper, not even managing to make your voice firm. âI- Iâm driving-â
âSo look at the road.â He growls, knuckles brushing against your groin.
You bite your lower lip, and nod. Itâs not worth arguing with him, and if you donât think you can focus, youâll just pull over. You told him you were sure. Told yourself that whatever he gave you, youâd be happy.
You just didnât expect him to be borderline feral. The palming you could deal with. You expected.
This is different.
Dean scoots further, and youâre about to mumble something about a seatbelt when his lips brush the curve of your neck. You inhale sharply, gripping the wheel for dear life. Dean hums, his tongue flicking over a pulse point. His fingers start to crawl up to your abdomen, his mouth getting more insistent on your neck.
He nips at a pulse point before sucking on his, his tongue flat on your skin and a low sound leaving his chest when you lean back to grant him further access. He kisses a sloppy line up your throat as his fingers dance on your stomach, and youâre starting to get a little dizzy.
âDe, be- Be careful-â
You cut yourself off with a breathy gasp, as his mouth latches behind your ear and he pulls down your zipper. He bites softly before sucking another bruise, popping the button open and slipping his hand into your pants.
âI- Fuck-â You tip your head back, hopelessly trying to keep your eyes on the road, and this is not a safe way to drive. You really should be shoving him away, but thereâs no one on the road.
And with how heâs barely even speakingâjust touchingâyouâre a little worried it might take extra effort to drag him out of the haze of the curse and push him away. He seems to be blinded to anything that isnât you. His mouth drags back down your jaw as his fingers brush over your clothed pussy, and your whole body shakes.
He hums, leaving open kisses on your cheek and hairline. âSensitive, sweetheart. Been a long time?â
You flush, and Dean starts to gather the fabric of your panties best he can through your pants. He drags it up, bunching it around your pussy, and another moan slips out from the pressure.
âAnswer me-â
âMaybe.â You mumble, forcing yourself not to grind into his hand. âYou- You know I donât do that-â
âDo what?â He presses the fabric deeper between your pussy lips. âDonât fuck?â
âDean-â
âHow longâs it been.â His words are hot against your neck, demanding and possessive. âWho touched you last, baby, who shoved their fingers in this pussy-â
âI- I donât remember-â
âThatâs fuckinâ right.â He pulls your panties tighter against your clit. ââCause they donâtâ fuckinâ matter, sweet girl. No one else is ever gonna touch you like this. Iâm gonna make you soak my fingers, my face, my cock, and itâs gonna feel so good in that smart, pretty mouth,â he kisses the corner of your lips, and only the wheel in your hands stops you from turning and claiming his mouth again. âThatâs always fucking teasing me, it ainât gonna remember a single word but my name. You want that, baby? Wanna be my perfect fuckinâ slut?â
Jesus Christ, this is worse than the not speaking. If this is a dreamâbecause youâve had them like this beforeâyou never want to wake up.
He yanks his hand away, leaving your underwear bunched up in your cunt, and slaps your pussy over the jeans. Your mouth falls open and you lean forward, lightning surging through your whole body.
âOh my- Dean-â
âI told you, answer-â
âYes, I- Yes, please-â Your words fall off into a moan, as Dean shoves his hand back against you, this time dragging the panties away and plunging two fingers deep into your pussy. âDean-â
âThatâs right.â He mutters, crooking them deep against a sensitive spot. âThatâs my girl, youâre so fuckinâ wet- This all for me?â
âMmm- Mhm-â
âFuck yeah it is.â He starts his attack on your neck again, only speaking between kisses, his fingers scissoring inside your pussy. âSo damn tight, know youâre gonna take my cock so good, bet you taste like heaven- Fuck, I wanna taste this pussy, wanted to taste it for years-â
His own words fall into a moan, and for a second you think heâs just out of dirty talk, but heâs still mumbling incoherently against your skin.
Then you risk another look at his body, and the hand that isnât in your pants has pulled out his cock.
And fuck, if it isnât the most beautiful thing youâve ever seen. Thick and long, but not painful looking. Throbbing and twitching as he jerks himself, the tip leaking and slick with pre-cum. It takes effort to look at the road and not just stare at the rock-hard, veiny marvel of a specimen between his legs.
You donât know why youâre surprised. Deanâs a specimen himself.
Heâs somehow already figured out how to finger you in such a confining position. His wrist has twisted, letting his thumb drag lazy circles around your clit, his fingers giving shallow, rough thrusts that make his fingers taunt your g-spot. Never really fully touching it, but sending shivers through your whole body.
âOh- Oh-â You have to take deep breaths to keep your head clear, your whole body winding tight with the arousal heâs pulling out of you, more and more every second. âDean-â
âShh.â He grunts, biting right under your jaw, and you squeak. âJust feel it. Sweet fuckinâ pussy, gushing around my fingers-â
You moan, loud and lewd, his deep voice not doing anything to help you keep it together.
Itâs a miracle you make it to the motel. Itâs a shit parking jobâyouâre definitely over the linesâbut youâre both alive.
You barely shift the gears before Deanâs pouncing on you like an animal. Whatever the ride was, he still seemed to be showing restraint. Now that youâre safe, all bets are off.Â
A squeal leaves you, as he flips your body. Pressing your back to the window and prowling over your body, slamming his mouth over yours and kissing until youâre slumping against the glass. Your hand flies up to grab the back of his neck, your hips rolling up to where his knee is pressed between your thighs. Your eyes dart down when you pull apart for a single, ragged breathâDean pulling your lip between his teeth, and kissing your nose and cheek like breathing is really no longer his concernâand you whimper at the sight of him, still erect and hanging out of his pants.
Dean drags your chin back up, searing his lips over yours, and you melt. Heâs a good kisser. And you knew that, but itâs not like anything youâve felt before. Itâs like youâre trading souls, like heâs trying to brand you with wandering hands and lips.
When you pull away again, your dizzy from the pleasure and force of him. You whine at the loss as he leans away, but Dean just squeezes your waist and smirks.
You hear a rip, as he claws your pants and underwear down your legs. You donât get a chance to adjust before heâs shoving your knee up against the bench, dragging the other one over his shoulder as he ducks between your legs.
âDean- Shit-â Your breathing gets shallow as his breath fans over your pussy. âWe- Weâre supposed to be doing things that are- Like blowjobs-â
Itâs so hard to argue with him when heâs between your legs. The sight alone is almost enough to tip you into a frenzy. His shining eyes looking up at you, his full lips grazing your inner thigh, leaving teasing kisses everywhere but where youâre aching for him. You run your fingers through his short, soft hair, trying to get his attention. He just makes a low sound like a purr, and presses his mouth over your clit.
You almost fly out of your skin. Heâs making out with the sensitive nerve like theyâre your mouth, his tongue dragging and pressing, his hands on your thighs kneading with every suck and graze of his teeth. All you can do is cover your mouth and try to stifle your moan.
Dean withdraws, and you make a strangled sound of frustration. He canât just do that, itâs not fair-
âNo doinâ that.â He grunts, dragging your hand from your mouth. âWanna hear it.â
You nod weakly, but still try one more time to remind him who this is about. âDean, it- itâs supposed to be stuff thatâs good for you-â
âThis is good for me.â He mutters, letting go of your thigh over his shoulder to let his fingers drag back over your fluttering pussy. âLook at you.â He mutters with pure awe. âResponsive, wet little pussy. Bet youâd like it when I do this.â
He pushes one finger knuckle-deep inside you, and you yank on his hair with delight.
âYeah, you do. How about,â he drags it out, then shoves it back in, and your head tips back against the window, eyes screwing shut.
âDean, Dean, please-â
He groans, adding a second finger and repeating the slamming motion. Once, twice, a third time. His tongue flicks against your clit on that last one, and your eyes roll back in your head.
âDean-â
Another deep sound, another flick, and youâre seconds from begging like a whore when he snaps.
Dean wraps his mouth back around your clit, resuming his ministrations from before with twice the fervor. His fingers pick up their pace, wet sounds filling the car as he finger-fucks you into oblivion.
The curse seems to have itâs full hold on him. Heâs borderline feral. Youâve never had a man who eats pussy like heâs having a five-star meal, like it really is good for him. Sometimes he just pulls his fingers out and drags his tongue down your cunt, angling his head to press his tongue deep inside you and working his jaw until your toes are curling. His nose bumps your clit and his stubble scrapes your thighs, his free hand squeezing your thigh as he devours.
âOh- Oh fuck-â You let out a vulgar, lustful sound as he drags you further forward against his mouth, the pleasure rushing through your body. âDean- God, just like that-â
He drags his mouth back up to your swollen, neglected clit, and those two fingers pump back into your hole. Itâs somehow better and worse, and a shriek rips from your mouth as he spanks your pussy, then resumes his rhythm.
âDean, please- Please, fuck- please-â
Youâre already babbling, the tension in your lower abdomen so tight itâs almost painful. Your body is shaking with the stimulation, and Deanâs working you like an instrument. He finds every hyper-needy spot that makes you moan his name and playing it like a professional. Youâre kept right on the edge for what feels like a million years, his fingers and mouth switching in and out, begging and begging as he turns you into an empty-headed, drooling wound-up mess.
Then he finally lets you over the edge.
Dean pushes his fingers right against your g-spot, and rubs. Your body seizes up, eyes crossing as his tongue flicks against your clit, and the heat built up in your gut explodes.
You shake as your orgasm rips through your pussy, your spine, every nerve in your body glowing with a deep, sex-addled bliss. Your clit is swollen between Deanâs lip as he drags you through it, your pussy gushing around his fingers and fingers yanking at his hair.
âFuck, yes- Yes-â You moan, legs locking around Deanâs head, and he groans against your pussy.
When it pulls another lewd sound from your chest, he does it again, slowly easing his fingers out and starting to clean up the mess between your thighs. He licks and hums, the sensation making your oversensitive body spasm every time he finds one of those spots.
Itâs not certain youâre going to be able to walk to the motel room, when he finally pulls away.
But thereâs a gleaming light in his eyes, that makes you think itâs really not going to matter.
Deanâs a wreck. His face is flushed, chest heaving, cock still hard but coated in a white stain that tells you heâs not close to working off the curse.
âOh, youâre gonna be so mad about that when youâre better.â You mumble, seeing the stains on his precious bench, and Dean chuckles.
âIâll get over it.â
You giggle, and Dean leans over you again, kissing you slow and deep. One orgasm seems to have cleared his head for a seconds, enough that heâs gently rubbing your bare, tender pussy, a soothing touch thatâs really only working you up more.
âLove that sound.â He mutters, and you frown against his lips.
âWha-â
âYour laugh.â He sucks on your upper lip, wrapping an arm around your waist. âLove it so much. Donât think Iâve told you that before.â
He hasnât. It somehow makes you flush more than any of the dirty things heâd been hissing in your ear before.
âYouâre telling me a lot of new things.â You manage to mumble, and he huffs in amusement.
âBlame it on the curse.â
You giggle again, and his face shines like he won a prize.
âSon of a bitch,â his eyes are already darkening again, voice getting thick with the curse-driven hunger. âI love you, you know that?â
You can only gape at him. He must not have said what you thought he said. âWhat?â
âYou heard me.â He presses his brow against yours, reaching up to cup your cheek. âI love you.â
He rasps your name, and you blink away tears.
âDean, if itâs just the curse-â
âItâs not. Itâs-â
He slides his mouth against yours and this is the romantic kiss you always pictured. Slow and devoted as he takes the time to memorize you, to bask in the glow of your heart as you shine with love beneath him.
âYou know it, right?â His voice is gravelly, his body pressing firmer over yours. Heâs going back under. He can probably feel it. âThat I mean it?â
Heâs still askingâalmost beggingâyou to tell him that you know.
âI know.â You mumble. âI- I love you too.â
Dean goes rigid over your body, and you blink up at him, as nervous as a doe in headlights. Just like the kiss, youâve dreamed of saying it. Pictured it somewhere romantic, your makeup perfect and the breeze running through your hair. Dean falling to his knees after, kissing your hands before sweeping you off your feet.
Instead youâre lying in the car, cum staining your tangled legs, everything in you ruined from being eaten out by the sinful mouth that haunts your dreams. Deanâs hovering over you, tongue darting over those same lipsâshining with your arousal, making your thighs rub together under himâand your holding onto his flannel, both your clothing stuck to your skin from sweat.
He doesnât fall to his knees. He just looks at you like heâs not sure itâs a dream either.
At least he still sweeps you off your feet.
Dean moves like a machine. Youâre not even sure whatâs happening until youâre being hit by the wind, dragged down the bench by your ankles and wrapped in one of his jackets to preserve your modesty. His dick has been hastily shoved back into his pantsâthe fly still fucking downâand youâre about to tell him youâd at least like your underwear before heâs picking it up and shoving it into his pocket.
âDean!â You gasp, and he just grunts, sweeping you fully into his arms.
âMine.â He mutters under his breath, looking around the parking lot like heâs still trying to orient himself. âI- I gotta, fuck-â
Gently, you reach up and turn his chin in the direction of your motel room. âOver there, De.â You mumble, and he nods tightly.
Heâs fully back under. You donât bother to struggle or try and convince him that you can walk, because youâre not even sure you could. Itâs not worth distressing Dean over anyway.
Despite his fever soaring and gaze being fogged by the curse, he manages you gently. When you get into the room youâre tossed on the bed and pinned back down for his mouth to work you open again, but the brusing grip is full of care, his mouth worshipful on your pussy. After that heâs rising over your body, ripping clothing like itâs a personal offense on his sensibilities and descending over you with another feral growl.
Your legs are shoved apart, but he rubs a hand over your calves almost reverently. Staring at your glistening, abused pussy with a look of pride and affection, gaze slowly dragging up your flushed breasts and thoroughly marked neck to meet yours.
You give him a honeyed, coaxing smile. Youâre his to take, if he wants it.
He makes a low sound from his chest, and starts to kiss up your body. You gasp when his lips wrap around one of your peaked nipples, sucking gently until your grinding up into him. His hand splays over your stomach, gently guiding you back down, and you whine desperately.
âPatience.â He hums, kissing over your breast before switching to the other nipple. âGonna take care of you. Fuck- Youâre so beautiful, so fuckinâ-â
Dean moans to himself, and you whimper his name, yanking on his hair.
But thereâs no rushing him. He plays with your tits until heâs had his fillâwhen theyâre swollen and youâre arching into every touchâthen works back down to your pussy. Tasting your arousal, soaked and messy and almost shamefully dripping down his hand when he touches you.
He doesnât seem to mind it at all though.Â
âMessy girl.â He grunts, twisting one finger inside of you. âThink youâre ready for some cock, arenât you. Gonna take me, princess? Show me how much you love me?â
You blink at him through tears, on the brink of screaming his he doesnât let you cum again soon. When you nod itâs like a bobblehead, and you only remember his orders from before at the last second.
âYes.â You gasp. âYes, Dean, please-â
Again, he moves.
Youâre almost a ragdoll in his arms. A ragdoll that he moves like youâre threaded from gold, tossing you around and gripping your hips so hard youâll have a handprint in the morning, but kissing over every hickey on your neck and muttering words of low, tender praise every second.
âGood girl.â He mutters as he drags his cock between your pussy lips. âGood fuckinâ girl, already cockdrunk and stupid for me, arenât you. Love taking you like this, looking at you all pretty and dumb-â
You whine, head lolling to the side. Dean slides two fingers into your mouth and you suck on them like candy, taking anything heâll offer.
He growls, dick catching on your entrance, and you shiver, looking up at him under fluttering eyes.
Dean drags you up like you weigh nothing, slowly sitting you down on his massive cock, and every thought but his name is driven from your head.
Heâs thick. So think you almost donât think you can take it, but your whine of protest is only met by cooing, filthy praise in your ears and careful circles around your clit. You donât know how he can still be so far into the curse and able to restrain himself from rutting you like a beast.
Probably because itâs Dean. That feels like explanation enough.
It takes a moment for him to bottom out, and when he does youâre sure youâve never been this full. Heâs hitting places inside of you that you hadnât known existed, dropping you into a pool of pleasure that makes your breathing stuttered, your nails scratching over his shoulders as you try to keep yourself from floating away.
Dean kisses you, hot and deep. You moan against him and he grabs your hips, starting to roll you up and down on his cock. You can tell heâs experimenting again, trying to figure out where he hits the deepest, working you open until youâre riding his cock smoothly your head falling back as pants of his name leave your mouth.
Itâs paradise. Your toes are curling with every twitch of his cock inside you, every rush of heat when he slams extra hard and hits your cervix. It takes him takes him some time to decide how he wants you , and youâd laugh at what he settles on if the air wasnât being fucked from your lungs.
Dean cums while holding you in his lap, his thrusts getting short and a groan of your name falling from his mouth when he ruts up, his cock pumping hot release inside of you and your own orgasm rolling through your body like an electrical storm. But then youâre being picked up and flipped around so your back is pressed to his chest, his arm locking around your neck and his hand returning to your clit as his fucks up into you. Then youâre moved forward onto the mattress, Dean turning your face so he can hear your moans and keeping your ass into the air as he slams from behind, his balls slapping against your clit and bringing you back up to the edge.
Youâre in his lap again, folded under him with your knees to your chest, rolled on top of him so he can play with your tits and watch you ride.
Every time he cums, youâre thrown into a new position and held there until you both fall back over the edge. Youâve never been wrecked like this before, your head empty, pussy drenching his cock as he spills and claims every spot on your body.
âDirty fuckinâ girl,â he growls into your ear from below you, dragging his fingers down your inner thigh, gathering his release on his fingers. âSo pretty, bouncing on this cock, my pretty fuckinâ baby-â
âDean.â You whine, scraping at his chest. âDean, feels so good, so fucking good-â
âI know.â He coos. âMade for me, getting so fucking stupid on my cock- Open.â
He slaps your cheek lightly, and your lips part. Dean feeds you his cum, other hand rubbing up and down your spine, and you grind down onto him with need.
âGood girl, fuckinâ- Christ youâre so good-â His thrusts get shorter, brutal and uneven. âYouâre mine, this sweet pussy is mine, gonna- Gonna fuckinâ worship you, fuck-â
He drills up into you, taking his hand away to bounce you how he likes.
You both cum, Dean calling your name and throwing his head back, watching you under hooded, still hungry eyes.
Thereâs a second to catch your breath, as he palms your breast. Pinches a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, watching how you arch into his touch.
âYou like that?â He grunts, and you hum.
âFeels good.â
âDamn right it does.â He grabs the other one, working them in tandem.
You whine his name, looking at him under pleading lashes.
Dean groans. âFuck, babyâŚâ
Heâs hard again, and youâre being moved into another position.
By the time he finds one he wants to keep, youâre a disaster of a woman. Making sounds that are supposed to be his name, boneless below him and still trying to chase more, even as your body turns into a raw, live nerve.
Deanâs got you under him again, his body pressed over yours, cock plunging in and out of your pussy at a lazy, torturous pace. Youâve been like this for what must be an hour, maybe a day, maybe fifty years. Tears of pleasure are stained on your cheeks, thereâs a wet sound with every thrust as his cum leaks out of your stuffed hole, and Deanâs praise is becoming more and more lucid.
âI love you.â He mutters, and you moan, turning your head to try and kiss him.
âDeanâŚâ
âI know.â He mutters. âI know, baby, but youâre doinâ so good. Feeling better, almost done, just gotta-â
He kisses over your face, finally capturing your lips as he starts to rut, pounding into your swollen g-spot over and over.
You barely have the energy to arch up, when you cum. You breathe out his name, pussy clenching as you feel that last bit of his cum squirt into you, and a wet, hot feeling floods your pussy as your vision goes white.
âLove you.â Deanâs still muttering as you float through the haze, his lips pressed over yours. âLoved you forever, never- Never thought-â
His voice cracks, and you know the curse is over. Heâs not getting hard again inside of you, not trying to chase more.
Just pressing his face into the crook of your neck and holding you tight, words muffled against your skin.
âThank you.â He mutters. âThank you for- For sayinâ it back, even if that wasnât-â
âIt was,â you breathe out. He needs to know. âI love you, Dean. Have for longer.â
He chuckles, squeezing your body, and you smile into the air.
You find the strength to thread your fingers through his hair, and he hums, pressing a sweet kiss to your sensitive skin. You shiver, whining softly, and he chuckles again. Both of you too fucked out to move. Youâre not sure youâre going to be able to walk in a straight line for a month.
But it was worth it.
Holding Dean here, so peacefully, was more than worth it.
âŚEnd note: please tell me if you enjoyed it i think i started my own ovulation so. oops.⌠âŚIf you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3⌠âŚBuy me a coffee!âď¸ (and get early access!)⌠âŚTaglist (Fill out this form to be added!)âŚ



