Aisling

guys gUYS PLEASE WALK WIHT ME HEAR ME OUT. S3-S4 SAM WINCHESTER WHO GETS ADDICTED TO ANGEL!READER'S BLOOD. LIKE HEAR ME OUT. DEAN IS TRYING TO GET HIM TO DETOX FROM DEMON BLOOD BUT NOTHING WILL WORK AND EVENTUALLY CASTIEL DECIDES TO CASH IN A CONTACT TO HELP DEAN BECAUSE IT IS DISTRACTING HIM FROM THE MISSION AND THE CONTACT IS ANGEL!READER WHO HAS BEEN IN EARTH FOR A WHILE NOW AND ANGEL BLOOD IS "BETTER" THAN DEMON BLOOD SO THEY ARE USING IT AS A SUBSTITUTE SO YEAH.

Summary: While investigating a string of fairy tale-inspired attacks, you become the next victim of the curse. Dean refuses to accept there's nothing he can do about it. Pairing: Dean x F.Reader (Hunter) / (Established relationship) Warnings: Fairy tale stuff, magical sleep/unconsciousness, (really)soft Dean, hurt, comfort, light mention of Dean's deal, softness, too much softness, takes place during Season 3 Episode 5. Notes: I am watching spn again, bedtime stories gave me this idea and why not do this with my favorite Disney princess? Word count: 4.3k

“All right, maybe it is fairy tales,” Dean said, staring at the frog sitting in the grass. He still looked unconvinced. “Totally messed-up fairy tales,” he added, pointing at it with two fingers, “but I’ll tell you one thing. There’s no way I’m kissing a damn frog.” You couldn't help smiling.

“The stories follow a script, right?” you said, glancing toward Sam. “You probably don't have to kiss one unless something forces you to.”

“That’s usually how fairy tales work.” Sam nodded toward a house across the street. “Check that out.” He looked toward one of the houses across the street, a lone pumpkin sat on the front porch steps.

“Yeah, it's close to Halloween,” Dean said with a shrug, like that explained everything. Maybe, but still, it felt a little early.

“You remember Cinderella? The pumpkin that turns into a coach? The mice that become horses?” at this point, you were pretty sure he was talking mostly to you. Dean looked like he'd rather wrestle the frog than discuss fairy tales.

“Dude, could you be more gay?” Dean scoffed.

➶ warnings: 18+, MOC!Dean, angst, pining and possessiveness and perversion, fingering, oral sex (m!receiving), making out, sexual fantasies, dean grappling with actually feeling emotions, light alcohol consumption, violent/dark imagery, best friends to (technically) lovers, slow burn, porn with plot -- please let me know if i miss anything!

➶ summary: it’s Dean’s birthday. He knows he’s meant to be having a good time and focusing on all his friends and family celebrating him, but all he can seem to think about or see is you. Especially what he would do if you were his.

➶ word count: 7.6k words

quick note: hello folks! so, i decided to split part two (so there's one last part to come!!) because otherwise it was going to be like 25k and that just felt a bit silly. enjoy <3

(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ find part one back here (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here

Make no mistake, Dean has thought deeply and thoroughly about the first time he makes you his and he yours. Many times before.

But tonight... tonight feels different. It feels certain.

It’ll all start at the end of the night. When everyone’s said their final goodnights and happy birthdays to Dean and left the bunker. You and him are cleaning up after the party, the music’s still playing but it’s much quieter now. Dean’s told Sam not to worry about helping clear the mess of dirty plates, finished bottles, and half-eaten food because he really should get some well needed beauty sleep.

Sam rolls his eyes from the hallway passage, tilting the right side of his head towards his brother with an annoyed huff before throwing his left hand in the air and walking away. Dean can hear you behind him, over by the wooden table in the middle of the room, fail to stifle a chuckle. 

He carefully watches Sam walk down the bunker’s corridor and disappear around a corner, and when he hears his brother’s footsteps fade to nothing and the door to his bedroom shut, Dean can’t help the guileful smile painted on his face as he turns 180 towards a preoccupied you, his feet carrying him to your left side without a second thought. You’ve got three stacked plates in the crook of your right forearm against your chest, your left arm reaching out over the table for another plate.

Dean reaches you in six steps.

His feet plant him half a step away, his front facing your side. “Thank you,” he says, your name lingering in the air.

You’ll flick your head towards him with that warm smile, your cheeks full and eyes crinkling, that sends soft waves over his chest. “I didn’t do anything, Dean,” your face and eyes shift back to the table, scanning for any other plates to grab, “Not really.”

He’ll be quick with his response, not allowing the air from your self-effacing to settle, “You did everything, sweetheart.” And you’ll tilt your head, your face in a dubious scrunch. He won’t let you challenge him – not right now, at least. “You are everything,” he counters, low and firm.

That makes you pause, your breath hitching, left arm hanging mid-air.

Your voice is slightly hoarse when you speak again, big soft eyes with a glint, as you turn your head to look up at him, “Dean...”

He’ll take the final half-step towards you, and the tip of his shoe will bump the side of your own. He’s looking down at you and he can see the complete change in your breathing. Just how he likes it. Your mouth has parted, chest rising and falling in weighted movements.

You blink twice – not breaking eye contact with him – swallow, and then put the four plates nestled in your right arm back on a small cleared space on the table in front of you. They’ll clatter a little. Then you turn fully to him. Tilt your chin up.

There’s a little bit more space between your shoes and bodies now – maybe a finger apart – because of the shuffle of your feet to make sure you’re giving him your full attention.

Dean needs to close it.

And he doesn’t need The Mark to tell him.

But Dean’s right hand will flex in anticipation first, then he’ll raise it from his side to cup your face, the pad of his thumb resting on the top of your cheekbone while his folded index finger sits just behind the hinge of your jaw, near your ear. He starts to rub his thumb back and forth, impressing the skin, yet still soft with the touch. Measured. Tender.

A little sound escapes your mouth, and it’s almost a whimper.

Oh, darlin’, the sounds I’m gonna pull from you.

You lean lightly into the side of his palm, and he’ll take a deep inhale in return. Because you didn’t flinch or look disgusted. You didn’t pull away from him. You lent further into him. You want him to touch you.

He’s always wanted to feel your head tilt into his hand.

Despite the bunker’s usual prickling coldness, your cheek feels so warm – lush and beautiful and everything that Dean isn’t against his rough and battered hands. Although filtered by the yellow hue of the lamp-lit room, the rosy haze across the tops of your cheeks is blooming again.

The eye contact connecting you both is heavy. Your eyes are big. Puppy-like. Long electrical currents pulse between your bodies, and there’s a soft golden gleam in your eyes from that very same lighting that makes Dean’s stomach flip. Like he’s riding the downhill dip of a rollercoaster.

Your right arm moves to touch Dean – and he can’t wait for this part. Your fingers start at his left rib set, slowly sliding up his chest over his dark checkered flannel, and he can feel the fabric run against his heated skin as your hand glides upwards, before finally stopping over the spot where his heart is beating. Fast. So fast he thinks his sternum will crack open.

But his body is relaxed. Not tensed. He knows he’s about to be yours, and you be his. At last.

His eyes will drop to your lips. But instead of moving between each of your own eyes – calculatedly pausing just like he had earlier in the night – his gaze will run up to the dip of your cupid’s bow, then to your nose, and finally lock back onto both your eyes.

A ragged breath falls from you, your right fingers bunching his shirt, and then you pull him down slightly as you lean up. To kiss him. Dean’s never sure if his mouth will dry or pool with saliva in anticipation of this touch.

In most of his fantasies, Dean likes to think you’ll be the first one to close your eyes when you first kiss – because you’ve been waiting for this just as long as he has, and needed it just as badly. And he needs to see that look on you.

Not tonight, though.

No, he’ll be the first to close them. Because this clawing precipice of longing is killing him and he needs it to happen now.

So he goes to close his eyes to make the moment real and now. But when your lips don’t meet his within two heavy breaths, he opens them just a little. Confused. And when he looks down at you, searching, your eyes are watching him, half-lidded. A soft grin twitches over your lips, your nostrils expanding as a small satisfied huff of air ghosts Dean’s lips.

Are you teasing him?

Cheeky.

He smirks back. The touch from his thumb and index finger shifting to just the slightest grip. Christ, you make him hard.

And then you both close that final distance in an insisting motion that makes Dean’s heart lurch as his lips meet the softness and wetness of yours.

This, Dean thinks, is the good moment.

It’s not a quick kiss.

It’s slow, so slow. And warm. Deep. Open-mouthed but no tongue.

And it’s not tentative. It’s charged. A reclaiming. Like you’ve done this together a million times before. Because he’s yours. And you're his.

He can taste the last wisps of alcohol you were drinking earlier, and he wishes he could just drink in every single inch and strand of you.

The Mark buzzes. Euphoric vibrations travelling across his right forearm. A white-hot tingle washes through the muscles and tendons of his back, down each vertebrae of his spine. The tip of your nose is brushing the dip between his own nose and cheek, and he can feel your slowed exhale fanning his face. There’s an unmistakable relieved tension dissipating between you both with each heartbeat and languid movement of lips against one another’s, the mortar binding together Dean’s withholding, self-loathing, and unworthiness crumbling to let himself have you.

A quiet, warm hum sounds in your throat, and it redirects all the blood coursing through his veins to his head and heart in a thick, sweet rush; a smooth burn like a slow savouring sip of scotch whiskey, running from his tongue down his throat to his chest, with a mingling malted edge. The warmth doesn’t finish when it pools in his stomach – it flutters down the back of his thighs, down his calves, and through to his toes to make him feel like his entire body has dissolved into the air.

He can’t help but groan lowly into you – you’re too divine to not touch. Taste. Feel.

Dean brings you in closer. His fingers slide across the underside of your jaw to the line of your neck, fingertips just reaching your nape while his thumb rests hungrily on the hinge of your jaw. He can feel your pulse thrumming. It’s just as quick as his.

Rising from his side, his left arm snakes around your waist, bypassing the curve (that he reminds himself to come back to later) to splay and push his big hand into the dip of your lower back so that you’re pressed firm against him. The swell of your breasts is soft against his chest, making a full-body shudder run through Dean at the sensation.

You gently break the kiss, panting hot little breaths, but Dean immediately chases the warmth and softness of your lips and pulls you back in. Because finally. Finally he’s getting to kiss you. To know and savour you.

And he doesn’t want to stop.

He’ll feel you smile against him when his lips meet yours again, and you moan, dark but sweet, and he’ll swallow it like it’ll be his last meal. This time, he starts lightly biting your bottom lip. And with each kiss, the way you move against each other quickens and heats. Moulding to each other. Devotion and desire beginning to blur.

A huff of air leaves you with a whine, and your right hand unbunches from the middle of his shirt to slide up to the hollow of his neck before moving to grip his hair at his nape, your forearm against his clavicle. Your left hand runs purposely up the side of Dean’s waist – goosebumps rising with each clothed touch – reaching out to feel the taut muscles and curving of his back as your arm hooks under his upper arm to grip tightly onto his shoulder.

Fucking yes.

He feels like he’s going to pass out. You’re hungry for him. He doesn’t know when his dick became rock-hard (again, or did it ever stop being hard?), but the throbbing between his thigh and jeans is now achingly undeniable.

“Dean...”, you mumble heatedly, intoxicatingly into his mouth, wet lips gliding heavily against his. Your right hand is raking through his short hair, teasing his scalp with each curling of your fingers and scratch of your nails. It’s almost torture. “Take me to my room.”

And when he stops, not wanting to pull back – because he needs to keep kissing you, but doing so because he has to make sure that he can somehow protect what little bit he has left of his pathetic self after three decades of perpetual loss, death, and pain, and tell you that he can’t just do this for one night, be something that doesn’t really mean anything to you because you are everything to him – he’ll see a look in your eyes.

The look.

The one with a consuming heat that seeps into every pore and crevice of him to draw him into you impossibly further, and he couldn’t tear away from it even if he tried. You’re asking him to touch you. Need him to touch you. And you’re not asking for just one night. You’re asking him for all of them.

All that stupid, backbreaking, and soul crushing fear that ropes constrictingly around his neck and fuses his bones tightly together, that stops him from hoping he might be good enough for you and you might love him the way he loves you, dissolves into nothing.

And this might be the only time you let yourself ask something of Dean. He sure as hell won’t say no.

He’ll grab your right forearm pressing just above his heaving chest, give one last kiss to your lips – this one a little sweeter but just as deep – then down to the skin of your wrist where your veins catch the light, and drag you down the hallway to exactly where you both want to be.

The grey brick and cement bunker walls blur as he pulls you along, arms outstretched, hands clasped tightly together. The biggest smiles on your faces. Panting. Glowing. You giggling. He can’t stop looking at you. But that’s okay. He could run to your room with his eyes closed.

The only thing outside of you that he notices is the corner you pass together, the one that he’d waited for Sam to turn before he hungrily sought you out. 

Maybe you’ll want to take control, though.

Mmm, he likes that idea.

So he backtracks his daydream a little; you’ll stop him halfway down the hallway, overcome by the need to have his lips, have him, on you.

With both hands (and a slightly impressive strength), you shove him against the wall, the echo of his back thudding into the brick mixed with the sudden loss of air from his lungs, and the impact force against his muscles sending a wave of sickening arousal through him.

The way you’re looking at him – like you’re simultaneously about to worship and devour him – makes his cock twitch violently, and a wrecked sound Dean tries so suck in reverberates off the walls of the empty hallway.

Jesus Christ.

You’re panting, chest rising rapidly and weighted. The tip of your tongue is running along the back and top of your bottom teeth. He can’t wait to feel it in his mouth and suck it.

You almost pounce on him, hands flying to possessively grip each of his shoulders, forearms pressed into his heaving chest. Then your mouth crashes into him, messy and hard, followed by a roll of your hips and chest into his, making his eyes close with a sinful flutter. The coiling wrapping around and pulling his stomach sharpens so tight that he thinks he might go blind with lust. His hands shoot up to your waist, his hold on you only to be described as desperate.

Your left hand pulls the collar of his shirt across his shoulder to expose his skin, your face moving to press a hot open-mouthed kiss to the dip of his left collar bone, and you lick up his neck to his jaw. This time, Dean’s hips jerk uncontrollably forward into you, and he knows you can feel just how badly his taut dick is straining against his jeans.

It’d be impossible not to.

“Dean,” you purr, breathy in his ear, nipping at the lobe. Your right hand's moved from his shoulder to grip his neck with just a hint of pressure, “why’d you make me wait so long?”

It makes him groan into your ear, brows pulling together in searing pleasure and agony, his big hands with a bruising clutch now firm on both your hips, his fingers digging into the plush to centre himself.  I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.

The left side of his stubble will scrape deliciously along your jaw as he leans down to return your heated kisses on your neck, lightly biting and sucking spots before he licks them.

His hold on you suddenly disappears as you fall to your knees in front of him, a sexy giggle leaving you and your eyes staring lazily up at him, pupils blown wide and black with need. Your hands slip down his chest to his waist, a wave of heat trailing from your clothed touch as you slowly inch towards his thick muscled thighs before your hands glide behind them, splayed. Dean’s nostrils flare with each pant, and he feels himself salivating. He can hear how loudly the sound of his harsh breathing fills the watching hallway.

There’s no embarrassment or shame to feel about how needy (and maybe a little pathetic) he is. But there is a thrill that rushes through his veins and makes a possessive spark ache in his lungs and bones – a thrill that somebody could see you touching him like this because you just have to. His balls pull tight.

You’ll grab at his flannel, lifting it up a little to touch his bare stomach and rake your nails down his flexing muscles. He really likes the whisper of pain it leaves.

You trail wet kisses across his navel, looking beautifully up at him through your eyelashes. Dean’s hands press against the cold bricks of the hallway, pushing his hips off the wall so he can watch you better, and he sees the sides of your mouth turn in a proud, knowing smile, pricking up at the sides. Each calculated kiss feels like you’re branding him with your mouth. He loves it.

Then you begin downwards, following his snail trail with a suck and a lick, and Dean’s breath stutters when your mouth and hands pause as you reach the waistband of his jeans. Your index and middle fingers run along the top of the denim fabric, nails skimming the dip between his hips. The muscles there twitch as your hot breath fans the flushing skin, and your low-hung eyes drink in how his body is helplessly reacting to your touch.

Your thumbs press into his leather belt, and then your fingers slip in between him and his jeans.

Fuck.

Your fingertips slide along the inside band of his jeans, Dean helplessly bucking his hips in drowning desire, and on your way back to the middle just below his belly button, your fingers dip further down so that your knuckles dig a little into his brief-covered groin.

Your head bobs down slightly, eye-contact breaking only to press a deep kiss into Dean’s prominent bulge. You both moan at the sensation – Dean’s stifled by him biting sharply into his bottom lip while yours is muffled by his jeans.

Your face moves back to be an inch away from his dick, tilting your chin up to look at him. Lust-blown eyes return to his with an erotic smile, and your fingers slip out and begin slowly unbuckling his belt. The metal clink and leather slapping as you draw out the belt from the denim loops makes Dean dig his fingernails into his palms at the sweet torture of your teasing.

“Goddamnit, sweetheart,” he rasps. Over the almost deafening thumping of his heart, he can just hear an echoing clunk down the hallway walls as you drop his belt to the floor.

“You okay, Dean?” you respond, your brows pulling up as you pout, voice laced with fake-concern, hands moving to unbutton his jeans with a pop, “you seem a little...”, your right thumb and index finger pull down the zipper, “tense.”

All he can do is release a gruff, breathy huff in amazement.

In contrast to your earlier movements, you waste no time yanking his jeans down his hips, leaving them to hang just above his knees. His boxers are obscenely tented, and your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip, both of your hands gripping the muscle of his warm, bared thighs, thumbs pressing into the inner sides. Then you wink up at him.

Oh baby, I can’t wait to fuck you.

You rub the left side of your face up and down against his cock straining in his briefs like a cat, your cheek running firm along his length, nose pressing at his tip where there’s most definitely a wet patch you can see and feel. His eyes almost roll to the back of his head, your nose dipping in a half-circle near his balls to press the right side of your face against him, but he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes open and locked on you kneeling in front of him – for him – to make sure he doesn’t miss a second of you.

Your right cheek rubs along him again, and your name falls from his lips in both a trembling and reverent plea and praise. Your head turns up to meet his gaze as you begin placing filthy kisses and mouthing at his aching cock.

He might just come undone from you doing just that.

Then you flutter your lashes with big eyes and take him into your mouth through his briefs. Just the head. You’ll moan vulgarly at the feel of him heavy on your tongue. The taste. And the view Dean has of you is nothing short of holy – plush lips wrapped tightly around the blackened outline of his ridge; fingers kneading deeply into the muscle of his thighs; wide eyes with almost no ring of colour staring up at him through your lashes like he’s something to worship – and his head thuds against the wall, a hot sting flooding his brain that makes him feel fuzzy like he’s drunk.

He can feel how hot and wet your mouth is as you start sucking obscenely on his tip, rolling your tongue flat along the bottom side of his throbbing cock head, and the noise that spills from his own mouth sounds like he’s been sucker punched.

Dean curses, his left hand unclenching from his side to tangle in the crown of your hair. Not forceful, but devotional. To know and feel that you’re real.

Your right hand will move to cup and fondle his balls, your left hand sliding up his thigh to where his briefs finish and back down to his burning bare skin. You start bobbing your head, lips only ever going just past his sensitive ridge each time you take him in deeper, and Dean’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding.

The fingers of his left hand are laced with the soft locks of your hair. Every time your lips run over that bump, he can feel the precum drip from his throbbing slit, his hand squeezing. You hum around him in response, licking at him, and it vibrates up his length, making his groin and stomach coil with an intense, heavy heat.

Both your hands are still on him as you pull your mouth away from his thick cockhead, a filthy line of spit still connecting you both. Dean makes something between a grunt and a whine at the sudden loss of your heat and touch as the cold bunker air replaces you around the now fully soaked outline of him. There’s a smug grin on your face, and with a final, slow lick along his twitching length, your right hand grabbing at the belt by his feet, you begin rising from your knees.

Dean bends to immediately grab your face with both of his hands and pull you up into a messy, teeth-clashing kiss. It’s sloppy, and you grind your hips into him with each sharp heavy inhale, moaning.

He brings your bottom lip in between his teeth to bite as both your own hands reach down to grab the waistband of his jeans. You drag them up to sit back around his hips, but let them hang open, his bulge poking through the gap, your hands gripping at his hipbones. Tongues start licking into each others’ mouths, and he can feel the kiss thickening with saliva and lust and urgency. The warm and wet taste of your mouth is sweet, and Dean thinks he might drown in it. Happily.

Your feet move away from him first, then your hips. Your mouths are still slick and frantic against each other as you hook your right middle finger into one of Dean’s front belt loops and tug him towards you off the wall, his grunt swallowed by your mouth as he walks along with your back stepping. And he follows you like the good dog that he is.

Instead of turning left at the split of the hallway – like he would to go to his room – you pull him right, and he lets out a rough and broken breath. He’s going to your room. Your bed.

Your mouths meet again in short, brutal bursts as you reach your door. You’ll fumble for the metal handle behind you with your left hand, but it’s not quick enough for Dean, so his right hand drops from your jaw to twist the handle and shove the door open. It bangs loudly against the wooden chest of drawers to the right in your room, rattling, as you fall into the room together. He uses the momentum to calculatedly guide and turn your body around with his hips and his right hand on your waist, pushing your frame to slam the door close. His shadow casts possessively over you, drawn by a bedside lamp, and he deliberately ruts his soaked clothed cock into your heat, making you arch into him, whine at him.

Yeah, pretty girl, let me know how badly you need me.

You’re both headily breathless now. The shared air between your bodies losing oxygen with each kiss, your mouth searing against his. Hungry. Filthy. Dean opens his eyes, closes them, then opens them again – he can’t decide if he wants to watch you or be totally consumed by you. He can feel your jaw flexing in the palm and fingers of his left hand in rhythm with the devouring shifting of your lips and tongue. Skin hot and alive.

Your hands are everywhere in his hair, tangled, pulling, scraping, and he knows if he saw himself in the mirror at this very moment, he’d look like the happiest man in the history of every universe who’d just grabbed a live wire from an electric fence. 

Dean’s right hand is sliding up and down the clothed side of your waist, dragging and measured squeezes with a lasting burn, the fabric of your top bunching in between his curling fingers. Your top is riding up unevenly at the hem from his touching, and on one particular glide of his hand, his rough fingers meet the soft flesh of your waist and disappear underneath the black material on the slide back up. You make a beautiful high, needy sound.

Both of your hands move to the back of his head, right hand gripping his nape, left palm over the shell of his left ear and fingers reaching to the back of his head, pulling him in impossibly closer. You kiss him hard and long.

Dean’s trying to take in the actual feel of you. Your skin. Your heat. His touch is reverent attention – learning the warmth and shape and movements so uniquely you. Steady yet urgent.

The fingers of his right hand are featherlight as he grazes over your navel, deliberately pausing in the middle to test how little pressure from his touch it takes to make you react, then dragging them slowly down like he’s tracing a river on a map. Down over the start of your skirt – your breath hitching, a shiver, the muscles of your lower stomach twitching – down the middle of the burgundy fabric, over the mound of your core – he doesn’t press, just graces the fabric with his calloused fingertips, making you buck into his touch in desperate want and need. He keeps going to the hem – feeling the heat radiating from in between your thighs – and then his fingers fall briefly to empty space between your legs, before he pushes forward to claim flesh and warmth, slowly lifting the skirt up with the twist of his wrist as his fingers slip behind fabric and move upwards.

When he finally touches the skin of your bare thigh, Dean can’t help the ungodly and low groan that rolls into your mouth, pulling your bottom lip in between his teeth to suck it. Your chest rises and falls with a stuttering heavy weight, breathing sharp and ragged.

He shifts his left knee to sit in between your legs to keep them apart, pressing against the inner side of your right thigh. He’ll let you use your thighs to squeeze him later when you ride him.

The sides of his fingertips and fingernails stroke up the flesh of your inner left thigh, and you’re just so soft and warm.

He should just drop to his knees and absolutely ruin you with his tongue and mouth.

Ruin you for anybody else.

Only his.

As Dean’s hand continues up, he feels something wet and sticky against his touch. Realisation that it’s your slick dripping down from your cunt sends a hot bolt of pure and unforgiving need straight to his stomach and groin.

Fucking fuck.

Against your lips, eyes shut in dark delirium and rapture, he says your name in awe, “sweetheart, already this wet just from–”

“You can’t talk, Winchester,” you interject with a smug huff. There’s that witty bite of yours that he loves.

And you’re 100% fucking right.

Your words are like oxygen to the fires blazing in his body. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across Dean’s face – his heart surging – and then his mouth is back on yours, kissing you in raw hunger. Almost animalistic.

His long fingers will slip higher, and when he reaches the soft crease between your thigh and pussy, he’ll discover you are, in fact, not wearing any underwear. His face pulls away from yours, just a few inches, and his gaze snaps to where his hand is hidden, a brief impasse of shock, before his eyes return to your glinting ones. Dean will quirk his eyebrows, a dark and predatory smirk breaking.

So he wasn’t imagining it.

Awesome.

His index and middle fingers drift across your heat, and he can feel how puffy and soaked your slit is as your smeared arousal coats his fingertips. Dean’s mouth is watering.

He won’t dip in between your slit – not yet – instead running his calloused fingertips along the outside curves, circling up to where your clit is – but still not touching where he knows you want him most – and sliding along to the other side of your swollen lips. Your fingernails dig sharply into his scalp and the skin and muscle of his neck. Your hips jerking. For his touch.

Oh you’re so beautifully desperate for him. And Dean, even with The Mark, isn’t mean (he is, just not to you) – so he hums with deep indulgence as he slips over your folds – but still with a little teasingly slow shift to really draw you into him – burning fingers sitting right where your dripping entrance is, before he dips in between your puffy lips to collect more of your slick and drag his fingers up to your clit.

Your breath cracks loudly. You stop kissing him; hot, laboured panting replacing the movements of your mouth, fanning Dean’s lips and nose. Your lashes flutter twice, then your black eyes almost snap back up to his. Locked. He can feel your legs twitch, a whole-body shudder, fingers lingering on your pulsing clit.

Dean wears a lazy grin, his forehead dropping to yours with his eyelids hanging low as he watches you, devours your reaction.

The hold his left hand has on your jaw is looser, now. Tender but still with a firm possessive touch.

He circles your clit once, twice, kissing you on the high of your right cheek, chaste but lovingly, then kisses your left one with the same affection. Dean’s gaze returns to yours, burning electricity sparking, and he’ll slide his index and middle fingers back down to your soaked entrance. Then he pushes in.

And the sound that spills from your mouth into Dean’s is a sin.

He begins to pump, slowly, into your heat, just to his mid knuckles, and the wet squelching of his thick fingers sliding against your walls each time he moves in and out of you is already lewd.

“Oh my god...” you moan, your voice failing on the last syllable. Your head lulls back to hit the wooden door. Your hips buck, warm thighs tensing and pushing Dean’s right hand against his knee still pinning you open.

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he hums, his mouth moving down to your neck, sucking and licking at your skin like greedy worship, “Makin’ you feel good, aren’t I?”

And he could almost cum just from the way you nod, frantic, brows in the most beautiful scrunch, “My fingers never feel this good, Dean.”

His hips roll hungrily into yours and stay firmly pressed against you. His face moves back up to kiss you hard, lips meeting with a bruising force, and he thrusts his fingers deeper, to the base knuckles of his hand, into you to reach that deliciously hot and gooey spot deep inside you that makes your knees falter. He chuckles low against your lips at the whorish moan you push into his mouth.

Dean detaches his mouth from yours again, shifting back just enough so that he can look down at you and watch the pleasure building on your face.

He wants to hear how you make yourself feel good, what spots make you moan the loudest, how many times you can make yourself cum.

“You touch yourself, baby?”, he drawls. Your top front teeth are just visible as they bite hard into your bottom lip.

A wrecked mmmhhm is all you can muster.

Dean’ll go to ask what you think about, fantasise about, because whilst he wants to – needs to make sure he makes you feel fucking amazing and blows your mind, he’s also secretly hoping that he already has a special spot in your thoughts – like he’s a photo framed and hung on the wall of your mind you fondly pass every day. He’d certainly carved out a space for you – a big one.

But you’re already a step ahead of him.

“But I always imagine it’s you touching me...your fingers inside me,” you simper, eyelids hung low but staring up at him with that sexy grin again. The sound that leaves Dean’s chest is fucking feral.

Dean’s mouth latches back onto yours, carnal and sloppy. His long fingers are pumping and curling with utter precision and devoted desire, the palm of his hand grinding into your clit with each thrust into your cunt. He can feel you clench around and suck them in as he rubs against your soft, wet walls. Still buried in his hair, your left hand is tightly gripping him, flexing almost in tandem with every thrust of Dean’s fingers. You’re struggling to kiss him back, trying so hard to match his lips and tongue, but you’re too caught up in ecstasy.

Choked gasps swim through the air of your bedroom. Thick with desire. Your hot and frantic panting heats Dean’s mouth, and he swallows every single one of them with pride. A deeply smug and satisfied curve definitely on his lips pressed against yours.  

Your right hand drops from its place on his neck to grope at your right breast, squeezing and kneading it, and Dean and The Mark could scream; you’re enjoying this. Really enjoying this. He’s making you feel so good that you have to touch yourself.

Dean knows the pressure must be building in your stomach, that you’re close to cumming, because your pussy is pulsing and gripping him tighter and tighter. He can feel your warm and sticky slick running down his long fingers, pooling in his soaked palm with growing obscenity in sound and sensation every time he pumps into you.

“Good girl, baby,” he purrs, his big left hand sliding down from your jaw to layer and grip your smaller hand squeezing your breast, his face shifting so that his lips sit next to your right ear. His stubble will scratch against the soft, flushed skin of your jaw and cheek, making you whine.

Dean’s still pressed hard against your body, and when you start wantonly rolling into him to meet his hand, he realises he had somehow forgotten about his cock, swollen and stiffly erect, and prodding incessantly at your hip through his ruined briefs, jeans still wide open.

He licks your ear, possessive, keeping his mouth open as he breathes heavy and sultry into you, “Look how responsive you are to me.” Your choked gasps are growing quieter as you keep sucking in air, not breathing out, and Dean thinks you’re about to cum.

And you do.

As the first wave hits you, your whole body tenses. Dean makes sure to immediately pull his head back to watch you, his lips ghosting yours and trading your air, because he cannot fucking miss this. When the peak finally washes over you, he’s awed and shamelessly gluttonous, committing to memory the way your eyes roll helplessly to the back of your head, only little bits of white visible as your jaw falls blissfully slack and a long, high-pitch moan shatters.

He needs to make you make that sound again.

And pull out all your others, too.

His own helpless groan responding to you slips from his mouth as your body arches off the door, pushing the back of your right hand and chest into Dean’s as your body starts vibrating, your walls clenching and spasming around his fingers still pumping and curling fast into your heat while his palm rubs your clit with primal need to keep you high.

The whole scene is art. And your beautiful face, with your sweet, warm noises and moving body go straight to Dean’s head, chest, fingers, and toes. And dick.

“That’s it,” he cooes sinister and low, deliberately pausing his words for a beat after he says your name, “give it all to me.”

Dean knows from the...long...list of women he’s fucked that they love to hear him say their name during sex with him – he never really understood why – but he realises at that exact finite moment why, and that he’s exactly like them; because he has to hear you moan his name.

He slows the thrusting of his middle and index fingers in and out of you to guide you gently down, delicate kisses placed on your forehead and rosy cheeks, and your soft little whimpers land like a light summer rain at twilight, making everything around you and him glow and blur at the edges with a quiet warmth.

When your eyelids drift back and fully open, Dean stills entirely – save for his slightly choppy breathing – and he can see that your eyes are a little glassy now, but the dark shade of lust and desire for you to have him is still humming.

And then, like a faint halo, there’s a ring cradling that need for him that Dean thinks (and really fucking hopes) is love.

Should I say something now?, he thinks.

His left hand finds a new place, sliding down along your arm to rest on your waist, grabbing carefully, thumb pressed to the front of your frame whilst his fingers sit measuredly behind the curve.

Your arms move to twine loosely and hang over his shoulders, and you tilt your chin up, a little to the side, to capture Dean’s lips in a tender, unhurried kiss. He can’t help but smile into it – a genuine, proper smile – and he can feel you echo him.  

Another good moment.

He’s been very lucky tonight.

Correction; he will be very lucky tonight.

Dean suddenly becomes aware of just how loud his heart is beating, still a little fast, but more steady. Full and warm. He knows it’s because of you.

He wants to hold your face with his right hand, but he’s still inside you.

“Gonna take my fingers out now, sweetheart.” He mumbles against you before leaving your mouth to kiss the tip of your nose. “That okay?”

You nod, eyes closed again and jaw shifting to chase and keep his lips on yours. When he fully slips his fingers out of you, a small whimper sounds, your mouth faltering briefly against his, brows lightly creasing.

Dean immediately misses your heat.

He can feel the way his two fingers stick together, coated in your warm, milky arousal for him, and he has to bring his right hand up to his face so that he can see it. Revel in it.

He shifts back a little, just so he can study his soaked fingers and palm, and when you try to pull him back in because you have to keep kissing him, he presses his hips firmly into yours to pin you against the door and leans back. You pout, huffing at the space Dean’s created as your arms still wrapped over and around his back extend so that your fingers are only just interlinked at his nape.

His right arm moves in between your bodies, just below his jaw so that you can both look at his fingers. And fuck.

He is glistening. Your slick clings to him as it runs slowly down to his palm. He’s fucking mesmerised, eyes wide and mouth parted, twisting his wrist to watch the light from your lamp catch your arousal. When he separates his fingers, an obscene, long, wet line of slick connects his index and middle fingers. The Mark pulses hot and violently and in primal satisfaction, building along his forearm, rippling up to his hand and bicep.

A smooth breathy chuckle rises from his chest, “Jesus,” he says with your name.

Your right hand moves up the back of his neck to thread in his hair, tugging gently, “What can I say, Dean Winchester”, your left hand slides to his jaw, sparking something low and dangerous in his heart and stomach as your soft and warm palm rubs against his stubble, your thumb running back and forth – languidly yet certain – over his bottom lip, “you get me really fucking wet.”

He’ll look down at you, a little stunned, but with the biggest, smitten grin on his face. And you’re looking up at him, chin tilted in a proud, almost challenging way because you know you got him good with that. There’s a pulse. A beat. No one blinks.

The air is humming. Heavy and pulling like just before a summer thunderstorm. Your face says it all: You’re move, Dean.

Okay, sweetheart. Let’s play.

Without breaking eye-contact, he slowly raises his right hand to his face, gliding deliberately over your thumb still grazing his swollen lips, and pushes his slick-covered fingers into his mouth.

The instant head rush nearly makes him pass out.

Rich heat consumes him entirely, heady coursing from his mouth through his nose and down his throat, saliva pooling as a taste so unequivocally you melts across and into his tongue with each swirl and suck of his fingers. It’s sweet. Fuck, you’re sweet. It’s like he’s breathing in your underwear again – but it’s so much better than that night. Stronger. Even more drunkening.

Is that a word?

Fuck it – it is now.

And he could almost blow his load right then and there. He’s sure you can probably tell that, too, by the absolute wrecked noise he makes.

But Dean manages to hold himself back – together – keeps his eyes open. Just. Because he needs to see your reaction for what he’s done and is about to say.

So he swallows you down, and his eyes refocus on you; your face, your body, your breathing, carefully tracking every single moment and shift and movement with that particular gaze he wears on a hunt – calculating, dark, unwavering, and completely patient. And you’re already watching him, especially the way his lips are wrapped around his glossy middle and index fingers, just a little transfixed.

Good.

Dean (almost reluctantly) pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a lewd smack, dragging the wetness from both you and him down your thumb, now stilled just below his lower lip. “God, sweetheart, d’you know how good you taste?”, he asks, voice rough but laced with guile.

The smart look you were holding fizzles with a catch in your throat, mouth lightly gaping. And you blush. That beautiful pink tinge across your cheeks that makes his heart swell and constrict, that he would die for because he knows it means he got you good. He can see the shift in your legs as you squirm, then try to press your thighs together despite his knee still between them, trying to find some friction. And your eyes that are unable to stay fixed, moving focus between his fingers and mouth and eyes and back? Almost entirely dilated black, again – engulfed by hunger for him – like a cat about to pounce, ready to bite and tear him apart. Exactly how he wants it. Exactly how he wants you.

You don’t let him be cocky for long, though – you never do, if you can help it – playing your next move almost straight away.

Leaving his face, your left hand grabs his right, wrapping around as much of his palm as you possibly can, and he has just enough time to blink only once before you slip the two fingers he’d just had in his mouth past your lips and into your own mouth.

Jesus fuck.

Your eyes roll back, lids deliberately fluttering with careful, sinful intent as you suck hard once, twice on his fingers – hard enough that he can feel a deep pull in his body towards yours, and a warm, sultry moan rumbles from you through his fingers, reverberating over his hand and up his arm. The Mark spasms.

But you don’t give Dean long enough to properly feel it as you pull his hand back, releasing his fingers from your wet and velvety mouth with a slippery pop. Your big eyes return to his, parted kiss-swollen lips shining from the seraphic mixture of yours and his spit, and a burning, unrepentant fervour set across your face that he knows means you know that he’s completely lost to you.

He definitely needs to put his fingers in your mouth again.

SO SORRY this has taken me so long to post. Shits and shenanigans. I think the next (and last) part is probably going to be my favourite for this mini series, so stay tuned!! <3

tag list for attiwicdiichy:

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

Thank you sm I was lowkey kinda critical of this part, but I’m v glad you enjoyed it!! 💞

Hello my lovely, thank you so, so much! ❤️ I assume you're talking about I wish I'd known you in your wilder days - I miss these two idiots so much, and I can't wait until I have the time to spend some time with them again!

I unfortunately do not have any recs for age gap stuff since - dramatic pause - it's something I usually really, really don't like to read. 😄 A lot of things that I enjoy writing, I don't enjoy reading (probably because when I'm writing it I have control and when I read I don't... actually, there's so many examples of this, it's kinda crazy).

Annnyyyhooo, the only fic I can think of is Spare the rod, spoil the child by @cujja, which I just checked and it's not even explicitly age gap. 😄 It does have a power dynamic though, and it reads very age gap-y - warning for some darker themes, but if that's something you're okay with, I highly recommend it, it's amazing.

Other than that, this is the call for anyone else to recommend Dean x reader age gap fics! Hear thee, hear thee! I hope we can find some good recs for you (and maybe for me?).

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

Thank you sm I was lowkey kinda critical of this part, but I’m v glad you enjoyed it!! 💞

The consequences of demon blood and denial.

Heavily inspired by this ask! Warnings/tags: 5x14, effects of famine, addiction/withdrawal issues, Sam's got hella insecurities, he's also a munch (canon), cumming untouched & in pants, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, kinda subby Sammy cuz he's basically in heat, a bit sappy.

Sam's cuffed himself to the sink for your safety just as much as for his own.

He's pulled the bathroom door to. Not locked, because he couldn't stomach that. The only thing worse than having you see him in such a pitiful state is not seeing you at all. A year and a half in the cage was enough separation from you to last him a lifetime.

Just as friends, though. Only friends. Sam only wants to burrow between your thighs, risk suffocation, as friends only. It's for the best, really. Sam's carcinogenic; anything he touches atrophies, withers, wilts. He can't do that to you. You deserve much more out of life than fusty motel rooms and mattresses that feel like cinderblock.

He's already put you through enough. Dean stays because he's his brother, Castiel stays because it's his duty - but you stay because you want to. That's the difference; that's special. Sam's not going to fuck that up because his heart does that stupid little sputter around you.

And he's content with being your friend, honestly and truly. Sam has self-control. He's not Dean, who pops a boner if the wind blows in the wrong direction. Sam's schooled himself: he keeps the giddiness to a minimum when you lean in closer to squint at the computer, tamps down his envy after a man at the bar pays for your drink, and politely diverts his eye if he walks in on you changing, even though he really, really doesn't want to.

In normal circumstances, he'd be fine. But famine's not normal. Nothing about his life is normal. That'd be too easy, too predictable. Sam wants you. It's not the usual pang of desire he'll get every so often when you do something particularly endearing, it's a debilitating hunger. A gaping void of emptiness rending him in two, clawing its way up his ribcage until it leaves his mouth in anguished and miserable groans.

The demon blood withdrawal has taken a backseat. It's definitely not helping Sam's situation, but it's a pain he's used to. It's the devil he knows. This omnivorous, unfettered lust for you is vibrating at a frequency he didn't know he possessed.

"Sam?" You call, concerned, from behind the drawn door, "You've been quiet in there for a while. Are you okay?"

Sam's drooped against the wall, legs kicking out unproductively every so often to physically vent the appetite he can't sate. His hairs clinging to his forehead, slicked with sweat, and sticking up at odd angles from how many times he's restlessly ran his fingers through it.

Maybe worst of all is the way his dick is practically bursting through his jeans. It's been like that since you helped fasten him to the pipes and wiped at his forehead with a devastating look of reassurance. That little gesture you'd probably already forgotten you'd done has seared itself into the forefront of Sam's mind.

His head sags, eyes squeezing shut as a nasty twinge of arousal knots his stomach, "M'fine. Just...just don't come in."

You don't answer immediately. It wears at his already wafer-thin resolve. Sam wants you to come in, he wants you to come in and dab at his forehead again, or smooth down the mess of his hair, or let him rabidly hump your leg. Either, or.

"Are you sure?" You say quietly, ruefully.

"Please..." He manages through gritted teeth. Sam doesn't think you heard him at first, thinks the chip in his armour of self-denial will go unnoticed, but he hears you move closer to the door.

"Please what?" You press. You're worried. You only use that low, steady tone when something's gone drastically awry, "Please leave, or please come in?"

His arm flexes against the cuff, the rattling of metal against metal deafening amidst the tense silence. Sam stifles a whine unbefitting for a man who's done a stint in Hell.

"I don't know."

He sounds pathetic, all croaky and hoarse. He looks even worse. You open the door slowly, like one would to the enclosure of a feral animal, and lower yourself to his side. Sam opens his eyes to somnolent slits to greet you.

"Oh, Sam," You whisper, hand raising to smooth the strands of hair out of his scrunched up face. He keens into your touch, no matter how fleeting it is, and nuzzles at your palm, "Let me help."

You guide him to rest against you; Sam goes willingly. His arms clamber to wrap around you with the dedication of a boa constrictor, hands balling into fists around the fabric of your shirt. He crumples, face-first to your chest, sprawling the rest of himself out in an ungainly manner.

Sam shivers and shakes in your arms. Mindlessly, his fingernails will bite in tighter as he rides out a wave of withdrawal, but ease off when you murmur sweet nothings of consolation in his ear. You tell him things he doesn't deserve to hear, like how strong he's being, how brave he is, how proud of him you are.

Your proximity fixes some of his problems by creating new ones. Now that you're in arm's reach, Sam's getting his hopes up along with his cock. He noses at the column of your throat, shamelessly inhaling the warmth sitting where your clavicles meet. It's where the scent of your perfume and musk have coalesced into one bouquet that's making all of his muscles strain.

He's gone. Surrendered. Mouthing at your throat at an asinine pace, hands scrabbling for any inch of skin it can get, body thrumming with unspent energy. You exclaim something, notably not of rejection, but the actual syllables are lost in translation. Sam's whimpering, snivelling, against the reddened patches of skin his lips are leaving behind.

"I need this. Need you. I-I can't..." He garbles, fingers finding anchorage in your hips and clasping them like a lifeline. His squirming has leveraged your outstretched leg to be positioned just strategically enough for him to nudge his conspicuous bulge against your knee, "M'sorry. You're just - shit - you're so perfect."

Tears, big, fat unmanly ones, well up at his waterline. Sam's so hard it's gone past the point of feeling good, it just hurts. The gentleness of your fingers combing through the length of his hair only encourages the inchoate stuttering of his hips. He can feel the dampness of his pre-cum smearing the front of his boxers. It only makes everything that bit more uncomfortable. Unbearable.

You shush him, "I told you I'd help. Just show me how."

Clarity fizzles in fleetingly. Sam cranes his neck back enough to meet your eyes, gauge your commitment to helping him whatever the cost. You seem pretty dedicated. It's as green of a light he's going to get.

Sam nearly connects with your chin with the velocity of which his head jerks up to devour your lips. The hungers not surfeited, but it does lessen the weight bearing down on his chest. Kissing you was long anticipated and it didn't disappoint. He can't get enough. Sam's nose knocks yours as he deepens the kiss, his tongue darting out to run over the pout of your mouth.

When your experimentally presses up against his crotch, he moans. Ragged and adenoidal. Sam's hand retaliates by gripping your inner thigh and tugging, opening you up to make room for him. This type of hunger can only be solved in one way.

He pulls away from your lips, diving back in only once more to make sure he's got his fill for the time being, and hunkers down between your parted thighs. Above, you're a bit dazed, breathless, but you cotton on quick when Sam twiddles with the button of your jeans. You raise your hips enough for him to get the pesky things down.

Sam doesn't bother prying your cute striped panties down too, just latches his mouth over where he knows your cunt lies concealed. Your legs clamp lightly against the sides of his head, startled.

"You surprised me." You exclaim, chest heaving, a wisp of a smile crinkling the inviting corners of your lips.

He drags the bridge of his nose up the length of you and prods more earnestly at the top, at your clit. Sam feels the muscles in your thighs tense against him in response. It's a proud moment. He winds an arm underneath the arc of your leg and braces a hand to your leg, holding you steady.

He laves his tongue over the gusset. After a few ardent licks, the slick of his spit has coaxed your wetness through the fabric. The taste is like a sacrosanct sip of water in the desert. Sam groans, nipping the material between his teeth and letting it snap back down with a squelch. You shudder.

He rubs his cheek to your thigh, glancing up with hazy eyes and shiny lips, "S'perfect. You're perfect. You're everything."

He says such nonsense with such veneration. To Sam, in this moment, it's the closest he can muster to a proclamation of love. You get the gist, and brush his overgrown fringe out of his eyes. Yours is a proclamation too.

Sam peels back the soddened gusset enough to let his tongue run over your entrance uninhibited. You're so warm, and damp, and soft. So heady as the taste glides over his palate. The tip of his cock is weeping in his underwear, tumescent and throbbing. He's confident you finishing in his mouth would have him shooting helplessly into nothing.

Testing his theory, Sam tugs your panties a little further, giving his lips more real estate. He suckles at your puffed up clit until your fingers fly to knot in the roots of his hair. The delectable scratch of your fingernails to his scalp coupled with the fortunate placing of the seam on his jeans is dizzying.

His attention to your clit melts into kisses down the stretch of your cunt, stopping at your entrance. Sam had rather hoped the first time he got to do something so special with you wasn't in a motel bathroom, but the location tends not to matter when you're with the right person - and Sam knew you were always the right person for him.

He dips inside. Shallow, at first, testing the waters. Your tremulous exhale is a good start. Sam gets braver, lapping at you with joyful abandon, his fingers biting crescent moons into your thighs. His tongue's a piston; programmed and honed to pleasure.

Your hand to the back of his head is guiding him nowhere. Sam was already flat against you anyways, nose jostling your clit with every nudge of his head. Underneath tear-matted lashes, he peers up, delighted at the sight of your eyes only not meeting his because they're forced shut in bliss.

When you cum, loud and glorious, it's his turn to shut his eyes. You quiver against Sam's mouth, walls pulsing at the lash of his tongue, an added trickle of arousal straight from the source overwhelming his tastebuds. He doesn't stop, he can't stop.

"Sam..." You paw at his shoulder, a weak plea for recovery. Your convulsing is kept to a minimum by the grip he has on your thighs as he perseveres in making out with your cunt.

It burns behind the back of his eyes when it hits. Sam feels it ripping its way up from his toes to his hairline, culminating in a guttural sob interrupting the smack of his lips. His hips twitch, abdomen tightens. He came in his fucking pants.

Your fingertips grazing his cheek wrench him from his post-nut reverie, "Sam." You repeat, still short-breathed, but much more lucid than before.

Timidly, he lugs himself upright, wincing as his sensitive cockhead catches. Your arms loop around his neck and breezily collide his lips with yours. The kiss lacks the swelter of the first, instead it's charged with something Sam might categorise as affection.

"I needed that as much as you did." You confess, head bowing to the side as you size him up. A unique glimmer of intimacy has glossed your eyes and pinned an infectious, beatific smile on your face.

Hot damn. I'm usually careful with addiction/withdrawal themes, but this was worth throwing caution to the wind.

Mister Marathon x fem!Supe!Reader | WC: 5239

Summary: It’s 2014. Mister Marathon’s starting to slip a little, but he’s not ready to give up the spotlight just yet. What better way to stay in the public’s eye than to try and orbit Centerfold’s gravity and call it a strategy?

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, male masturbation, drug use, Mister Marathon only thinks with his dick, enemies-to-?, canon-typical depravity, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: My disappointment in how they used JarPad’s cameo in The Boys is absolutely immeasurable. So how do I cope with it? By creating an entire backstory and character to pair with him so that I can write his character better. Am I devoting all this time and energy into a side character solely because he’s played by JarPad? Yes. Am I ashamed? Absolutely the fuck not. Gimme my speedster boy. I’ll make him plenty pathetic by the end of this. Also, yeah, this is gonna be a multi-parter. But I don’t have any idea how many parts or when I’ll upload more pieces of this.