loretta

The second you, Dean and Cas left, Sam's eyes flicked to the door, waiting to hear the car start up and drive off. He was up instantly when he heard that screech, gravel crunching under its tires.

He fucking hated himself for it, but every time you left, he found himself achingly hard. Sure, he was hard when you were around too, but it got worse when you walked out the door, worse when he could do whatever he wanted without you being any the wiser.

He clenched his jaw when his hand slipped away from the lore book he was supposed to be reading, always the nerdy kid staying at home while everyone else went out and had fun. But little did you know, he was having a whole world of fun by himself - fun and shame, really more shame at this point but he still felt that tinge of relief when all was said and soaked- done.

His breath caught when his own fingers slid beneath the band of his boxers, grazing his already leaking cock. He pulled himself out, enough precum pouring down his shaft to more than sufficiently lube up his hand, fuck he needed you.

His hand wrapped around the base, moving up and down in slow strokes, working himself up to the thought of you.

Sam looked back in his mind to earlier that night, when a ghoul shoved you out of the way and towards him. You landed on top of him, pausing for what he almost thought could be a moment, back up again like it never happened, like you didn't strandle his lap when he was already desperate for you, like you weren't the cause of the pain inside him now, and the pleasure.

He always found something about you to fixate on when he touched himself, usually the way you'd look at him. He didn't need an accidental half lap dance to get hm going, though it did work this time, every other night he just needed you. Everything about you pushed him further to the edge, the little smile you offered him every morning, those times when he was so tired he opted to sit in the back, but you didn't want him to feel lovely so you joined him, everything sweet and perfect and pure about you.

And look at what he was doing with those thoughts.

He was disgusting, taking your kindness and turning it into a kink, but in the moment, every damn moment, he managed to be shameless too.

He'd let out all manner of sinful sounds, whines and pleas, cries of your name to touch him, to keep going, to never fucking stop.

You did stop though, in the doorway.

You stopped when you saw Sam, face flushed bright red, sweat slicking the edges of his hair, mouth dropped open around a pathetic moan.

You tried to speak, to make your jaw move and voice work, but all you could do was stare. Until he saw you.

"Fuck, shit I-" He stammered, reaching for the blanket before he could speak, covering himself with whatever was closest.

Your fucking sweater.

"S-Sam I-I'm so sorry" You forced out, feeling heat speed up your cheeks "I didn't mean to-"

"No I um, I sh-should've, I'm sorry I just-" He stopped, he didn't know what the fuck to say, neither did you.

"Did you say my name?"

Well that wasn't it.

"Uh, yeah I-"

Or maybe it was.

"I-I'm so sorry, I just- I-"

"Keep going"

That certainly wasn't the response he expected.

"W-what?"

"If you're okay with it" You rounded the corner of his bed, stalking towards him "Keep going"

He couldn't speak, he could barely keep his fucking eyes open, stinging, was it even fucking real? Were you? He'd had so many dreams like this, dreams where you'd catch him and have your own fun, toy with him however you chose, God he really was pathetic.

He reached back down, moving your sweater away, grasping himself once more. He slid his hand up the length of his cock, eyes locked on yours as you watched the movement, seemingly mesmerised by it. He continued, picking up in speed, panting along with his movements.

"That's it baby" You muttered, eyes still fixed on his cock, gushing out precum, running over his knuckles "Doing s'good Sammy"

Your words flipped a switch deep inside him, his hand spend up, hips bucking up into his first until he let out a scream of your name, white ropes painting his chest, reaching so far up to his chin.

His chest was rising and falling fast, heavy, trying to suck in as much air as he could, head bobbing against the pillow hard to keep it up straight.

"Fuck" You let out with a breath, getting that little bit closer.

You swiped two fingers through the cum sticky against his skin, bringing them up to his lips.

"Open"

His lips parted and closed again around your fingers, tasting salt and depravity on them as he sucked his own cum clean off.

You smirked, withdrawing your hand, giving yourself the same little taste, and Sam could've sworn he stopped breathing.

"You're pretty tasty Sammy" You leaned down, licking a stripe of white up his chest before leaving a quick peck to his nose, reaching over to grab your sweater as you pulled back, stepping over to the door "Glad I forgot this"

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He would’ve found that amusing. He would’ve teased you about acing so cool and collected, right up until you were staring down the barrel of a gun. There hadn’t been a trip of your heartbeat, or stumble in your breath. Lives depended on you being able to do this.

And they depended on you being able to keep your head down.

You’d gotten good at it. Before him, it had been your job to keep calm and collected. Doctors couldn’t be panicking and crying over everything, or nothing would ever get done.

“What about when something’s real fucking gross and sticky?” He used to ask you. “You allowed to cry then?”

You’d smiled at the dishes in your hands. “Would you cry over something gross and sticky?”

“No, because I’m not a-“

“Fucking pussy.”

You’d dropped your voice to mock his, your smile becoming stupid and ditzy as the chair had scraped on the floor behind you. Riling him up was too easy. And if he didn’t want you to keep poking all his old, shiny buttons, he shouldn’t make it so damn fun.

“You got a mouth on you, doll.” Ben had muttered in your ear, arms wrapping around your stomach.

“Hm.” You hadn’t stopped washing the dishes. He’d rip them away from you soon, you might as well focus on what you can.

“Hm? All you got to say is hm?”

“I think you like my mouth.” You’d swayed on your feet, shrugging lazily.

Ben’s arms had tightened around you. “I like somethin’ about your mouth.”

“You like all of it. You like me so much, you chose weed over me, you think I’m better than weed-“

Your dishes had clattered into the sink. Ben spun you around, grabbed your wrists, and pinned them to the counter as he slammed his mouth of yours. You’d made a happy sound, craning your neck to try and chase more, and he’d chuckled. Soft, light kisses had been trailed down your jaw and over your throat, landing on a spot that seemed to be permanently dark since you’d met him.

He’d bitten at the skin, then sucked, letting his tongue flick slightly. Before him, you hadn’t even known you were into that. Now you can’t even graze the spot without your body getting fuzzy and confused. Like it knows he’s supposed to be there.

But he’s not.

“You’re lucky I like you.” Ben had muttered. “And you’re not a genius to figure that out, I think I’ve made it real fucking clear.”

You’d beamed at the air, wrapping an arm around his neck when he released one wrist. His massive hand had grabbed your waist, slipping fingers under the hem of the shirt. You’d shivered, and leaned into his mouth.

He’d been solid. Safe. And you’d been so foolishly sure that he was going to be there forever.

“You have.” You’d breathed.

And you’d really believed it.

But then he’d just… Left.

You’d woken up the next morning, and he’d been off with William Butcher to deal with Homelander. He’d failed, on both the being with William Butcher front and the deal with Homelander front. They’d said he had died. You’d sunken into something like a ghost, wandering through the world without touching anything, passing through days like they were all just a veil to something else.

There were regrets. Not demanding that he stay. Not kicking him out the first time he ended up on your doorstep. Talking to him that first night at the corner store at all, because at least then your heart would’ve still been beating instead of this hollow, gray husk.

But you also wouldn’t have traded him for the world. The time had been fleeting. Only a few splatters of paint on what had previously been a clean, respectable life.

You’d found out you liked being dirty. You liked all the color it came with, and you’d liked how Ben had held your hand through the whole thing. You don’t know why he had. You don’t even know why he’d liked you, why he’d bothered coming back over and over, why he’d decided that you—of all the many, more interesting, more carefree people in the world—were the one he wanted to share himself with.

“You shouldn’t eat those.” You’d told the strange, handsome man at one in the morning.

He’d looked at you like you were crazy. You’d blinked innocently back—a faint bell in your head, ringing that he looked familiar, and you should’ve listened to it—and he’d raised his brows.

“You talking to me?”

“Um,” you’d looked around the aisle. “Yeah? Who else would I be talking to.”

The man had grunted. His eyes hadn’t left yours for a second, and he’d been staring like he was trying to peel you apart. You’d started to feel all dizzy under the attention—he was very pretty, and pretty people shouldn’t stare like that—and shifted on your feet.

“There are studies.” You’d said lamely. “About those drinks. They give you cancer.”

“Cancer?” The man had snorted. “Doll, I’m not worried about fucking cancer-“

“You should be. It’s linked to pancreatic cancer, which is very- Fast spreading.” All your usual, well performed confidence had been wavering. Why had he been staring at you like that. “Because of the pancreases function in, um, your body, it’s basically- It’s fast spreading-“

“You said that already.”

You’d swallowed. His voice was very deep. “Oh.”

His eyes had shined with something that, in the moment, you hadn’t understood.

Now you know it to his form of affection. When he’d look at you and decided that you were real fucking cute, like a twitchy bunny—his words—and wanted to have more.

In the store, you’d hadn’t  been sure if he was going to murder you or make an indecent proposal.

He hated that movie. You’d made him watch it, a few weeks later, and he’d been furious she chose the penniless sad sack. You’d told him you’d chose him, if he was the penniless sad sack. He’d grumbled that he hoped you’d have better survival instincts than that, but you’d been able to read him by now. He’d liked that a lot, and you had the hickies after to prove it.

And he’d laughed.

That night, he’d just laughed.

“You some kind of a fucking doctor?”

“Yeah.” You’d said, nervous and small. “I- I am.”

The man had blinked. Looked over you like he was seeing you for the first time, and leaned back as if the sight punched him in the face. You’d still been wearing your scrubs. Later you’d tease him about not paying attention.

He’d say he’d just been that enraptured by your beauty. You’d flush, and tell him he was using that word wrong. He’d say he didn’t fucking care, and kiss you until you were stupid and giggling.

“What’s good?” He’d jerked his head at the drinks, and you pointed to a different can a shelf over.

He’d eyed you suspiciously, but grabbed it and stomped away. You’d thought he’d be gone when you paid for your own food and walked to the parking lot. Instead he’d been waiting at the counter, watching you with that same, wearily curious expression.

“Are you going to stalk me to my car?” You’d asked causally, careful not to look him in the eyes.

He’d grunted. “I’m escorting you. Stalking makes me sound like I’m some fucking creep-“

“You’re a stranger who’s going to follow me to my car. I should be calling 911.”

“911 couldn’t stop me, sweetheart.”

You’d paused, frowning at him. He’d rolled his eyes, looking around the store like he expected a camera crew to pop out and tell him the whole thing was a prank.

“Don’t call 911.” He’d muttered.

“Why shouldn’t I.”

“Cause I’m not going to fucking hurt you, that’s why-“

“And why should I trust that?”

He’d blinked. That thought hadn’t occurred to him at all.

“I swear I won’t.”

“Promises mean nothing.”

“My promises mean something-“

“Not to me, they don’t.”

He’d stared at you. You’d tipped up your chin, and held his gaze. You were not going to be murdered in a parking lot tonight. You’d ordered new pants last night, and you wanted to be alive to see them.

The man had caved before you. He hadn’t been happy about it, but you’d come to learn that he was never openly happy about anything. There was his genuine annoyance, and his fluffy annoyance. Where he didn’t mean a single groan or eye roll or muttered curse.

He saved that second one for you. And he hated that you called it fluffy annoyance, because he wasn’t ‘fucking fluffy’. But you’d tell him that you liked him fluffy, as long as it was just yours. And he’d said he was just yours, and he’d promised, and you’d learned how to believe him.

“My name is Ben.” He’d told you, reaching into his jacket. “And if I try to hurt you, use this.”

And he’d handed you a fucking gun. The poor cashier that had been listening to all of this shrieked and ducked behind the counter. You’d gaped at Ben, then smacked his arm.

“What the fuck-“

“You can’t just pull out a gun, are you crazy!”

“Don’t call me crazy, I’m trying to make you feel- Fucking better or whatever-“

“How is a gun going to make me feel better, I’m a doctor-“

“So you can stitch me up after you shoot me, all the fucking better-“

“I am not going to shoot you-“

“But you could, that’s what the damn gun is for-“

“I don’t want your gun, I just-“ You’d cut yourself, glancing at the shaking cashier. It had just been some high school kid. He didn’t deserve to deal with this.

And even then, some part of you had known. Ben was a lot of things. Most of them weren’t half as pretty as his face.

But he wasn’t a liar. He’d realty thought the gun would make you feel better.

Later, you’d learn that it had really only been meant to make you feel better. Literally. That if he had been intending to hurt you—which he hadn’t, as he reminded you all the time—the gun wouldn’t have done fucking shit to stop that. But he’d thought it would help you be less nervous. And as much as you’d punch his dumb, big chest after he told you, you had to admit that the plan had—in a very roundabout way—worked.

“Come on.” You’d turned on your heels and walked out of the store.

Ben had followed.

And for a strange, priceless month, you’d known that if you looked over your shoulder, he’d be there. It had become a comfort. It had become the best thing in your life.

Then it had been gone.

Ben had left you, and the world had only gotten darker from there.

So you have all these regrets, that you pile on top of your secret. And they tell you to be more careful. You haven’t been on a date since Ben, although you never even technically dated. You’d never even fucked. It had been a lot of kisses and sharing a bed and wandering hands. Ben had asked. He’d asked all the time, and always sighed dramatically when you said after. After he was done with Butcher. After he dealt with Homelander, he could have whatever he wanted from you.

It was already his for the taking, he just needed to reach it.

And now all of you sat on a high, dusted shelf, waiting for hands that would never reach it.

Now, you’re careful.

After that girl down the hall, there had been the couple on the side of the highway. They’d been trying to hide from Black Noir, but one of them had an infected cut and was getting a fever. You’d treated it, then been on your way.

Then there had been the little boy who’s parents had been taken, and the shrapnel in his foot. The older woman who’s son had been shot, and the people who’d been hit in collateral and didn’t have insurance. And you kept helping and helping and helping, but always with your head down. If you were smarter, you wouldn’t help at all. It draws attention. Attention begs for investigation. Investigation undercovers secrets, and Ben had always been very clear.

No one could know who you are. What you were to him.

Why you have that gun in your closet, unloaded and kept clean like an heirloom. It wouldn’t be hard to trace it to Ben. It wouldn’t take a long time—especially for Sage, who you’ve only seen once from afar but sent a chilling fear through your bones all the same—to realize why you had one of Soldier Boy’s guns. To look at cameras and place timelines and know. What you’d meant to him.

Part of you wants her to. Maybe she’d be able to tell you, after.

Because he hadn’t stayed for you. And you hadn’t been foolish enough to ask him to.

But still.

You’d hoped he would.

“We should go somewhere.” He’d muttered one night, lying flat on his back.

And you’d looked at him in the dark, and found him staring back. He’d always been staring back.

“When this is done.” Ben had reached over, grabbing your wrist. He did that when he needed your attention. You don’t think he ever knew that he had all of you, whether he wanted to grab it or not.

“Done?” You’d breathed. Ben had nodded.

“The whole thing. All of it. I’m not going back into acting and shit, everything is bad now anyway-“

“You liked Paddington 2-“

“Shhh.” Ben had covered your mouth, eyes shining. “Can’t fucking prove that, can you, doll.”

You’d shrugged smiling against his hand. Ben had leaned down until your brows were pressed together, and let out a slow, heavy breath.

“We’ll go.” He’d said it like a secret. Like even in the empty room, you were still the only person he wanted anything to do with in the world. “Anywhere in the world that you want. No more of this fucking bullshit. Just you and me.”

And you’d giggled. You’d pulled his hand away with a laugh, and kissed his adorable little frown.

“You like me so much.” You’d whispered.

Ben had only stared. His heavy sigh had fanned over your cheeks, and he’d kissed the space between your eyes.

“You got no idea.”

And you wish you had.

You wish you’d asked him to stay, but you keep that buried with the rest of it. You don’t want to think about how if you had, he might’ve.

If you had, he might still be next to you today.

You broke a cup.   

The TV in the breakroom is always on, but you usually just spare it passing glances. Since Homelander’s takeover, it mostly just plays Firecracker’s stupid propaganda show, or reruns of old Vought movies with Starlight’s scenes cut out. It makes for a clonky, confusing storyline. Sometimes you watch it when you’re bored, if only to feel a ghost of a smile.

Other days, they play Ben’s old movies. And you can’t stand to listen to those. Just his voice makes you shiver and look around the room, as if he might materialize and grin at you the same way he always did. Like in his eyes, everything just narrowed down to you. The walls existed to hold you and everything around the room was a noise or blockade that needed to be moved, so he could be at your side.

I’d swim in the ocean for you, doll. He’d told you one. You’d laughed. He’d meant it to be romantic, but he’d just sounded annoyed about it, and it had been so stupidly sweet you’d fallen a little more in love with him. But love with Ben had always come like that. In slow drips that built up and up and up, until there was a bucket to be doused over your head and you had to understand.

That he had been everything.

You’d known too late. The downpour had come with the news of his death, when every light had become too bright, and all the color in the world had been washed out to nothing. You hadn’t been able to tell your co-workers why you’d stumbled and started to whine like a lost dog. Why you’d needed the week off, because your legs had turned to lead and it was too hard to get out of bed.

And you’re not going to be able to explain this, either.

Why you hear his voice, look up at the TV on an instinct you’re never going to be able to squash, and drop your cup.

It shatters all over the floor. The two nurses at the table shoot up to help, one saying something about walking carefully over the broken glass, but you don’t hear it.

There’s only the ringing in your ears, and—rising above it all—Ben’s voice.

This isn’t old footage. You’d know. You’ve watched every video and listened to every archived radio interview, just trying to hold onto what you could.

No.

This is new.

Which means Ben- He’s alive.

He’s on the TV. Standing next to Homelander with a bored, unimpressed expression, hands on his belt, looking the exact same as he day he left you.

He left you.

It wasn’t death that took him. He’s right there, instead of at your side. His gaze is just as intense as before, and he holds himself with the same confident, lazy posture, and his mouth stays in the pretty, downturned line that you always loved grabbing up and pulling into a smile.

He’d grab your wrists, but not move you away. He’d ask what you thought you were doing, but he already knew. You’d beam and kiss his nose. He’d pretend to bite yours, and you’d dissolve into giggles and wrap around him like a koala. He’d tell you he didn’t know what he was going to do with you. You’d call him a liar. Say he knew perfectly well what he wanted to do with you. And he’d grumble, because you teased him so much without ever actually throwing him a bone.

You always reminded him there were plenty of other women out there who would happily want his bone. You’d wink, and he’d give you that adoring, exasperated look.

He’d say he didn’t care about any other bones but yours. You’d say that you were both losing the metaphor.

Ben would say he didn’t fucking care, and flip you under him. You’d lose track of time. Of the movie you were supposed to be watching. Of the world.

And then he left.

Just left.

Wasn’t taken. Ben just… Left. After telling you so many sweet thing, after making so many promises, he just left. And now he’s back.

But not back with you.

Your hand is bleeding. You tried to pick up some of the glass, and it sliced along your palm. You barely even feel it. A part of you was already bleeding all over the floor anyways.

He didn’t come back.

Ben couldn’t fucking find you.

He wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t about to go up to any of these weird little pussies and ask them where you were. He didn’t need them to know you existed. No one needed to know you existed but Ben himself.

Before he chased after Butcher, he’d gone to your apartment. And he’d been a fucking idiot with this picture in his head, where he’d knock on the door and you’d been thrilled to see him. He’d sweep you off your feet, and you’d be crying with joy, then he’d fuck you and carry you far, far away from here. 

But he’d knocked. And knocked. And shouted your name, but no one had answered the fucking door.

He’d broken in. You’d be mad about that, if you were with him. That was the kind of thing that got him a stern finger and snapped Benjamin like he was a damn dog being scolded for pissing on the couch.

Don’t kill that guy who’s harassing me, Benjamin. Don’t pick up that car in my parking spot and throw it across the street. Don’t punch the dickheaded dumbass who cat called me, it’s fine, it happens all the time.  

It was real fucking cute when you got all mouthy and angry with him, as if there was a damn thing you could do about it.

Although he had always listened.

But it was real hard to tell you no. Or upset you. Or do anything that made your voice all thick and eyes all watery and sad. Ben had a lot of fantasies about your wobbling lips and sad little kicked kitten eyes—the ones you gave him when he was gone for longer than he said he’d be, or had very fucking reasonably verbally threated the men who’d been giving you a hard time—but none of them involved you being sad. They were all about how pretty you looked like that, and how nice it would be to see that gorgeous sight without feeling so fucking bad about it.

His heart squeezed uncomfortably, when he made you upset or nervous. It was incredibly fucking annoying. When it had first happened, he’d decided he needed to keep you close. To figure out what the fuck you were—what supe or Russian spy had been sent after him—so he could neutralize you.

Then you’d just been a person. And Ben had to deal with the fact that his dumbass fucking heart just did that for you. It didn’t do that for anyone else, and he’d been alive a damn long time.

He’d been angry about it, for about ten seconds.

And then you’d smiled at him.

He’d decided that as long as you were smiling, there wasn’t much to be angry about in the whole fucking world.

There were things to be angry about now, though.

You weren’t smiling. You weren’t there. Ben had kicked down your apartment door and found it empty. Bare.

Hollow.

Something inside of him had split and become so fucking hollow. He’d ripped up the floorboards and checked in the vents. He’d punched a hole in the wall and roared your name, but you’d been gone.

Someone had to have taken you. You’d always been to smart and kind, you might’ve said something truthful and gotten dragged off to one of Homelander’s stupid camps for it.

If you were dead, Ben was going to break some shit. A lot of shit. Namely, Homelander’s fucking skull between his hands.

And if you were alive, he’d still probably do that anyways. For hiding you and hurting you. He’d just be faster about it. You didn’t need to see that shit, and the moment Ben had you again he wasn’t going to let go for a damn second.

He just had to find you first.

Ben had been good at investigating, in his day. But shit had also been simpler. There hadn’t been Sage hanging over his shoulder and watching him like a very annoying hawk. That Firecracker girl hadn’t been trying to hit on him—a shame, because his dick was sore, but his hands hurt even trying to touch someone else so he shut it down fast—and Homelander hadn’t been whining like a little fucking bitch baby all the damn time.

All these damn computers with their fucking passcodes and weird words didn’t help either. Ben spent an hour trying to break into one, then physically broke it, and all the others in the lab.

The Fish-Fucker walked in on him. Ben narrowed his eyes, and the pussy paled and raised shaking hands.

“Hey, dude, I didn’t see anything-“

“You know how to open a computer?” Ben barked, and Fish-Fucker blinked.

“Uhh… You mean log into one?” Fish-Fucker laughed, high and weak. “Yeah, bro, I know how to log in to a computer, who doesn’t know how to-“

He cut himself off as Ben’s jaw ticked, going even paler. He even looked like a fish.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean- You shouldn’t kill me! I can log in, I can find whatever you want-“

“Shut up.” Ben raised a hand, and the Fish-Fucker fell silent. “You know how to keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes. Yes- Sir-“

“Open it.” Ben pointed at the computer, and Fish Fucker scrambled forward.

He grabbed the back of the pussies neck before he could sit down, dropping his voice to a hiss.

“You tell anyone about this, I stuff you up like a fuck doll and turn you into fucking chow, you got that?”

Fish-Fucker nodded, throat bobbing and body twitching all pathetically. Ben let him go, and stood back up.

“Good. I got a name for you to look up.”

Fish-Fucker laughed nervously, nodding as he hit his fingers all over the keyboard. “More revenge, sir?”

“No.” Ben muttered, clasping his hand in front of him.

Revenge isn’t going to help, Ben. You’d told him that over and over again, but you’d also run your fingers through his hair and told him you wouldn’t stop him. He’d asked you if you’d still be there when he came back with blood on his hands. He’d meant it to be teasing, a thing he used to say to old lovers to test how much they could handle. They’d always giggled and rolled their eyes like they thought it was a damn joke. You’d tipped your head at him, eyes sharp and bright, and sighed.

You’d told him he’d need to take a shower, first.

And Ben had known. 

“What is it, then?” Fish-Fucker asked, and Ben didn’t bother to answer.

That wasn’t for anyone to know but him. You weren’t for anyone to know. Not these horrible, weak people who would hurt you and use you against him.

Your face popped up on the screen. The smiling photo that you’d used on social media—you’d taught him what that was, and he didn’t fucking care for it but he sure as hell liked seeing pictures of you—and a link to your profile at that hospital you’d worked at.

You still worked there. You weren’t gone.

Ben’s heart did a little flutter. He ignored it. That kind of gooey shit could be saved for after he found you.

“Who is she?” Fish-Fucker peered at your photo. Ben should pop his eyeballs out of his damn skull. “A Starlighter?”

Ben grunted. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

Fish-Fucker said something else. Ben didn’t listen to it.

He had to go find you.

You get home, and you feel like nothing.

It’s been two weeks, since you found out Ben was alive. Two long weeks where time dragged you through the mud and you had to learn how to keep your heart beating.

You pulled out the gun every night. You’d never shoot it—you didn’t even have ammunition—but you’d needed to hold it. To cling to proof that it hadn’t all been a dream. He’d been here. He’d given you part of him to keep.

Then he’d decided you weren’t worth the rest.

You’d thought, like a naïve, lovesick school girl, that you were going to be worth the rest.

You kick off your shoes, and go straight for the gun again. You lie on the floor, because it’s cold and that forces you to stay awake. You haven’t been sleeping properly, and when you pass out from exhaustion you don’t wake up well rested. It all hurts. It always hurts, and you don’t think it’s ever going to not hurt again.

You close your eyes, hugging the gun tight to your chest. Tears are burning behind your eyes again. You’d been hoping you’d run out, but you feel the hot shame of one sliding down your cheek. A broken sob rattles through your chest, and you’ve given up on fighting it.

This is just always going to hurt.

“I didn’t give you that so you could shoot yourself, doll.”

You scream. Your hands fly before you can think, scrambling to grab the gun. Some scratch in the back of your head knows that a bad idea, and drum in your chest demands that it’s bad idea, but you’re tired and afraid. You thought you were alone, and you’re not, so you aim the gun straight at the man standing in your door.

Ben grabs it like he’s taking a toy from a toddler. He takes out the empty clip and examines it with a frown, his hair flopping over his face. You’re breathing so shallow you think you might have passed out. You’ve had a lot of dreams about him since he left. You’ve just finally gone off the deep-end, and now they’re hallucinations.

“Hm. Not loaded.” Ben tosses the clip off to the side, shooting you a smirk. “Good girl.”

You don’t know if you scream again, or crawl to him on your knees. He sounds real. He looks real. He’s smiling at you like he never left, like you hadn’t pour every piece of yourself out to make room for the swelling grief of his absence. If you reach out, you think you’d find solid muscle and warmth. A heart that beats under your fingers, in a rhythm you always hear when you close your eyes. Ben would cover your hand with his own, holding onto your wrist the same way he did before. Like he wanted to tie you together. Like he could never bear to let go.

Or you’d just pass right through thin air.

And everything you have left would dissolve with the illusion.

You wrap your arms tight around your stomach, drawing your knees to your chest. You know this is fear. You know Ben thinks fear is weak, but he’s never looked at you and said you were anything but his.

Then he left.

And you’re not anyone’s anymore.

Ben says your name, and you swallow. He sounds so real.

“Ben?” You whisper.

A familiar smile ghosts over his lips. It terrifies you.

“Me.” He murmurs, tossing the gun onto the couch without breaking your gaze. “Hey, doll.”

He takes a step forward.

You push back, pressing yourself into a small ball on the floor.

Ben freezes. His brow furrows, and his lips press in a tight, thin line. He reaches out. And you don’t want to touch him and know he’s not real.

You shrink away.

“How did you get in.” You whisper, fixing your gaze on his knees.

“You didn’t lock the door.” Ben grunts. “Which we gotta talk about later, that’s not fucking safe, but first-“

He says your name, reaching once more, and you squeeze your eyes shut. 

Strong, warm fingers grab your chin. You make a tiny noise from the back of your throat, and for a split second, the whole world goes still.

You can feel him. He’s tipping your chin up, handling you like a baby bird even as he angles it how he wants, and you can feel him.

“Look at me.” Ben mutters, and you drag your eyes open.

He’d kneeling in front of you, brow furrowed tight. There’s that look again. The one that makes you naked and exposed, your clothing sticking to your skin and every inch of you seen.

Ben sees you. You can see him.

And either you’d fully lost your mind, or he’s… He’s really…

“You’re here.” You breathe. “You’re real.”

Ben’s eyes snap to yours. His frown deepens.

“’Course I’m real, why the hell wouldn’t I be real.”

“You left.”

And something flashes over his features. It’s furious and loud, but not directed at you. His fingers on your chin don’t even flex.

“I didn’t leave.” He grunts, the words pushed through his teeth. “I told you I’d never fucking leave you.”

Your tongue flicks over your lips. You shake your head.

“I saw you on TV.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, those weird fuckin’ attention sluts love a camera-“

“You were there, Ben.” You cut him off with only a whisper. “Not here. I- I thought you were dead.”

The stupid tears are back. And they always blur the whole world, but Ben remains sharp. Of course he does. Bastard.

“I waited.” Your voice breaks. Ben watches you, his jaw clenched tight. “I thought you were dead and I still waited, and you- You were just on TV-“

“Don’t say it like that, it’s- That’s not what this shit is-“

“You left.” 

“No, I didn’t-“

“You left me.” You scream, and Ben blinks.

It’s like every bit of pain, every scrape and open wound you’ve been treating with paper band-aides, Ben’s ripped everything wide open. Your tears are falling freely, your voice high and soft as you struggle to breathe, all the grief and anger at him crashing from your mouth in unforgiving waves.

“You left me, you said you’d come back, you said we’d go anywhere and you’d be here and you- You fucking left me here and I- I-“

Your word crack into a body-shaking sob, and you try to slump away from him. To just sink into the floor where he can’t see your weakness, your crying, every fissure in the mask you’re usually so good at keeping together. You don’t want him to see the rawness underneath. The way that you’ve always been ill-matched, because there’s nothing in Ben that even knows how to break, but you’re like an gastropod. Every bit of armor is borrowed and crafted. Under it, you’re nothing for him.

Weak.

“You left me.” You’re still breathing it out. You can’t stop. “You left.”

Ben sighs. And when he gets up and walks away, you’re going to be okay. You’re going to find a way to be okay, even if that means just having this gaping feeling forever.

But Ben doesn’t leave.

He wraps around you, and you wiggle a little, but he doesn’t let go. He pulls you fully into his lap, and you go limp. Your face presses into his chest, tears flowing freely with every shaking, silent sob. Ben rubs your back, holding you steady. And despite yourself, you hold on. You sink in your nails where you never should’ve let go, and you hold on.

His heartbeat hasn’t changed. And everything in your still recognizes it.

Still calls it yours.

“Didn’t run.” He mutters once your breathing has evened, tangling his fingers in your hair. “Butcher turned on me, helped Homelander and that Maeve bitch knock me off the tower. Got put back under. Homelander woke me up. And the first fucking thing I did was start looking for you, but you weren’t where I left you.”

You swallow. You’d moved because you couldn’t stand that apartment without him. You turned every corner and expected him to be there. It was pure torture.

“But I found you.” Ben continues. “I fucking found you. And I’m not going again, doll. We’re leaving, together, and that’s it.”

Ben tugs on your head, and you let him pull you back. He’s not crying—you’d be shocked if he knew how—but there’s a heavy light in his eyes, like a lamp that’s begging to be bright enough to be seen. You reach up to trace his jaw. His eyes close for a second, and he leans into the touch.

Your throat bobs. Your voice is still small.

“Why should I believe you?”

Ben’s eyes shoot open, glinting and sharp. Not dangerous. Never to you.

Just focused.

“Because I’m telling the fucking truth-“

“Swear it?”

Ben nods, and you tilt your head.

“You swore you’d come back.”

“And I am back.” He grabs your wrist, keeping your hand to his face. “No promises got broken, doll. And I’m not fucking leaving without you.”

You laugh, something in you breaking and fusing together all at once. Like glass, burning before it gets to be something beautiful. Something that can let the light in.

“Don’t say that.” You breathe, holding his gaze. “I’ll believe you.”

Ben’s eyes narrow. He leans over you, that attention as unwavering as always, and suddenly there’s nowhere to hide. Not that you ever could. Not from him.

“You think I’m not serious?” He murmurs, low and dangerous.

You don’t flinch. You never have.

“Prove that you are.”

A deep sound rumbles from Ben’s chest. He lets go of his hand, his own flying up to frame your face. Your breath hitches, right as his lips slam against yours.

You’ve kissed Ben many times. He always does it like it’s going to be the last time he ever touches you. He’s demanding in how much you take, but never how much you give. Your mouth falls open in a moan, and he grunts, hauling you up his chest to deepen the kiss. It’s sloppy and wet, your fingers scrambling against his shirt to keep steady, but he doesn’t falter for a single second.

“Be- Ben-“

He grabs a handful of your ass, squeezing as his teeth drag over your swollen lips.

“Ben-“

“That’s right.” He grunts. “Say my name, I know you didn’t forget who fuckin’ owns you.”

God, you should shove him for that. But he knows what it does to you. He smirks, when your thighs clench and a soft whine escapes your lips.

Ben lands a sharp slap on your ass. It makes you keen, collapsing over his chest. You’re pulling at him, kisses uncoordinated and desperate—how did you ever survive without this, you’re not sure—as you try to further a kiss that’s already fusing you together by the mouth.

He doesn’t even come up for air.

“Oh- Fuck, Ben-“

He speaks against your lips, voice rolling in his chest. 

“I know, doll. You believe me now, don’t you.”

“Ye- Yes-“

Another slap. This time he lets his hand drag lower, teasing over the crease between your thighs, then the hem of your shorts. Your hips buck into the featherlight touch. Ben grunts, short and tight.

“Dirty girl.” He mutters, starting to wander his kisses over your cheeks. “Say it louder. You fucking believe me.”

“I- Ooooh-“

You press your face into his neck, biting down a moan. The tips of his fingers are tracing your pussy through your shorts. You sink your nails into his shoulders, your breathing ragged as he starts to trace them back and forth.

“You what?” He teases, nipping at your ear. “Heard you start to say something doll, you already that stupid? I’m barely fucking touching you.”

“You- You’re touching enough.” You breathe out, squeezing your eyes shut. “More- Please-“

“More?” Ben snorts. “You’re always getting me on that fucking feelings shit, you don’t get more until you talk.”

You shake your head. “Ben, I- I can’t-“

“Can’t what? Can’t speak? Can’t say Ben, I believe you. ‘Cause trust me doll, when you do I’m going to touch you for real, and you’ll feel real fucking stupid for how you’re acting right now.”

Ben rips clean through your shorts, and thick, warm fingers start to rub the lips of your pussy. He scissors two fingers, pressing them just upside your core, then dragging back and forth. It’s all pressure and not enough friction. It’s going to drive you out of your mind.

“Come on, baby, where’d all that fucking spunk go-“

“You- Benjamin-“

“Uh oh.” He laughs. “I’m in trouble.”

The tips of his fingers graze your clit. You whine, grinding back into the touch, and Ben grabs your pussy with a single hand. He’s covering it completely, pinning you to his chest, and you moan so loud you think it echoes.

“Think you’re going to forgive me?” He mutters in your ear. “Think I’m not dead fuckin’ serious, when I tell you that I’m back. That I want you, all of you, and I’d kill people to have it.”

“I- I don’t want you to kill anyone.” You breathe, dazed and drunken on him.

Ben chuckles, kissing right under your jaw.

“I know you don’t, pretty girl. And I’ll go on the damn leash if you’re yanking me, but I’m not letting you drop me. We go, we go together, you fucking remember that. We get out. You gonna get out with me?”

“Ben-“

“I’ll take care of you.” He mutters. His hand starts to move again, torturously slow. “I’ll be real fucking good to you, swear it. Swear it on you.”

Two fingers slide over your pussy, spreading your arousal on his fingertips. A slow, breathless sigh of escapes your lips, and Ben lets you have this. He teases those fingers over your cunt a few times, then slowly pushes one of them in. You gasp, wrapping your arms around his neck. Just his finger is the biggest stretch of your life.

“I know.” He kisses under your ear, pressing it further in until he’s at the knuckle. “It’s a lot, isn’t it. But you’re doin’ so fucking well. Sweet fucking pussy, all wet and tight for me.”

“Mmmh.”

“Say it’s for me.” He demands, crooking them so they hit a soft little button you’re never able to find yourself.

“Ben-“

“Say it.”

“S’ for you-“ You take in a sharp breath, when he starts to slowly pump them in and out. “All for you, Ben, I- I’m all-“

Your words break into a moan. He’s pressing back against that same spot, rubbing it until you’re squeezing around him before drawing shallowly out and slamming back in. Obscene sounds fill the room, and you didn’t even know you could get this wet.

It’s a grace. Ben’s finger is massive. You can feel every drag of him inside you, and you’re not sure how you’re managing to take it when you keep squeezing around him.

“How- How big is your dick?”

He barks a laugh, pulling your face back with his hand on the back of your neck. He kisses you slowly, matching the pace of his fingers moving inside you.

“You’ll see, baby.” He says. “Just need to be good.”

You pout slightly. “I am being good.”

Ben’s lips twitch. He kisses your forehead, then suddenly speeds his fingers up. Your back arches, hips grinding as you try to chase the feeling, but he holds you firm.

“Ben-“

“Say it.” He grunts, squeezing the back of your neck. “You wanna be so fucking good, say it-“

“I love you!” Your words come sudden and desperate. “I- I love- I love you, please-“

You almost scream, when his fingers stop moving. You grab his wrist, blinking in hopeless confusion. Ben’s jaw is clenched tight, his eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

Then you realize.

Shit.

“Ben, I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t mean it?” He grunts, and you shake your head frantically.

“I didn’t mean to- I just- I missed you, and you said- And you were-“ You gesture frantically at his hand. His fingers, still buried deep inside you. “And I- You don’t have to-“

Ben moves, and your words turn into a squeal. You’re airborne, being tossed over his shoulder as he stands.

“Fuck- Benjamin, what are you-“

He slaps your ass, then drags two fingers back through your pussy. You close your eyes, biting your lower lip to stifles the moan at the perfect combo of pleasure and pain.

Ben spanks you again, his voice stern as he moves to his feet.

“Don’t fucking do that quiet shit. Let me hear you.”

His finger pushes back into your cunt, finding that spongey spot in a second. This time you let yourself moan fully, and you’re rewarded with a scraping kiss on your ass.

“There you go, baby. That’s what I want.”

You keen at the praise, and you don’t know why you bothered hiding it from him. Ben feels and see the flutter of your pussy and chuckles. Your knees are dragged together, forcing more pressure, making you tighter around his finger when he shoves it back in.

“Be- Ben-“ Your getting light-headed, from the combination of his touch and being upside down. “What- What’re we doing-“

“You’re telling me where the bedroom is.” He grunts, turning in a circle like a magic sign is going to appear. “Then I’m fucking you ‘till you can’t walk.”

“Oh- Okay.”

You grab a fistful of his shirt as he slaps your ass again, moaning when that fucking finger starts to pump once more. There’s a pressure building in your core, and the way he’s holding you is only making it worse. Like you’re just a toy, but still the most important thing in his life. He keeps kissing your thigh and ass while he fingerfucks you. Your exposed to the cold air, the window is open, but the warmth of his hand and body—the warmth of what he’s doing to you—is almost too much to handle.

“Bed, doll.” His reminder is gruff, but soft.

You nod, your tongue all loose and hopeless. “I- I um- It was- That way-“

You press on his shoulder, steering him towards the door and Ben slaps your pussy.

“Good girl.”

The praise and touch shoot through you like a drug. You think you might be about to cum just like this. Over Ben’s shoulder with barely any friction at all.

He kicks the door open, and marches into your room. You’ve never seen him so focused before. He lays you down on the bed with shocking care, before ripping at your clothing like a child on Christmas.

Ben whistles, when you’re fully exposed to him.

“Look at you, baby, can’t believe I was sleeping next to you for months and you wouldn’t let me touch.”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your breasts. “You didn’t earn touching. Only good, domesticated boys get that.”

Ben scowls, pulling off his shirt. “I’m a domesticated fucking man, doll.”

And you giggle. Because he’s so fucking stupid, but he’s here. You’d cry if there wasn’t a helium filled light, blooming through your body.

You still might cry.

Ben’s looking at you like you’ve lost your mind—and like he doesn’t care the slightest, he’s just mostly concerned—and you laugh more because you’re definitely going to cry. You’re going to cry during sex with Soldier Boy, and he’s still going to fuck you anyway. 

“You know it’s not nice to start fucking laughing before a man takes his pants off-“

“I love you.”

You say it plainly, because it is. You love Ben. You have for so long, and it had been buried like treasure, but now he’s here. Now it gets to shine, and it’s far too bright to be ignored.

Ben looks shell-shocked. He’s panting like you punched him, but you’re not worried. He’s a big boy. He’ll be okay.

You both will.

“I love you,” you repeat, beaming up at him. “I love you so much, Ben, I-“

You giggle again, as he almost stumbles forward to kiss you. His massive chest envelops you, his kisses pushing you back into the mattress, and you meet him with everything you have.

Ben pulls back. Staring at you the same way he always has.

Like he’s found the last, greatest wonder of the world.

“Say it again.” He mutters.

“I love you.”

You offer it easily. It’s his to have.

And Ben seems to swallow it. His mouth closes, his tongue flicking over his lips, and you know that face.

It means he’s on a fucking mission.

“Here’s how this is going.” He grunts, fixing you with a glare. “You listen. I work. I’m tasting you,” he slaps your pussy again, lips twitching at the full body shutter it gives him. “Then you’re going to cum on my cock until you’re sobbing, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t walk. You got that.”

You swallow and nod. Ben’s eyes narrow.

“You talk to me, sweetheart, I can’t read your fucking mind.”

“Got it.” You breathe, your legs spreading wide.

It’s a shameless offering. Ben slaps your pussy again, and you buck a little of the bed with a whine of delight.

“Hold onto something.” He winks, sliding slowly down your body. “I ain’t going fucking easy.”

You expect no less of him. And you’d be able to make that joke, if he didn’t lick a thick stripe up your pussy and make you shriek.

“Holy fuck-“ Your eyes roll back in your head, your hands clawing at the sheets.

Ben chuckles, the sound vibrating against you, and repeats the motion. Your thighs press together, but he shoves them back open with a single hand, settling fully down.

“No hiding from me.” He mutters, breath warm over your core. “Look at you, doll. Even prettier from down here, didn’t know that was fucking possible.”

You laugh breathlessly. “Kiss ass.”

“Gets me places.” Ben kisses the inside of your thigh, sucking softly.

His beard scrapes and tickles against you, his chin pressing where you need him and his nose bumping your neglected clit.

“Ohhhh.” You close your eyes, slowly running your fingers through his hair. “Oh God, Ben-“

He hums in approval, switching to match the mark on the other side. He’s let go of your thighs to grab everywhere else, rubbing your ass, your hips, your sides. He slides a massive palm over your abdomen, pinning you to be bed. You should know that’s a warning sign, but you’re too lost in the heat of his mouth.

“Ben...” You moan freely, covering his hand with one of yours.

He flips it over, and you thread your fingers together.

Another warning.

“That’s- Fuck-“

He blows on your clit, and shivers run up your spine. You don’t think you can take being teased any longer. Not right now.

“More, Ben, more-“

A dark, promising chuckle rumbles in his chest. You crane your neck to look at him, and realize your mistake too late.

He’d been waiting for you to ask. And now that you have, he’s not holding back.

Ben shoves his face fully between your thighs, lapping and sucking at your clit and soaked pussy like a man starved, and your mouth falls in a long, silent scream.

You’ve been eaten out before, but never like this. Ben’s going at you the same way he kisses you. The same way he does everything. With everything he has, and the mindset that less is a sin. If something is worth doing, he’s not going to slack.

And your pussy is under that full focus. It’s almost too much to handle.

Ben makes out with every sensitive spot, inside and outside. He licks and tongue-fucks, letting you squeeze around him and pushing your ass up to hit a better angle. He noses at your clit while he works on your gaping, leaking hole, then switches.

Soft, slightly chapped lips wrap around your clit, sucking on you with all the power of a fucking sex toy. His tongue flicks back and forth over and over again, building you into a whining, cloudy eyed frenzy. You scratch at his scalp and pull on his hair, but it just makes him moan, and now everything is vibrating.

Everything seems to make him moan. Ben grunt every time you jerk your hips, slamming them back down and squeezing your hand. He moans when you squeeze down on his tongue, when he brings you right up to the edge then stops at the last second, so you slam his shoulders in frustration.

Sometimes he laughs. And that’s even worse. It makes his massive arms—wrapped around your hips—flex, and it goads him into working you impossibly deeper. You turn your face, pressing it into the pillows. Ben squeezes your hand, dragging your clit between his teeth before pulling away for a single second.

“Eyes.” He grunts, and your attention snaps over.

“Be- Ben-“

“Watch me, doll.” He open-mouth kisses you clit, and you whimper. “That’s right, don’t you look away for a fucking second.”

Now that you’re watching, you couldn’t if you tried.

Ben goes back to his self-assigned job, and the sight is more lewd and sinful than any porno in the world. His massive shoulders roll and flex as he moves you how he wants. You can’t see his mouth, but you can see him moving his head with his tongue on your clit. He shakes it, playing the nerve bundle like a bop-it, and you’re right back up the edge again.

And again, Ben stops.

You almost scream, and Ben chuckles. He kisses your poor, throbbing clit all sweet, then goes back to slowly working his tongue against your entrance. You’re wound too tight. You think you might snap from just the wrong breath.

“Be- Ben-“ You pull his hair, trying to get him back up to your clit. “Ben, let me cum- I- I need to cum-“

He just moans again. You’re going to kill him.

“Please, I- I can’t take it-“ You moan, trying to squirm your body further onto his face. “God, Ben, I can’t- I need it so bad, please-“

Sharp, lust-blown eyes snap to yours. You whimper, giving him your best hopeless pout. It’s the one that usually gets him to cave. He laughs and shakes his head and gives you whatever you want, grumbling affectionately about how damn impossible you are.

But this time, he just smirks against your pussy. And you might have him wrapped around your finger, but he’s got you cornered.

Take it. He’d said.

You don’t think you have a choice.

“Look at you,” Ben drawls, kissing your clit. His beard drags. You whimper, eyes locked onto his.

The sounds earns you another kiss, and it makes you squirm. With how his eyes gleam, you’re worried he’ll just keep you like this all night.

“You’re close.” He mocks, rubbing his palm against your pussy. “So close, baby doll. I can fuckin’ see it, you’re about to cry.”

You glare at him, and he just grins.

“You think I’ll give a shit? Think I don’t want to see you break for me?”

He presses his hand down harder. You go to reach for it, but Ben grabs your wrist and pins it firmly next to him on the mattress.

“No touching.” He grunts. “Mine.”

Oh, that makes you clench around nothing. After, you’re going to force him to make dinner and maybe do taxes or drive a car to earn feminism points back, but right now everything is just Ben, lying between your legs, calling you his.

And he’s staring at your pussy, almost transfixed. You moan as his thumb rubs your clit, his hand rising up so he can watch you react. You can feel yourself, gushing and fluttering. Desperate for anything he can give you. You’ll beg more, you’ll take it however he wants, you just need more.

“Christ on a fucking cross.” Ben mutters, pressing his cheek into your thigh. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of pussies, doll.”

You shoot him a look. “Romantic.”

He rolls his eyes, pinching your clit between his fingers.

“Was going to say yours is the best, you fucking brat.”

You smile, cupping his cheek with trembling fingers. You’re seconds from exploding with desire, but you just want to hold him. Feel him, for only a little longer.

Something in Ben’s expression shifts. For the briefest moment, it softens. His shoulders relax, and the slow breath he lets out sounds like a release. He kisses the inside of your palm. His thumb pushing on your clit, dragging it back and forth in a steady, relieving rhythm.

But you’re too sensitive. You’re being worked back up too fast, and tears start to prick.

“Ben.” You breathe, fingers curling against his cheek. “Please.”

He smirks. There’s one last kiss on your clit, then another on your well-bruised thighs. He rises to his knees, slapping your pussy while one hand undoes his belt.

Ben chuckles, at the way you fully tremble from the hit.

“You fucking like that shit, don’t you.”

You shrug, watching his belt slide away. “Maybe.”

“You do. Can see it, you-“ He pushes two fingers back into your cunt, and you moan.

“Ben- Oooooh-“

He tosses aside his belt, spanks your clit, and grins triumphantly.

“Fucking felt that. You started pouring on me like a waterfall, you love it-“

You kick at his thigh, flushing and rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

“Don’t think I will.” He drawls, going back to his pants. “Think I get to talk as much as I want, baby doll. You’re the one that’s going to be fucked all damn stupid.”

You had a smart, sharp retort.

It dies when Ben pulls down his pants, and you see his cock.

Of course he’s such an arrogant, smug ass. Endowed is too weak a word. He’s blessed. He’s got the most beautiful cock you’ve ever seen—thick and long in all the best ways, like it was handcrafted to give your pussy a heart attack—and with the look on his face, he fucking knows it.

“See something you like,” he grins down at you, stroking himself slowly.

“I… Um…” You lick your lips, crawling slowly up the mattress. “You’re very…”

You trail off again. You’re humping the sheets like an animal, forcing yourself not to just fucking touch yourself, but it’s impossible. He’s too… everything.

Ben laughs, prowling up over you.

“You’re fucking drooling.”

“You’re pretty.”

“I am not fucking pretty.”

“You are.” You roll your eyes, letting Ben drag you onto your back. “You’re so pretty, Ben, it’s bonkers.”

He grunts, settling himself above you. “Pretty is what you call a fucking show pony.”

“You are a show pony.”

That earns you a glower. You beam back in return, giggling at your own jokes.

“When we’re done, you should let me braid your- Oh my God-“

You grab at his shoulder, eyes going wide as Ben slides his cock into you with one, smooth movement. He drives right into your g-spot, dropping his hips so he’s pinning you into it. He grinds down, abs rubbing on your clit, and there it is.

That coil that had been building in you all night. Ben gets inside of you for ten seconds, and you snap.

You writhe and scramble under him, grabbing at his chest and trying to hide from the overwhelming orgasm ripping through your body. Ben grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, still grinding down onto you as it drags on. You whimper, making garbled sounds of his name.

Ben kisses you, as you twitch through the last bits of it. You turn to limp putty, moaning into his mouth and shivering as he settles at being bottomed out.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” He mutters, nipping at your upper lip. “That’s what I fucking dreamed about.”

You whimper, and Ben laughs. He gives you a shallow thrust, and your eyes go wide.

“Don’t think I’m done with you yet, baby.” He teases, ghost his lips over yours. “We got a lot of fucking time to make up for, and you,” he gives another, sharper slam of his hips. “Are too fucking gorgeous to just give one orgasm.”

A strangled sound escapes your lips, and Ben grins.

“I know. But feel that,” he pulls all the way out, then slams back in. “Real good, isn’t it. Fuck, this pussy was made for me. Going to fuck you until my name is written on it, until it can’t even take anyone else.”

His logic is flawed, but you still moan. Hard not to, when you’ve got all the mass and power of him over you, driving in and out of you at a torturously slow pace.

“That’s my girl.” He coos, bumping your nose before going for a hot, sloppy kiss. “That’s a good fuckin’ cock slut for me, aren’t you.”

Your eyes fly open, your pussy clenching down, and Ben laughs. He starts to drill into you, knocking every bit of air from your lungs.

“Yeah, I know how you like it. My dirty baby, get off of me telling you that I own you,” he slams down, and tears burn at your eyes. “That I’m going to fucking wreck you, turn you into my fuck doll, my sweet little fucking whore.”

You moan, the shame only making the heat in your tummy build faster. Ben rises over you, hair pressed to his brow from sweat.

“That’s right. Take it, take this cock and thank me for it.”

He slides his thumb over your lips, pressing down ever so slightly as his cock fucks ruthlessly in and out of your pussy. You mewl, opening your mouth for him to take. Ben laughs, thick and breathless, and pushes his thumb in.

“Fucking- Christ-“ He groans as you start to suck. “You’re so fucking beautiful, and- Tight-“

He groans, fucking impossibly harder. The bed squeaks and shifts. You moan around his thumb, tears flowing down your cheeks.

“Crying for me, baby doll, so fucking desperate you’re going to cry for it- Shit-“

Your second orgasm hits suddenly. You clench down on Ben, making him groan loudly. His chest is tight with restraint, and you scratch at the muscle, whining around his thumb.

It’s so much. Too much. You’re stuffed so full, and you can barely breathe, and it’s perfect but you don’t know what to do with yourself but sob and moan.

“There you go, so tight and warm.” Ben’s babbling. You think he’s lost himself as much as you have. “Fuck, you’re going to be death of me if you keep lookin’ like that, gotta-“

You squeak as Ben pulls his thumb and cock out with wet sounds. There’s no time to protest the loss, though, before you’re being flipped onto your stomach and fucked within and inch of your life.

Ben drags your ass in the air, barely giving you a second to recover before he’s back to railing you into the mattress. You cum even faster this time, between the filthy words and deeper position.

“Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she.” Ben grunts in your ear, his chest draped over your back. “You love it, fucking love being marked up and fucked like an animal. You fucking slut, bet that pretty mouth needs something to suck on again. Be you’ll look so pretty choking on my dick, to bad you look even fuckin’ better like this.”

You cum again with Ben’s thumb in your mouth, tears on your cheeks, and his body wrapped around yours. Then a third time, when he rises up and plays with your ass, shoving your head into the mattress to watch you cry and try to wiggle back on his cock.

After a while, you lose track of what position your in. You’re over him, then under, then pressed against the headboard and folded in half. You don’t know how he’s held himself off this long. You’re a boneless, oversensitive puddle made of countless orgasms, by the time Ben starts to rut and groan.

Ben finishes inside you, holding you firmly above him as his hips jerk up. You watch him come apart under dazed, tear-stained lashes. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world. He’s pumping into you, hot and jerking, dripping out of your pussy as just more and more comes. A wet sound fills the air, and you can see his own release stained over his abdomen as he just keeps going.

You think you pass out, after. You must, because when you come too, you’re lying on clean sheets and wearing Ben’s shirt. You stare at the ceiling for a while, still partially lost to the world.

You come back to earth, when Ben says your name. He’s coming out of the shower, bare-chested and glorious.

He gives you that small smile, and you return it without a thought.

“Feeling alright?” He mutters, climbing into bed at your side.

No pants. Unhelpful.

“Um-“ You stare at his cock, swinging between his thighs. Your mouth is watering. “You…”

“Jesus, woman.” He snorts. “I’m not trying to fucking break you, stop slobbering.”

“I am not slobbering-“

“Yeah, you fucking are.”

You stick your tongue out and try to roll away, but Ben’s right. He worked you. One movement comes with a whine, and suddenly you’re being pinned below Ben’s bare body.

“Rest.” He scolds, and you roll your eyes.

“You’re not my boss-“

“Yeah, but I love you, and I’m going to be real damn pissed if you hurt yourself.” He taps your jaw. “Rest.”

You blink at him.

And again, Ben just finds a way to make you feel more full.

“You love me?” You whisper.

He blinks. You don’t think he knows he said it.

“Of course I do-“

“Say it.”

He scowls. “You heard it, means I said it-“

“Say it again.” You give him that look. The pouty one.

This time, it’s going to work.

“Please?” You add.

Ben sighs, shaking his head, and glares at you like you’re the bane of his existence.

You might be. But he likes it, and he’s the one who’s going to be keeping you at the center of his universe.

“I love you.” He grunts.

You beam, and Ben kisses you with a labored sigh. It’s slow. Romantic.

Meant to remind you that you have time.

“Good boy.” You whisper, and he groans.

“You’re real lucky-“

“Yeah.” You cut him off, and he lets you.

He always lets you. Because he loves you.

“I am.”

✦End note: i dont care what he does in the show this is my emotional support old horny man✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

You never make it. You always try, crawling over him just like today and pouting until he chuckles and lies back, letting you try to take what you want.

“Look at you.” Dean palms at your breast, groaning as you clench around him. “Tryin’ so hard, aren’t you. ‘S too big, sweetheart? Too hard?”

His teasing only makes you more frustrated. You want to do this. You need to do this. To give Dean a break, show him that you know what you’re doing just as well as he does, that you’re not just some doe-eyed kid who can’t dish what she takes.

But it is so hard. You’re riding him, grinding on his cock like an animal in heat, tits bouncing and chest heaving as you run out of breath. He keeps rubbing that gooey spot inside you, but you can’t figure out how to get him to just hit it the same way he usually does.

“De- Dean.” You collapse over his chest, ass still bouncing as you try to find a little more friction. “Can’t- I- I can’t-“

“I know.” Dean smiles affectionally, brushing the hair from your face with one hand as his other shoves your ass straight down.

You mewl, pinned fully on his cock and too wrecked to even push back. Dean grabs you chin and tips it up, kissing you slow and deep as your pussy flutters around him.

“Need help?” He murmurs, and you shake your head.

“No- No- Just a second-“

“Baby.” He gives you a stern look. “You’re squeezing me like a fuckin’ pump, we don’t have a second.”

You swallow, blinking up at him in dazed, lustful confusion. Dean raises his brows, waiting for the confirmation that he can take over, but your tongue is all jelly in your mouth. He’s so pretty. All muscle and softness and power below you, cradling you like you’re something precious as your pussy weeps around his cock.

You clench again, and he grunts.

“Sweetheart, I need the green light-“

“Please.” You whimper, every nerve in your body alight and whining for attention. “Dean-“

You squeal in delight as he flips you over in a split second, your head hitting the pillows and Dean caging you to the mattress. He wastes no time, pistoning in his hips at an unforgiving pace. He drills into your pussy like a man possessed, his mouth swallowing your keening, happy moans.

It’s so good you’re almost forgetting to breathe. You’re drowning in him, in the way he grunts and completely envelops you. The sight alone is something out of a porno, his chest flex and sweaty, his hair falling over his face, brow knit in concentration as you cling to him and whine.

“Easy, baby, fuck yeah-“

He never gets through a full sentence before he moans. It’s the hottest sound you’ve ever head. 

The wet sound of his cock bullying through you fills the room. He found that spot so quickly, ramming the head of his cock into it like he’s slamming a button. You throw your head back, panting as you try to hold off, but Dean grabs your chin and forces your gaze back.

“Let go.” He orders, rolling his hips as he presses back in. “Wanna see it, baby, come on-“

Dean hisses as your orgasm hits you, your vision going white and your pussy pressing down around him. His hips jerk, his thrusts becoming shallow as he groans your name, and he buries his face in your breasts as he cums.

You giggle, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He grunts, but smiles, leaving a soft kiss on the curve of your breasts.

“I almost had it.” You whisper, and he chuckles.

“Sure you did.”

“I did-“

“Said sure.” He rises up, eyes shining with adoration as he takes in your flushes, completely ruined expression. “You’ll get ‘em next time, tiger.”

You whack his chest, and he laughs, rolling you back on top. And he’s teasing, but you will get him next time.

And if you don’t, oh well.

There’s no better way to fail in the world.

Anyone who’s ever met Dean Winchester will tell you the same thing: he’s a good soldier.

Some will say he’s the kindest man they’ve ever known, some will scoff that he’s a jackass. Some will flush at the cheeks and swoon a little, some will turn red in the face and white in the knuckles with fury. Some will claim he’s an angel, some will spit that he’s the devil.

But every single one of them will tell you that he excels at one thing. Following orders. 

More than that, he seems to thrive in it. It’s as if a switch goes off in his brain with every command. As if something in his gut snaps into place, falling back into a painful but familiar sense of comfort. As if it’s tearing him into tiny pieces, but he’s lived in tiny pieces for so long that he doesn’t know what to do when he’s whole. As if he needs to be torn apart. 

Like a dog that mourns the tapeworms after being dewormed—the emptiness in his stomach so unbearable, his body so big once he’s left all alone inside of it—that he runs into the woods and swallows mouthfuls of dirt as soon as his owner’s eyes flicker away.

It comes natural to him, an instinct that’d been beaten into his very soul by the one person that was meant to protect him. 

John Winchester had relished in it when he was alive, a sick pride glowing in his eyes like venom every time Dean surrendered. Every time his son’s will faded into the shadows at his orders, every time the boy stood a little straighter and more vigilant at his present, every time whatever attempt at a backbone Dean’d grown while his father was away crumbled when he came back. 

Dean was nothing but a military dog to his father—loyal, violent, and submissive.

“Watch out for Sammy,” “kill that son of a bitch,” “stop crying and help me carry him to the pyre,” “Man up!”

At twenty-six, at twenty-one, at seventeen, at fifteen. At twelve, when Dean had to kill that hunter. At six, when John took him shooting for the first time. At four, when he had to carry his baby brother out of that burning house. 

An attack dog, Sammy’s shield, Daddy's blunt little instrument. Never a son, never a child, never loved. 

Never Dean Winchester. 

But now John is gone, and the leash that hangs from Dean’s neck looks like a noose more than ever. He sits around, teeth bared and claws sharp, begging for someone to take it. For someone to pick him up from the side of the road, to smack him in the snout and complain about the dirt on his fur, but to finally boss him around. 

For someone to use him, to give him purpose, to blow the whistle and give him a reason to live. 

So he follows Sammy around, with his tail between his legs and ears plastered to the top of his head. He’s loud and obnoxious and annoying, but all it takes is one sharp order from his little brother for Dean to succumb to the boy’s every wish. 

It isn’t quite the same as John. Sammy’s commands don’t hurt him, Sammy’s wishes don’t strip him down until he’s a rotting pile of bones and skin, Sammy isn’t cruel. It still feels good to do as he’s told. 

And then there’s you. 

You’ve always been careful not to tug at the leash too hard, not to string Dean along wherever you go, not to choke him with the barbed wire that wraps around his throat. At first, you didn’t want to hold it at all, but Dean had quietly placed the handle on your hand and stared up at you with pure, unequivocal supplication. 

How could you say no?

With time, you’ve learned that it isn’t all that bad. Yes, Dean’s complete surrender at the hint of an order is still devastating in every way possible, but it also has its perks. 

Because that man has a masters degree in self-destructive behavior. He throws himself into every fire, downs every bottle, takes every bullet. He collects scars like trophies, breaks bones like records, chases death like a nascar racer. 

It makes you want to kill him yourself. 

“You can’t keep doing this, De. You’re gonna end up dead,” you tell him every time, while patching up his wounds or cuddling him through a hangover morning—or, in the worst of times, holding his hand on a hospital bed. “Don’t you understand how much I fucking need you? How much I love you?” 

But that’s the thing, he does. You know he does. 

It’s in the ways he always curls against your chest after being woken up by a nightmare, in the way he doesn’t complain anymore when you pepper kisses over every scar marring his body, in the way he always crawls back to you, even if he has to hold his guts inside his body with his hands to do so. 

He knows you love him. God, you make sure he’s aware every single day. But the long-term sequelae of John’s abuse is now integrated into his being, flowing through his bone marrow and red cells and cerebrospinal fluid. 

So instead of fighting it, you utilize it. Not like John did, not like Sammy does sometimes in little-brother fashion. You use them to his own advantage, to take care of him, to keep him safe and protected like no one else ever cared to do. 

You know what they say: If you can’t beat them, join them. 

[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]

The first time it happened, you didn’t know what you were doing. 

You’d been in Northeast Pennsylvania following a Wendigo’s fading trace when Bobby had called you for help. The bastard hadn’t shown signs of life in days, and once he finally did, he’d barely waited for Dean to pick up before grumbling, “Help. Covington, Louisiana. Get here ASAP,” and then the line went dead.

Naturally, you and the brothers had scrambled into the Impala and dashed away from the Pocono Mountains at a speed that must have broken the sound barrier. A few minutes later, a message with the address of some Holiday Inn came through. Dean broke every traffic law racing down the interstate. 

You tried to get him to stop at least once in the twenty hours it took you to reach south, sleep a bit in the car or even shuffle into a motel on the side of the road. But his blood-shot eyes stayed on the highway and his foot on the pedal, through sunset and twilight and midnight. 

It was John going missing all over again. You didn’t insist further. 

Sammy and you got some rest, with his huge frame curled up in the passenger seat and yours draped across the back bench. Dean stayed up on pure adrenaline and fear all the way to dawn, calling Bobby’s number every few minutes, blunt nails leaving half moon indents on the leather of the steering wheel. 

By the time you drove into Covington, the bags under his eyes were bruise-purple and his movements jerky and frantic. 

All of you were restless, though. Sam couldn’t stop tugging at the ends of his shaggy hair, a habit Dean remarked he’s had since he was a kid. Your lips were bitten bloody and your leg bounced incessantly as you sat on the curb, waiting for Dean to come back from talking with the motel’s receptionist. 

You blame Bobby for adopting three stray kids with severe Childhood Emotional Neglect. None of you were being chill about the situation. 

“She says a scruffy guy wearing a baseball cap checked in around eight yesterday,” Dean grumbled as he walked across scorching pavement, the bright spring sun highlighting the greenish paleness of his skin. 

“Sounds like our guy,” Sam sighed, relieved. 

You could see in Dean’s face that there was more to it, so you pushed yourself up on your feet and moved to press against his side, your hand wrapping around his. His shoulders slackened then, like the reassurance of another body against his made everything a little less fuzzy, a little more real. 

Not a Djinn vision, not a dream that will soon turn nightmare, not a demon messing with his brain. Just real life, with his real girlfriend and his real brother. 

Small comforts. 

“Yeah, but she says he drove away in a red pickup around lunchtime yesterday, and she hasn’t seen him since.”

Your teeth broke the scabbed skin of your lower lip, metallic filled your mouth.“That’s around the time he called us.”

A thick silence dropped around you like smoke in the air, poisonous and heavy. You felt Dean’s fingers tighten on yours, mind surely reeling with all the possibilities, all the outcomes, all the pain.

Your pretty boy, consumed by death—always expecting the worst of life, because that’s all he’s ever known.

“Bobby is the most resilient fucker we know, he must be okay.” Sam walked in circles in front of you, tugging at the long wisps of hair on the nape of his neck hard enough for it to truly hurt. “We should get going, start tracing his steps now.”

“Did the receptionist say anything else? Did Bobby mention why he was in town?” You turned to Dean, searching for his tired eyes until they focused on yours. The fog that’d settled over them faded slightly. You ran your thumb over his sharp knuckles. 

“Lady’s like—ninety. It's a miracle she even remembers him at all.” Dean shook his head, his free hand running though his already messy, spiky hair. “I tried asking her for the truck’s plate, but the cataracts in her eyes told me all I needed to know.”

More silence, filling your lungs and sitting heavy in your gut. You licked the blooming blood from the corner of your lips, about to suggest to try calling again, when—

“Y’all look like a bunch of wet ducklings. Whose funeral are we attendin’?”

The gruff voice broke through the air like lighting, making the three of you jump in your place. The relief that flooded your body at the familiar drawl in the words was so strong that you had to lean further onto Dean, spinning on your heels to find Bobby calmly strolling down the sidewalk, hands in pockets and all. 

Turns out all the “help” Bobby needed was instructions on how to log into Myspace. 

The skinwalker he’d been hunting was contacting his victims through the internet, sharing bad poetry full of dog imagery and angsty buzzwords before he asked them to meet at some woods behind an old construction on the edge of town. Completely lost to the secrets of modern technology, Bobby decided to call while scoping out the crime scene.

“The son of a bitch jumped me out of nowhere, chewed the phone right out my hand. I thought I’d have to roleplay as a cheerleader to find him or somethin’, but the mutt found me first. I put a bullet through his heart in a second.”

“You could’ve called from a payphone!” you huffed then, teeth blood-stained and patience running thin. “We were worried sick, Bobby!”

“I didn’t think y’all would rush here like that.”

After a long moment of buzzing disbelief, the three of you gaping at Bobby like fish out of water, you dragged Dean into a room in determined silence, if only to keep yourself from smashing your knuckles on the old man’s face before crying your eyes out with a mix of guilt and joy. 

“We should go back to that Wendigo, sweetheart, try and see if we can still find him—”

“Nuh uh.” You pushed Dean onto the bed until he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, kicking the door closed behind you. Standing between his spread legs, arms crossed and eyes squinted, you stared down at him with what you hoped was inexorable resolve. “We’re not hitting the road again until you’ve gotten at least twelve hours of sleep.”

“I get four in a good night, baby—”

“I don’t care!” You started to tug his leather jacket off his shoulders, your gentle hands not matching the scowl on your tired face. Surprisingly, Dean let you slide it down his arms and throw it somewhere behind you. “You’re sleeping twelve today.”

You expected another retort, him teasing you about being bossy or flipping you around in bed and shutting you up with kisses. Instead, Dean’s already cloudy eyes glazed over even further as he kicked off his boots. He stared down at his jeans, giving the denim a slow blink before glancing up at you, all mellow muscles and silent doll lips. 

In the green of his irises, you saw everything he’d never say. A silent plea. His torn-up heart, exposed and bleeding.

“Uhm—” You took a slow breath, like the slightest disturbance could break the fragile atmosphere that’d filled the room. “Want me to help you with that as well, darling?”

Red splotched his cheeks, shame and pleasure and bashfulness at all once. All the answer you got was an uncharacteristically-shy nod. 

It was more than enough. 

In what felt like slow motion, you dropped down to your knees, hands reaching for Dean’s fly. You’d been here a million times before, but for once the air wasn’t filled with heat and hunger. 

Your fingers were careful on his zipper instead of desperate. The noise Dean made when you tugged the rough fabric down his legs was tender instead of ardent. His cock stayed soft in the thin fabric of his briefs, even as you placed a fluttering kiss over a silvery scar on his inner thigh, soft hairs brushing your lips and the pure scent of Dean filling your nose. 

Once the jeans were off, you discarded them along with his socks. The rise to your feet was tense, like walking onto a mine field and waiting to be blown up in pieces. Instead, Dean shuffled further into bed, his head falling on the pillow and his body sinking on the mattress. 

You cleared your throat. “There you go. Now you can rest.” 

You blinked down at him in disconcert when his mouth parted with a yawn, as if sleep had overcome him on cue. As if he needed permission to unwind.

Testing your luck even further, you tugged one of the blankets from under his body and draped it over his frame, tucking the edges under his sides when he simply gave a low grumble but didn't stop you. In a minute, you had Big-Bad-Hunter Dean Winchester effectively wrapped up in a blanket burrito.

You took a cautious step back, admiring your work with wide eyes and a slack jaw. Dean looked adorable, hair mussed and eyelids heavy, but that wasn’t shocking—he’s always fucking adorable. What left you dazed is how comfortable he looked. 

His eyebrows tugged down every few minutes just to return to their original place, like he was trying to frown but couldn’t quite get there. His cheeks were still rosy under his freckled skin, his face half buried on the pillow as he tried to hide another yawn.

Dean usually lets you get away with a lot—changing his music or drinking sticky drinks inside Baby or teasing him about his Wild West obsession—but coddling is something that usually takes lots of kisses and sweet-talking for him to accept. 

Who knew all you needed was a firm command and some sleep deprivation?

But you hadn’t connected the dots then, convinced that something else had to be influencing him, so you carefully placed a hand on his forehead to check for a fever.

“Whatcha doin’?” he muttered, eyelashes fluttering as he leaned toward your touch, like he only did when he was too drunk or too grief-stricken. 

“...are you okay?” You brushed his messy hair back from his face.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and a little sluggish, but he sounded sure. For the first time ever, you believed him. “You’re right, I need a nap. So stop fussing and c’mere.”

Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, you wormed your way under the covers and tugged at Dean until his head was resting against your chest, ear pressed to your heart. He followed willingly, a little sigh escaping his lips and warming your neck. 

“I love you,” you whispered, just in case this was actually the end of the world. “Go to sleep.”

Your boyfriend, the famous insomniac known to roll in bed for hours before his eyes can fall shut, was asleep in all of five seconds. 

[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]

The second time was a lot more obvious. 

It’d been a terrible night. Sammy was down in Nebraska at the Harvelle’s roadhouse, looking for the location of a new potential Special Child. Dean had wanted to go with him, but you were in Montana looking for a Rugaru with a sweet tooth for children. At the end, you’d all agreed it’d be best if you split up.

So Sammy had borrowed—stolen—a car and headed south while Dean and you continued to search for the creature, who’d somehow been able to dodge the police, a furious local Parents Association group, and now two fake-FBI agents. 

“Sneaky son of a bitch,” Dean had snarled under his breath as you sneaked into a kindergarten principal’s office.

Finally, after twelve long hours of watching glitchy security cameras and stalking the town’s playground like a pair of creeps, you’d gotten your hands on the child-eater. 

It was the local youth pastor—there was a joke there you were too tired to make—who’ve been convincing his Sunday school students to come around the church after dark, for “extra holy lessons.” 

Dean and you barged through the backdoor of the cathedral just in time to find the old man with his teeth sunk on a tween boy’s neck, mouth and clerical collar smeared with blood as he held the poor kid down against a pipe organ. 

You ran toward the rugaru as Dean landed a well-aimed shot on his chest, sending him stumbling backwards and away from the boy. The pervert ended up with his back against a giant crucifix, the blood dripping from Jesus’ wounds blending with the one dripping from the pastor’s mouth. 

Taking advantage of the slight moment of confusion, you quickly dozed him in lighter fluid, throwing your open zippo at him before he could realize what happened. Soon his body was consumed by flames, the fire reflecting in Christ’s porcelain eyes, the crucifix around his neck melting onto the wooden floor. 

You turned around to find Dean kneeling on the floor with the bleeding boy in his arms, wide palm wrapped around the oozing wound in his neck, whispering what you imagined were low reassurances. 

The boy’s skin was pale and thin, wrapping around his bones like a veil. He had shaggy hair and wide, muddy eyes that stared up at Dean with pure terror, trembling fingers latched onto the older man’s jacket like he was an angel, here to save him from the pain of the mortal world.

At first glance, under the flickering light of the fire and the moonlight filtering through stained glass, he looked just like Sammy. 

“It’s okay, kiddo. You’re gonna be fine, you hear me? We’re gonna get you home safe,” Dean feverishly whispered under his breath as you walked closer. 

But then your boyfriend looked up at you, and you knew—the boy was dying. The pain that burned on Dean’s eyes was hotter than the blaze behind you, abrasive and destructive. A flick of panic flashed on his face once his gaze met yours, broken and guttering, right before he pulled on his almost-perfected mask of stoicism. 

“That’s it, buddy. Just—let go. It’s over. I’ll take care of you, you can let go.”

You dropped on your knees next to him, watching as the light slowly left the kid’s eyes, the now blueish orbs locked onto Dean’s green ones, bloody hands still holding onto his arms. 

For minutes or years, Dean continued to cradle the boy against his chest, body growing cold and stiff between his warm arms. The blood dried an ugly brown shade, the fire spread all through the altar, sirens started to echo from the distance.

“De, we gotta go.” 

But he was irresponsive, gaze lost somewhere too faraway to reach, body shut down. With what felt like a blade stuck in the back of your throat, you forced yourself up and ripped the boy away from his grasp, having to ignore the heartbreaking noise that Dean let out as you yanked the boy across the hardwood flooring.

Knowing that the corpse was now covered in Dean’s DNA, you caressed the boy’s cheek and silently apologized to him before resting his body amidst the flames, tears stinging on your eyes as you dragged Dean back to the Impala. 

Even hours later, sitting in a hotel room’s toilet, Dean’s hands still held the shape of the boy’s throat. His eyes were lost somewhere in the ugly floral tiles, his clothes blood-stained and his breath shallow. 

The hotel you’d found nearby was still tacky and cheap, with horrendous bed covers and too-strong flowery scent, but it was clean enough for you to run a bath and lead Dean into it. 

Undressing him had become a bit of a habit after the last time. Not always, not when Dean was present enough to be self-conscious about it. But on nights like this, it’d become normal for you to pull his shirt over his head, undo his shoelaces and tug down his pants and underwear until he was naked and unguarded in front of you. 

“C’mon, sweet boy.” You grabbed his hand, the one that’d tried to keep the kid from bleeding out, and guided him toward the bathtub, filled with a-little-too-hot water, enough to get the blood and grime off his skin. “Let’s get you clean, hm?”

You didn’t expect a verbal response, not when Dean got like this. After rough hunts, those too bloody or too deathly, he just… went quiet for a while. Sometimes he wouldn’t speak for a few minutes, sometimes he went without talking for hours. One time, when you got hurt so bad your heart stopped for a few seconds, Dean had gone nonverbal for a whole day. 

So he settled into the bath in perfect silence, long limbs folding to fit in the small acrylic, the water slowly growing darker. You sat on the edge of the tub and pulled his hand to rest on your palm, gently scrubbing at skin with a damp rag, washing away the filth under his nails and between the crevices of his fingers. 

Once his hands, arms, and upper chest were clean enough, you moved to his face. Dean continued to stay marble-still, rigid and expressionless. But when your hand cupped his cheek, the rag brushing over the maroon smudge on his temple from where the kid must’ve tried to reach for his face, his lower lip started to tremble.

“...I—” The word was hoarse and rusty as he forced it out, his face scrunching with effort. “I’m s-sorry…”

“Shhh.” You dropped the rag on the bathtub, both your hands now cradling his jaw, leaning closer until all Dean could see was your face. “Don’t talk. You don’t have to talk, baby.” You ran your fingers through his damp hair, still stiff and tangled. “Just close your eyes and let me take care of you.”

As if you’d just spoken an enchantment, Dean’s eyelids fell heavy and his back dropped against the side of the tub, his body finally letting go of the tension. Something buzzed in your veins, powerful and terrifying. 

You reached for the hotel’s complementary shampoo, warming it up between your palms before working it into Dean’s short strands, fingertips massaging his scalp, dirty water running down his neck. His lips parted slightly, the tiniest of breathy sounds leaving his throat before he melted under your hands. 

Soon after, you emptied the bathtub and tugged Dean up for a quick shower, washing away any lasting residue from tonight with clear running water. Once he was clean and a bit more present, you wrapped a towel around his hips and sent him out the door, placing a quick peck on his lips. 

“Get to bed, hm? I’ll join you in a second.”

You waited until you heard the bedframe squeak under his weight before turning on the shower again, the rot of the hunt ultimately seeping out from your chest and molding on your skin. You rushed under the warm rain, hoping it would wipe away the memories. Someone needed to keep their composure tonight, and it had to be you. Still, tears joined the water dripping down your cheeks, the smell of burnt flesh and holy oil still clinging to your lungs. 

There was something so wrong about child death—something unnatural and immoral, that claws at your intestines and poisons your brain. You allowed yourself to break for a minute. 

But after a while, you glued yourself back together and slipped out of the bathroom in one of Dean’s shirts and your underwear, desperate to wrap around your boyfriend and sleep with his skin pressed against yours, to be reminded that no matter how horrible your world is, you still have him. 

You found Dean on the flowery bed, as you expected, still on the hotel brownish-pink towel, his glistening skin reflecting the swan-patterned wallpaper. What you didn’t expect was the brand-new whiskey bottle in his hand, now more than half empty. 

Your eyes flashed toward the digital clock on the bedside table. You’d been in the shower for a little less than an hour—longer than you’d planned, but still not enough time for Dean to drink three-fourths of a bottle of hard liquor.

At least, it shouldn’t be. 

“Sammy called,” he murmured, his voice less cracked but still forced, like it was being dragged from the back of his throat. He soothed the pain with a long swig. “Ash and him haven’t found much. He wants us to meet him at the roadhouse.” 

“You shouldn’t be drinking, baby.”

Dean ignored you, throwing his head back against the headboard and closing his eyes right before they snapped open, as if the demons in his head were waiting for him in the back of his eyelids. 

“We take off at dawn.”

Your eyes slid back to the clock. 3:45 AM. 

“No, we won’t.” You walked closer to the bed, knees pressed against the edge of the mattress, hovering over Dean’s taut frame. “Especially not when you’re getting hammered.”

“‘M not hammered, sweetheart.” The drag of Dean’s words made you flinch. That was the way he spoke to witches and demons and spirits—flirtation laced with venom. “I can hold my fucking liquor.”

“Okay,” you scoffed before reaching for the bottle, ready to snatch it out of his hands. Dean swiftly yanked it away from your grasp. “Dean—”

“Stop,” he grumbled your name, scowling as he turned to lay on his side, his back to you as he brought the bottle up to his mouth. He took a sip so large that the liquid spilled down his chin, his cheeks already flushed with drunk anger. “Leave me alone.”

The words are so childish that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Jesus Christ.” You tried reaching for the bottle again, but Dean growled—though it sounded more like a bratty whine—and curled in on himself, hiding the whiskey under his body. You gaped at the sight. “You’re such a fucking child.” 

“Yeah?” He looked at you over his bare shoulder, the towel threatening to slip from his hips, his eyebrows raised. “What’re you gonna do ‘bout it?”

He was probing, testing you. A drunken attempt to rile you up, to get what he actually wanted. The way he’d intentionally bump the buffest guy in the bar when looking for a fight, the way he’d poke at witnesses until they broke and vomited the truth all over themselves. 

He was daring you. And this time, you knew exactly what to do.

“Dean Winchester, give me that damn bottle.” He blinked at you—once, twice. His spine showed through his skin as he made himself smaller. “Now.”

That’s all it took. The scowl faded, the pettiness disappeared, the whiskey was instantly placed on your extended hand. Dean slumped against the peony-printed duvet, staring up at you, wide-open and bare. 

“Good.” Dean made a small noise at that, his hand twitching as if to reach for you before he stopped himself. His lips parted with words that never came, all his inhuman, self-destructive resolve evaporating at your stern look. “Now, I’m gonna dump the rest of this on the toilet, and you’ll wait here, all quiet and pretty. Then we’re gonna sleep, wake up at a reasonable hour, and meet Sammy at Ellen’s. Okay?”

Dean nodded, his eyes glittering with a light you saw on such few occasions. The alleviation of coming home, of sinking back into a familiar place. A place that used to be cold and sharp, but that has transformed into a warm cloud of comfort. The solace of being taken care of.

“Good boy.” You planted a kiss on his forehead before rushing to the bathroom, because the pure adoration that broke on Dean’s face was enough to make you tear up again. 

It was so heart-wrenching to see him like that. So needy, so lost. A puppy abandoned on the side of the highway, begging for scraps. Dean had been stripped of everything, until all that was left was raw nerves and a bruising soul. A thing to be utilized, burning metal that you could mold into whatever you wanted. 

There was a fine like between using the power you’d been granted, and abusing it. You’d spend the rest of your life being careful to stay on the right side of it.

Waiting for you in bed was the same Dean from the bath, closed eyes and guards down. You approached with slow steps, leaving the now empty glass on the dresser before siding under the covers, tugging them over Dean as his breath stuttered. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to keep fighting, I got you.”  

“...Promise?”

A smile tugged at your lips, your heart swelling as Dean pulled you closer, wrapping all around you, holding you down like an anchor. 

“I promise, De.”

[⫘⫘✯⫘⫘]

It became a routine. As mundane as your morning coffee and as instinctual as drawing salt lines. 

Dean would start chewing his nails during a research session, and the words “Dean, stop.” would leave your mouth before you realized. He’d try to keep driving after a fifteen hour journey, and all it took was a firm “find a motel now, baby.” for him to swerve into the first exit in sight. He’d try to pull of some crazy suicidal plan during a hunt, him and Sammy barking back and forth until you cupped his face, looked into his eyes, and said low and stern: “You’re not risking your life like that. Quit it.”

Every time, the same dazed look would return to his eyes, a dopey kind of satisfaction. Sam would stare at you with wide, confused eyes, but you’d all learned not to question when a good thing came your way. You’d found a way to keep Dean’s self-destruction in line, that was all that mattered—no matter how fundamentally toxic it was.

Things were looking up. There was still the Yellow Eyes, and the Special Children, and Sam’s own suicidal ideation—but over all, it was good. Dean’s cholesterol must have gone down as you pushed him toward healthier meals, his liver must be thanking you for the break, and the almost-death experiences had been lowered to once a week at most. You were thriving.

And then, grief attacked. 

John’s death still hung over the brothers like a ragged sword, rusty metal hungry to impale their waiting heads. Some days it was just a vague threat, distant and shapeless, almost nostalgic. But on others, when the brothers read one of their dad’s too-personal journal entries, or when you encountered one of John’s old friends, or even when the sky was too dark and the breeze too cold—the sword dropped lower.

This time, there were no warning signs. Because grief is a bitch, and it can flare from nothing and everything, no matter how beautiful or common or insignificant it is. It might’ve been the color of the flowers on the side of the road into town, or the fried oil smell of the diner that morning, or the soft-rock song on the radio—but whatever it was, it led Dean into a motel couch, binging on the food hoarded on the bottom of his duffle bag.

You’d known about the stash for years. 

You’d seen him slipping protein bars and candy and fries into a rip he cut on the inside of his bag, in the space between the liner and the outside nylon. The bump in the bag was obvious, the smell of the perishable food filtered into the front of the Impala on very hot days, the grease of the half-eaten cheeseburgers sometimes spread and stained his t-shirts. It was no secret.

Usually, the stash would stay there until the stink got so strong that Dean would throw away the bag and buy a new one from some thrift shop. But in the last months, after John’s death, when things got bad enough for the food to mold and half of Dean’s clothes became bio-hazards, you’d started cleaning it up every weekend for him. 

When Dean left to buy more beer or pick up lunch, you scooped all the unpreserved food out of the inner lining and replaced it with non-perishable ones—jerky and trail mix and crackers. Just so Dean felt the reassuring weight of them every time he reached for his bag, a constant reminder that he never has to go hungry again. 

Unfortunately, that weekend you’d left on a mini-girls trip with Jo, hustling scumbags in Las Vegas and drinking mojitos by the pool, helping her through her dad’s death anniversary and forgetting about the impending doom of the world for once. 

Which meant that the food you found Dean shoving down his throat when you walked into your room had been in his bag for two weeks, under the summer heat of the midwest through the metal cage of the Impala’s trunk. 

“Hi, baby. Got us ice cream.” You closed the door behind you, kicking off your shoes and keeping your gaze low. “And guess what? There’s a theater down the street! They’re screening that new James McAvoy and Keira Knightley film—” 

Your words were interrupted by a groan, low and wounded. Your eyes snapped up to catch your boyfriend curled up on the couch, arms around his stomach and knees drawn up to his chest, a half-eaten slice of pizza laying on the cushion next to his head.

“De, what happen—” That was when you noticed the green dots on the cheese, the faint black smears on the pepperoni, the slight grayish hue of the dough. Subtle, but there. Between his arms, he held his duffle close to his chest, not wanting to let it go even now. “Oh, sweet boy…”

Dean groaned again, whole body trembling as he shifted in bed, hiding his face against an ugly decorative pillow in shame. You dropped the convenience store bag on the floor and rushed to his side, skipping through a mess of snack wrappers and napkins and a half-eaten sub scattered on the carpet. 

“Darling, what did you do?”

You sat on the edge of the couch, gently lifting Dean’s head until it rested on your lap, your hand threading through his sweaty hair and pushing it away from his forehead. Dean heaved as you tugged the bag away from his grasp, a desperate little sound leaving his mouth, his nails digging into the meat of your thighs.

“I—I was hungry,” he managed to get out, his throat contracting around the words, his eyes still tightly shut. 

You hummed lowly, still petting his hair in soothing motions. You’d eaten lunch with Sammy just half an hour ago, some Texan barbecue place. Dean had eaten a whole plate of dino ribs you’ve bought him as a treat, just to see his goofy smile as he put on a fake southern accent and mumbled about some Western with sauce all over his mouth. There was no way he was hungry. 

“I just—I felt so empty inside.” His hand moved to press against his stomach, over the hollow space under his sternum. Your free hand draped over his, drawing soft circles on his rough skin. Dean shivered, a dry sob making its way through his clenched teeth. “I hadn’t felt that way since before I met you. It’s like this… black hole that’s trying to consume me whole. I was so hungry.”

And when his eyes finally snapped open, and they rose to meet yours, you knew he wasn’t talking about today anymore.

“I was just—so hungry.”

You did your best to hold back the agony that threatened to spill down your cheeks, cradling Dean against your chest and rocking him back and forth, one hand rubbing over his tummy and the other one cupping the back of his head.

“I know, my love. I know. I’m sorry.” You leaned back until you could search his face, worry tugging at your heart along with the sorrow. “How much did you eat? Should I take you to the ER?”

Dean shook his head, his lips pressing together as he tried to straighten up, his arms giving up when another wave of cramps hit. You helped him sit up next to you, but kept him pressed against your side, your hands and eyes all over him. 

“Nah, most of it was good. The things you put in there.” His skin went paler suddenly, but his face stayed impassive, the only sign of pain being the way he clawed at the fabric of the cushions under him. “I ate some of that sub, and the pizza—”

Dean dry heaved again, his whole body twitching as he doubled over. 

“Oh, my baby.” 

You rubbed a hand on his lower back, your heart breaking into tiny pieces for him. This sweet, caring, beautiful man who's been beaten by life over and over again. How you wished you could reach into his body and fix him, exorcise all his demons and wash away all the spilled blood he’s been stained with. 

“It–it’s okay. I’m okay,” he choked out, because he’s Dean Winchester, and of course he’d say he is. “It’s not even that bad. We can still go to the movies if you want—”

“No fucking way.” 

Your voice came out harsher than you expected, less like the softened orders you’ve been using and more like an actual command. You were terrified it’d make Dean flinch, or that it’d upset him even further, but instead he turned towards you as if he was hanging onto your every word, as if you were about to spill the cure to all illness. 

“You have food poisoning, Dean. We’re not going anywhere.” You cupped his face, cheeks squeezed between your fingers, leaning forward until all you could see was the green of his eyes. “You need to stop treating your body as if it’s expendable. You are not expendable.”

Dean looked as if he wanted to argue, always the stubborn one, but you didn’t give him a chance.

“No, that’s not up for debate. Shut up.” Like magic, Dean’s mouth snapped shut. A part of you felt terrible about it, a little ill at the power you held over him. Another part, one that was steadily growing more and more dominant, was intoxicated by it. “You’re sick. So we’re staying home, and you’re gonna let yourself get better. Okay?”

Home. The word hit both of you equally hard. You didn’t have a home, not really, not in the traditional sense. But wherever Dean was, that was home. By the way his expression crumbled, Dean seemed to feel the same. 

“Yeah, okay,” he whispered after a few seconds. 

And only then, because Dean Winchester was the only person that could force back something like foodborne illness, his face scrunched up and he vomited all over your lap. 

There wasn’t an ounce of you that felt repulsed by it. Dean was yours, in every way, and no piece of him would ever disgust you—no matter how ugly, broken, or gross. 

“That’s it, darling. Let it out.” You petted his hair again as he retched, all choked-out gags and pained whines, tears joining the junk now staining your pants and the couch. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”

Because like this—dismantled into his most fundamental pieces, stripped down and willing, begging for you to put him together the right way—Dean could finally be okay. You’d make sure of it.

After a long warm shower, a quick call to Sammy, and lots of Pedialyte, you found yourself snuggled up in bed, watching an old soap opera on the TV while you rubbed Dean’s tummy and he held onto you like a teddy bear.

Your head stayed on his shoulder as the cramps got worse, his skin glistening with a sickly sheen and his chest rumbling with sore little sounds. You kept a bucket by the side of the bed for when he had to vomit again, and you stayed by his side through it all before going to empty it on the toilet and returning with another water bottle and a new dose of Pepto Bismol.

“Here, I know it tastes gross,” you cooed as you brought the medicine up to his lips, kissing the creases of his frown. “But you have to drink it. C’mon, swallow it all down.”

Eventually things got better. Dean stopped throwing up so often, even being able to keep down a few bites of the banana Sammy had bought along with the meds. He nibbled on it as the man on TV, a big guy with a thick mustache and a very obvious toupee, was about to find out that his wife cheated on him with his long-strained twin brother. 

Dean gasped loudly as the wife revealed her pregnancy—twins, from different fathers. You turned to him with a wide grin, ready to tease him to oblivion for getting so invested in the cheap drama, when his phone started ringing from the bedside table.

“Saved by the bell, Winchester.”

Dean simply rolled his eyes, tugging you further onto his chest as he pressed the phone against his ear.

“Ellen, whassup? Everything alright?” There was distant murmuring from the other side of the line, barely audible over the close thumping of Dean’s heart under your cheek. Your boyfriend hummed hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck. “A case? In Arizona?”

You tilted your head, propping up your chin on Dean’s pec and staring up at him in silence, raising an eyebrow. This time, no words were needed. 

“We’ll have to pass, Ellen. I’m a bit under the weather, and my house nurse has prescribed me bed-rest and incessable coddling.”

You heard Ellen laugh through the phone, a contented smile settling on your lips as you dragged yourself up, planting a sweet kiss on Dean’s cheek. A reward, a gratitude. 

Thank you for letting me do this. Thank you for letting me love you. 

The rest of the afternoon went by in peace. Dean ended up hunched over the toilet just once more, the cramps soon fading away and no fever in sight. You made sure to keep him hydrated, feeding him bits of crackers and soft fruit in between water sips, checking his temperature and wiping away his sweat every so often. 

“Don’t you hate that I’m a mess?” he asked later, when the moon was high in the sky and the lights were off. His face stayed hidden against the crook of your neck, the words whispered against your skin.

“No, I don’t.”

Dean huffed, his fingers tightening around your waist. “It has to annoy you, at least sometimes. Having to deal with all my crap, picking up the pieces of my explosions.”

“It doesn’t,” you said, solemn and certain. “You’re not a burden, Dean. You’re everything to me. I’d spend the rest of my life scrubbing vomit off of carpet floors and washing blood from your fingers if it meant keeping you with me.”

A second of silence. Then a laugh, rough and heavy. 

“That cannot be healthy. I’m gonna drag you down with me, baby.”

“Good. Don’t leave me.”

The command hung in the air, denser than all the others, because it was the only one that mattered. 

Don’t leave. Don’t fade away. Don’t die.

You knew your control over Dean went way further than it could ever be good. It was codependent, symbiotic, almost parasitic. A piece of you had implanted itself inside of him and kept growing until you melted together, becoming one single being. 

Not master and dog, or warrior and weapon, but more like a bullet and gunpowder—useless by themselves, in need of each other to function, bound together by fate and nature.

Still, when the moment came, you were not sure it would be enough. When Death called, tempting Dean to jump over the edge and join her in her inebriating darkness, you didn’t know whether your command would be enough to keep Dean away from it. 

Whether his will was strong enough to fight his insatiable crave for his own demise, or if you’d lose him regardless of how tightly you held onto the collar around his neck.

Whatever it’d be, tonight he was still here, safe and sound in your arms as he slept, sacrosanctly under your dominion. 

Toxic, but yours.

NOTES: SHE'S BAAAAAACK. i'm gonna be honest, this isn't my best work, but i'm very excited about a fic i'm working on so i just wanted to put out something quick before that. hope y'all like it, and hopefully i'll see you again a lot sooner. love you!

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the church was basked in a warm autumn glow, with some parts colored from the stained glass. the dust in the air roamed over the room, being carried alongside the chilled air and soft hums of the old air conditioning.

everyone had filed out an hour ago, mass being long over. all that remained in the lonely church was you, and the priest twenty years your senior.

the wooden pew groaned under the shifting weight of you riding him. you were leaned back, sweaty palms braced on the back of the pew behind you.

sam had his large, aged hands wrapped around your waist, assisting you in your movements.

“hah—father winchester, please—”

“please what, baby?” his voice rumbled like the combined singing of the choir during mass. his grip tightened on you, practically slamming you back down onto him.

you cried out. it felt like he was somehow deeper than he already was. his tip kissed your cervix as gently as possible, making you clench and scream.

“please—cum, cum! i—shit!” sam immediately pulled you down with a hand around your jaw, trapping you in a searing kiss.

he seized all motion in your connected bodies, drinking in your whines of protest.

his lips parted from yours but stayed close, ghosting. “what did i say about swearing in church, honey?” he placed a small peck against your swollen, panting mouth. his gaze glanced over to his wrist, which he held up to see his watch properly.

the next service was in about thirty minutes. and the set up was half finished due to your current activities—but he still had time.

“just a little longer. can y’do that f’me?” he asked sweetly. his puppy-dog eyes still sparkled despite his years, and god, if you weren’t swooning over them.

you nodded with a matching hum, too dazed to say words. but that’s all he needed.

sam connected your lips once more. his warm palms grabbed onto the soft flesh of your ass, manhandling you down onto him.

he swallowed your shocked gasps while your hands flew to his broad shoulders, gripping tightly as he thrusted up into you simultaneously.

hushed curses spilled from your lips and into his mouth. the pew grinded against the flooring, moving at every wet squelch.

this was the fourth time he denied you. and it was getting more and more difficult to hold back your orgasm as time passed.

your head dropped to the crook of his neck, heated breaths fanning over his sweat slicked skin. “fa‐father—please! please let me—oh my god!” you slurred, each thrust making your words sloppier. “just let me cum, ple—ase!” you choked out a sob, your words slowly blurring on incoherency.

sam shook his head, dipping his fingertips into the skin of your ass and the tops of your thighs—causing you to whimper out. “not yet, fuck,” he growled the swear, biting his tongue as to not sin any more than he already is. “just—wait, baby,”

“ca—an’t!” you screamed against his collar between moans and whines. your folds kept sucking him in, desperately trying to reach your high.

sam couldn’t hold it any longer. especially after glancing at his watch again—he was running out of time.

“shh, dear. don’t want them hearing you, now do we?” he whispered into your ear, body shaking under his large grasp. the blasphemous noises of your arousal coated skin was enough to potentially alarm the convent in the next building over.

you grinded your hips down against him every few thrusts, trying to work for it. as if you hadn’t been doing that the whole time.

your knees dug into the sides of his large thighs, aching from the wood of the pew below. your walls began to flutter, and the knot in your stomach grew stronger, you couldn’t resist it.

sam pushed you up a bit—to the point your hands flew back to the pew behind you. he kept one hand on your hip, while the other snaked up to your chest, pulling the disheveled neckline of your pure, white dress down, freeing your breasts.

you looked ethereal with the sunlight surrounding your hazed form. the sight was all he needed to convince himself.

“ask properly,” he told you, fingers wrapping around your breast, squeezing roughly.

“please let me cum, father—ngh—father winches—” you were cut off by a moan bubbling up your throat, “father winchester, please! please, i need it—need you, so bad!”

he gave you a small nod, wrapping his lips over one of your hardened nipples as the other was played with his hand.

the mix of your jumps and his thrusts became primal, sloppy. you were never good at keeping your voices to a minimum—but for him, you tried.

“do it. now.” he grumbled against your skin. his free hand slid down, thumb circling your puffy, sensitive clit.

you prattled mindlessly at the pleasure, teetering just over the bridge for a few seconds. and then it crashed down on you.

you cradled his head, pushing his beard further into the swell of your breast, itching it slightly. your fingers carded through and tugged at his long, brown locks, searching for stability as you thrashed.

“sammy,” you moaned into the crown of his head, kicking off his own orgasm.

he spilled inside you, coating you with his arousal. it mixed with your own and dripped down onto his dress pants, staining them with your dual sin. your mutual panting allowed you to simmer in the moment for a while before sam checked his watch, panic setting in.

✉️ ﹕ first kinktober fic, how we feelinnnnnn????

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