Widow

The Impala hummed beneath you, a low, familiar vibration that had become as natural as breathing. Not that you needed to breathe, not really. Fifty years of vampirism had taught you that much—the body continued its habits long after the heart stopped needing them.

You were curled in the backseat, legs tucked beneath you, watching the endless stretch of Kansas highway roll by through your thick sunglasses. The sun was setting, finally, the oppressive brightness fading to a warm orange glow that didn't make your skin prickle with irritation. Dean caught your reflection in the rearview mirror, as he had about twelve times in the last hour.

"You know," he said, voice deliberately casual, "most people take those things off when the sun goes down."

"Most people aren't me." You didn't look up from the book in your lap, though you hadn't turned a page in twenty minutes. You'd been too busy cataloging the way Dean's jaw tightened when he swallowed, the way his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, the way his scent had shifted over the past few days.

Need. It was a particular fragrance, a specific chemical signal that humans gave off when their bodies were craving something. Usually it was sex, sometimes food, occasionally violence. With Dean, lately, it had been all three, mingled together into something that made your gums ache.

Sam snorted from the passenger seat. "He's been weird all week. Don't take it personally."

"I'm not weird," Dean protested, too quickly. "I'm perfectly normal. I'm the most normal person in this car. You're the one with the whole—" he waved a hand vaguely in Sam's direction, "—demon blood thing going on."

"Nice deflection," Sam said dryly. "Really smooth."

"Shut up."

You smiled, slow and deliberate, letting your fangs catch the fading light. Dean's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror again, and you watched his pupils dilate. There it was. That particular flash of hunger that had nothing to do with food.

"Dean," you said, your voice dropping into something lower, silkier. "You're staring."

His eyes snapped back to the road. "Was not."

"Were too." Sam hummed.

"I said shut up!"

You laughed, a low, throaty sound that made Dean's knuckles go white on the steering wheel. "Relax, Winchester. I'm not going to bite you."

Yet.

You didn't say it aloud, but you watched the thought cross his face anyway. Watched his throat work as he swallowed. Watched his thighs shift beneath his jeans.

God, he was obvious.

You'd been traveling with the brothers for nearly four months now, ever since you'd saved Sam from a particularly nasty werewolf pack that had cornered him in an abandoned warehouse. Dean had been suspicious at first—rightfully so. You were a monster. A predator. Everything they'd been raised to hunt.

But you'd proven yourself useful. Your speed, your strength, your night vision, your ability to go without sleep. All of it made you invaluable on hunts. You could track scents for miles, hear a demon's whisper from three rooms away, sense danger before it manifested.

And you never, ever fed on humans.

Animals, mostly. Demons when you could get them, possessed humans when the demon was riding them and the vessel was already lost. You'd made a promise to yourself when you'd been turned in 1958, against your will, by a vampire who'd seen a pretty young thing and decided to make you his eternal companion. You'd killed him for it, eventually, after twenty five years of learning every single way to make a vampire die and choosing the most painful and agonizing one.

But you'd kept his lesson: You didn't have to be a monster.

You'd watched the sixties bloom and fade, the seventies burn bright, the eighties glitter and the nineties grunge. You'd adapted. You'd learned to live in the shadows, to pass as human, to hide the hunger that still gnawed at your belly even after all these years.

And now you were here, in the back of a '67 Chevy Impala, watching the most beautiful man you'd ever seen slowly lose his mind over the possibility of your fangs in his neck.

It was delicious.

It had started innocently enough. Dean had always been a tactile person, quick with a flirtatious comment or a lingering touch. And you'd matched his energy from day one, trading barbs and innuendos like they were currency. It was fun. It was easy. It was just the way things were between you.

But something had shifted recently.

Dean wasn't sure exactly when it had happened: maybe it was the night he'd watched you suck the blood straight off of a demon's vessel, your fangs gleaming in the moonlight as you tore through hm like he was made of paper. Maybe it was the night you'd pulled him out of the way of a bullet with that impossible speed of yours, your body pressed against his for just a moment too long. Or maybe it was just the accumulation of all those little moments, building and building until he couldn't ignore it anymore.

The fixation had started with your lips.

Dean was a simple man. He knew what he liked, and he liked pretty things—pretty women especially. And you were gorgeous. There was no getting around that. Those dark eyes that seemed to see right through him, that cascade of hair that fell around your shoulders like silk, the way your clothes always hugged your curves just right...

He'd wanted to kiss you from the moment he'd stopped wanting to kill you.

But then something had shifted, and he'd found himself staring at your mouth for entirely different reasons. Not just because he wanted to feel it pressed against his. But because every time you smiled, every time you laughed, every time you bared your teeth in a snarl of warning-

He couldn't look away from your fangs.

It was maddening. He'd lie awake at night in the motel room, listening to Sam's steady breathing from the bed across the room and to your silence from wherever you'd stationed yourself on watch, and he'd find himself replaying the day's events in his head. Every smile you'd given him. Every flash of those sharp, elegant points.

And his cock would twitch in his boxers, swelling with a heat that made him feel like a teenager again.

What the hell is wrong with me? he'd think, pressing the heel of his hand against his erection to try and get it to go away. They're FANGS. They're not... they're not sexy.

But even as he thought it, he knew he was lying to himself.

Because the thing was.. Dean had always been a little bit of a masochist. He liked it rough. He liked it when a woman took control, pushed him around a little, showed him who was boss. He'd never admit it out loud, of course, but it was true. He liked being pinned down. He liked being at someone else's mercy.

And there was no one better equipped to do that than you.

You were stronger than him. Faster. More resilient. If you ever decided to really put him in his place, there wouldn't be a damn thing he could do about it. The thought should have terrified him. It should have made him reach for a silver knife or a stake.

Instead, it made him hard.

And the thought of those fangs in his neck...

Dean groaned softly, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the pillow. He could feel the heat building in his body, the familiar ache of need that had been plaguing him for days. He hadn't slept with anyone in weeks—too busy, too focused on the hunt, too distracted by a certain vampire who was currently sitting somewhere in the darkness watching over them.

His hand drifted down his body, palm pressing against his aching cock through his boxers. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. But the image was already forming in his mind: you, pinning him against a wall, your body pressed against his, your teeth grazing his throat-

"Fuck-" he breathed, his hips bucking up against his hand.

He could almost feel it. The sharp pinch of your fangs breaking skin. The heat of your mouth as you began to suck. The way your body would press against his, holding him in place, using that impossible strength of yours to keep him exactly where you wanted him-

Dean's hand moved faster, stroking himself through the thin cotton of his boxers. He could feel the wetness already spreading, pre-cum soaking through the fabric, and he bit his lip hard to keep from making a sound.

In his fantasy, you weren't just biting him. You were tasting him. Draining him. Taking everything he had to give and leaving him weak and helpless in your arms. And he loved it. He loved the thought of being so completely at your mercy, of having no choice but to submit to whatever you wanted to do to him-

His orgasm hit him like a freight train, his hips jerking wildly as he came in his boxers, the sticky wetness spreading across his stomach as he groaned into the pillow. His body shuddered through the aftershocks, his mind going blank with the force of it.

And when he finally came back to himself, lying in a pool of his own cum, he was left with one mortifying realization.

He'd just gotten off to the thought of you biting him. And he'd probably just made enough noise to wake up the entire motel.

Dean lay there for a long moment, breathing hard, trying to convince himself that no one had heard. Sam was still snoring softly—thank God for small mercies. And you...

Dean strained his ears, trying to hear any sign that you'd been paying attention. But the only sound was the hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak of the building settling.

Maybe he was safe.

Maybe.

The cabin was exactly what you'd all expected: isolated, creepy, and absolutely crawling with residual psychic energy. The spirit had been particularly nasty, the kind that delighted in tormenting its victims before killing them, and it had taken all three of them working together to finally put it to rest.

Sam had been injured in the scuffle (nothing serious, just a gash on his arm that needed stitches) and Dean had sent him back to the motel with strict instructions to clean it properly and stay put. So now it was just the two of you, standing in the clearing outside the cabin, making sure no other evil spirits remained and casting a purifying spell just in case, the moon overhead casting silver light across the forest floor.

"That was fun," you said, brushing a strand of hair from your face. Your sunglasses were back in place despite the darkness, and Dean couldn't help but think it was a shame: he liked your eyes. "I haven't had a good hunt like that in a while."

"You call that a good hunt?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow. "Sam nearly got his arm ripped off."

"Sam will be fine." You shrugged, a playful smile curving your lips. "And you're a terrible liar, Dean. I know you enjoyed it."

He had enjoyed it. He enjoyed hunting with you. Enjoyed watching you move with that impossible grace, those fangs flashing in the moonlight as you'd taken down the spirit's physical manifestation. Enjoyed the way you'd thrown yourself in front of him to protect him from a blow, your body pressed against his for just a moment.

Enjoyed the way you were looking at him now, those dark eyes gleaming with something that made his heart race.

"Dean."

His name on your lips sent a shiver down his spine. "Yeah?"

"You've been staring at me all night." There was no accusation in your voice, just that teasing, knowing tone that drove him crazy. "And not in the usual way. You've been staring at my mouth."

Dean's throat went dry. "I have not."

"You have." You took a step closer, and Dean found himself rooted to the spot, unable to move. "Every time I smiled, every time I talked, you were watching my lips. Watching my fangs."

"I don't-"

"Don't lie to me." Your voice was soft, almost gentle, but there was something sharp underneath it. Something predatory. "I can hear your heart racing, Dean. I can smell the sweat on your skin. I can see the way you're looking at me right now."

Dean swallowed hard. His heart was pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it, feel it, taste it in the air between you. "What do you want me to say?"

"The truth." You were close now, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body, smell the faint scent of your perfume. "Tell me what you've been dreaming about, Dean. Tell me what you've been thinking about when you're lying in bed at night."

"I don't-"

"Tell me," you repeated, and there was a command in your voice that made his knees feel weak. "Or I'll drag it out of you myself."

Dean's breath caught in his throat. There was no way you knew. No way you could have known about his dreams, his fantasies, the way he'd been waking up with sticky boxers and a burning need that wouldn't go away.

But you were looking at him like you knew everything.

"I've been thinking about you," he admitted, his voice rough. "About... about your fangs."

Your smile was slow, satisfied, like a cat who'd just caught a particularly delicious canary. "Oh, have you?"

"Don't." Dean's hands were shaking, and he shoved them into his pockets to hide it. "Don't make me say it."

"Say it anyway."

"Fine." The word came out as a growl, and Dean felt a surge of something reckless rush through him. "I've been thinking about you biting me. About those fangs in my neck. About you draining me dry while I can't do anything but take it."

You were silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, you reached up and pushed your sunglasses up into your hair, those dark eyes pinning him in place.

"Is that what you want, Dean?" you asked softly. "To be at my mercy? To have me take everything from you?"

"Yes," he breathed. "God, yes."

You smirked.

"C'mon, hotstuff." He drawled, though it came out edged with a whinyness that gave away how much he was at your mercy. "Tell me, what's your blood type? Is it mine?"

“Come find out.”

Dean didn't even think. He just surged forward, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that was all teeth and need and desperate hunger. You met him with equal intensity, your hands fisting in his jacket as you pushed him backward, not away, but against the rough bark of the nearest tree.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and Dean groaned into your mouth as you pressed your body against his, pinning him in place. Your strength was incredible, holding him immobile with what seemed like no effort at all, and Dean felt his cock stir to life in his jeans.

"Fuck," he gasped, breaking the kiss to drag in air. "Fuck, you're so strong-"

"Shut up." you murmured, and then your mouth was on his again, your tongue sliding against his in a way that made his head spin.

Dean's hands found your hips, gripping them hard as he ground up against you. He could feel the heat of your body through your clothes, the press of your curves against his chest, and he wanted more. He wanted everything. He wanted to tear your clothes off and bury himself inside you and feel those fangs in his throat.

You pulled back, your lips red and swollen, your eyes dark with desire. "You're desperate," you observed, and there was a note of surprise in your voice. "You're really, really desperate."

"Fucking hell, yes," Dean panted. "It's been weeks. And you—you're all I can think about. All I dream about."

"All you dream about, mn?" You tilted your head, a smirk curving your lips. "What happens in these dreams, Dean? Tell me."

"You-" He swallowed hard, trying to find the words. "You're chasing me. Hunting me. And when you catch me, you-"

"I what?"

Dean's face flushed, but he couldn't stop himself. "You sink your teeth into my neck and you don't stop. You drink everything I have, and I just- I just take it. I let you. I want you to."

Your eyes darkened, and Dean felt a thrill of fear and excitement rush through him. "And you come from that," you said softly. "From the thought of me feeding from you."

"Yes."

You were quiet for a moment, studying him. Then, slowly, you smiled.

"Well, Dean Winchester," you said, your voice dropping to a purr. "I think you might be the most interesting human I've ever met."

"Please," Dean begged, his hips grinding uselessly against your thigh. You'd been making out for what felt like forever, his body pressed against the tree, your hands all over him. But every time he tried to escalate, you pulled back, denying him. "Please, just—just bite me. Drink from me. I need it, I need it."

"What do you need, Dean?" Your voice was a whisper against his ear, and he shuddered. "Tell me exactly what you need."

"You. Your fangs. Your—" He broke off with a groan as your hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, and came to rest on the waistband of his jeans. "Please."

"Please what?"

"Please bite me." The words came out as a whimper, and Dean was beyond caring how pathetic he sounded. "Please, sweetheart, I need it so bad, I need to feel you-"

"You have such a way with words." You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your expression playful. "What if I don't want to bite you? What if I just want to watch you squirm?"

Dean groaned, his head falling back against the tree. "That's not fair."

"Life's not fair, Winchester." You smirked, and then you stepped back, giving him space.

Dean slumped against the tree, his body aching with unfulfilled need. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere." Your smile turned sharper, more predatory. "But you said you liked to be hunted, right? Wanted to be chased?"

His heart stuttered. "You're—you're joking."

"I never joke about food." You took another step back, putting distance between you. "I'll give you a head start. I'm nice like that."

"You're insane," Dean breathed, but there was no heat in the words. Just awe. Just desperate, aching desire.

"Probably." You gestured with your hand, a casual wave that sent a shiver down his spine. "Go on. Run. I don't bite... unless."

That "unless" hung in the air between them, and Dean felt something primal awaken in his chest. The fear of being hunted. The thrill of being prey. The desperate, stupid hope that you'd catch him.

He didn't wait for you to change your mind. He just turned and ran.

The forest blurred past him, branches whipping at his face as he crashed through the undergrowth. He didn't know where he was going, didn't care. All that mattered was putting distance between you and him, making you work for it.

But even as he ran, he knew he was no match for you.

He heard your laugh before he saw you, a low, dark sound that seemed to come from everywhere at once. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he pushed himself harder, faster—

And then his foot caught on a root, and he went down hard.

Dean hit the ground with a grunt, dirt and leaves filling his mouth as he tried to scramble back to his feet. But before he could push himself up, there was a boot pressing down on his back, forcing his elbows to give out. He collapsed onto his stomach, face pressed into the dirt, his hips twitching wildly as he realized what was happening.

"Found you," you cooed above him, and Dean's cock throbbed in his jeans. "Found such a cute little deer running through the woods."

"Fuck," he gasped, trying to push himself up again. But you pressed down harder, and he couldn't move. Couldn't do anything but lie there, helpless, as you removed your boot and grabbed him by his jacket.

You hoisted him up with that impossible strength, spinning him around and pressing him against another tree. Dean's head spun as he was manhandled into place, your body pressing against his, your hands gripping his shoulders to keep him in place.

"Please," he gasped, even as he pushed weakly at your shoulders like he was trying to get away. You both knew he wasn't. "Please, just—"

"Just what, Dean?" you murmured, your nose nuzzling at his throat. "Just what do you want me to do?"

"I want-" He broke off with a whimper as you pressed a kiss to his neck, your lips warm and soft against his skin. "I want you to bite me. Please. I need it, I need-"

Your mouth descended on his neck, and Dean's breath caught in his throat as your tongue traced a path over his pulse point. He could feel the edge of your fangs grazing his skin, teasing, threatening, and his hips bucked involuntarily against you.

"Please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please, just do it. I can't—I can't take it anymoreee.."

"You're so easy," you murmured against his throat, and there was a laugh in your voice. "So desperate for me. It's almost pathetic."

"I don't care." Dean's hands found your hips, gripping them hard as he ground against you. "don't care. I need you to show me who's in charge. I need you to hold me down and take what you want and make me yours-"

"Make you mine?"

"Yes." He was so close to begging, so close to saying anything just to get what he wanted. "Please, I want to be yours. I want to be your fucking snack."

You laughed, a dark sound that made his cock throb. "You know, for a hunter, you're really not very good at this whole 'avoiding being prey' thing."

"I don't want to avoid it." Dean's voice was raw, desperate. "I want to be yours. I want to be your prey. I want you to hunt me and catch me and—"

You cut him off with a kiss, your mouth crashing against his with a hunger that made his head spin. Dean melted into you, his hands gripping your hips as you pressed him harder against the tree.

When you pulled back, you were smiling.

"Okay, Dean," you said softly. "You win."

And then you kissed him again, and everything else faded away.

The make-out session was fierce, desperate, all teeth and tongue and needy sounds. Dean's hands roamed your body, gripping your ass, your thighs, your tits, like he couldn't get enough of you. And you let him, even as you kept him pinned against the tree with your superior strength.

"Fuck," he gasped against your mouth, grinding his hips against yours. "Fuck, you feel so good.."

"Shut up," you murmured, and slammed him back against the tree.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and Dean gasped, his vision going white for a moment. When he blinked back to reality, you were kissing down his throat, and he could feel your fangs grazing his skin again.

"Please," he begged. "Please, sweetheart, please just bite me-"

"Not yet." Your voice was a purr against his skin. "I'm not done playing yet."

"You're gonna kill me.” he whined.

"That's the idea." You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and Dean felt a chill run down his spine at the hunger in your gaze. "But not today. Today, I just want to taste you."

"Then taste me," he urged. "I'm right here, I'm yours, just—"

You smiled, and it was all teeth. "You're so eager."

"Fuck yes I'm eager." Dean was grinding against you now, his hips moving of their own accord. "I've been dreaming about this for weeks. Fantasizing about it. I've come in my boxers more times than I can count thinking about you biting me-"

"That often, huh?"

"Every night," he admitted, shame and arousal warring in his chest. "And I've been waking up with sticky boxers and thinking about you. About what it would feel like to have you drain me dry."

Your eyes darkened at that, your breath coming a little faster. "And you've been keeping this from me?"

"I didn't think you'd want to know!"

"Dean." You laughed, a genuine laugh that caught him off guard. "I've known for weeks. I could smell your arousal every time you looked at me."

"You could???"

"I could." you confirmed, your smile turning smug. "But I wanted to see how long it would take for you to break."

"Fuck." Dean's head fell back against the tree, his chest heaving. "You're evil."

"I'm a vampire." You nipped at his throat, just the edge of your fangs catching his skin. "It comes with the title."

"You're going to be the death of me." he groaned.

"That's the idea." And then you were kissing him again, deep and hungry, and Dean lost himself in the sensation.

Your hand slid down his body, over his chest, down his stomach, and came to rest on the bulge in his jeans. Dean gasped into your mouth as you squeezed him, his hips bucking involuntarily.

"Look at that," you murmured, pulling back to look down at where your hand was gripping him. "At this point, I should just take the bite right down here since all your blood's gone to your dick."

"Fuck-" Dean moaned out, his face flushing.

"No wonder you're so stupid, baby." You squeezed him again, and he whimpered. "And here I was being all mean about it, awh... I'm sorry... I thought you were being dense on purpose! Turns out you're just a horny little bitch, that's all."

"I am-" Dean agreed desperately. "I'm a horny little bitch, I'm yours, I'm whatever you want me to be-"

And then you bit him.

The pain was sharp and sweet, a shock that radiated through his entire body as your fangs sank into his neck. Dean cried out, his hips jerking against you as the feeling washed over him. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before: a rush of heat and pleasure and a strange, floating sensation that made his head spin.

And then you began to drink.

The sensation of your mouth on his throat, the pull of his blood leaving his body, was intoxicating. Dean groaned, his hands fisting in your jacket as you pressed him harder against the tree. He could feel himself growing weaker, his body going limp in your arms, and he loved it. He loved the feeling of being so completely at your mercy.

"Fuck," he gasped, his vision swimming. "Fuck, fuck—"

Dean's orgasm hit him without warning, a tidal wave of pleasure that crashed through his body and left him gasping. He came in his jeans, his hips bucking wildly against you as he spilled into the fabric. It was the most intense orgasm he'd ever experienced, and he cried out your name like a fucking pornstar as he rode it out.

"Fuck-" he gasped, his body shuddering. "Fuck, I-"

You pulled back slowly, licking the blood from your lips. "That," you said softly, "was perfect."

"I came," Dean said dumbly, looking down at the wet patch spreading across his jeans. "I came in my pants."

"I know." You smiled, sharp and satisfied. "I could feel it."

"Fuck." His face flushed, but he couldn't bring himself to feel embarrassed. Not when he'd just had the best orgasm of his life. "That was- that was amazing."

"I know." You kissed him softly, your lips tasting like copper. "You taste amazing, by the way."

"I taste like O Negative."

"You taste like Dean Winchester." You nipped at his lower lip. "It's a good taste. Very addictive."

"Addictive, huh?"

"Very." You pulled back, your eyes gleaming. "I might have to keep you around."

Dean laughed, the sound weak and breathless. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." You kissed him again, and Dean melted into you. "Because I'm not done with you yet."

You made it back to the motel room eventually, Dean's legs still shaky and his jeans uncomfortably wet. Sam took one look at them and raised an eyebrow, but wisely chose not to comment.

"I'm going to take a shower," Dean announced, and fled to the bathroom.

He stood under the hot spray for a long time, letting the water wash away the evidence of what had happened. But even as he scrubbed his skin clean, he couldn't stop thinking about you. About the feeling of your fangs in his neck. About the taste of his blood on your lips.

He was addicted.

And as he stepped out of the shower and caught sight of his reflection, he saw the marks on his throat—two perfect puncture wounds, already beginning to heal. A brand. A claim.

He belonged to you now.

And he was okay with that.

When he emerged from the bathroom, you were sitting on the edge of his bed, your dark eyes watching him with that same predatory gleam. Sam was already in his own bed, earbuds in, pointedly ignoring the two of you.

"You marked me," Dean said softly, sitting down beside you.

"I did." There was no apology in your voice. "You wanted me to."

"I did." He reached up and touched the wounds, feeling the slight ache of them. "I do."

ᥫ᭡ ) you’d bring it up after he had a long and rough day at the department.

ᥫ᭡ ) he’d be against it at first. He has never bottomed and never really planned to. But he’d eventually agree. But only in the way of taking control. There’s no way he was letting you peg him. You chuckled, saying you were fine with that.

ᥫ᭡ ) he would still instinctively try to top you at first but you wouldn’t let him.

ᥫ᭡ ) even though he was nervous at first, he quickly adapted and learned, letting you lead. And when you led, he just let go

ᥫ᭡ ) this man definitely 100% has a mommy kink when he’s subbing. He’d whine and beg and a few tears would slip. “Mommy… please touch me… fuck… mommy please…” or “Just like that, mommy… please… oh please let me cum…”

ᥫ᭡ ) this man would EAT UP you saying that he’s a good boy. He’d also fish for praise. “Did I do a good job, mommy? Please tell me I did a good job…”

ᥫ᭡ ) he would definitely ask for permission to cum. In that whiny voice as you are sucking him off or riding him he’d ask. And usually it would come with tears.

ᥫ᭡ ) he would let you claim him in any way that you would want. Again, his only hard no is pegging. And you respected that boundary. But anything else is free game.

ᥫ᭡ ) his southern accent comes out more during sex but somehow even more while subbing. And you thought it was impossible for him to go any more southern while doming. Much less subbing.

ᥫ᭡ ) if you put a cowboy hat and/or cowboy boots on while he’s subbing/your doming? He would be gone, lost in bliss.

ᥫ᭡ ) this man would be changed after subbing and turn into a switch. This will definitely happen again…

Bonus

ᥫ᭡ ) Beau and Dean would be the only Jackles characters to agree to subbing. At least from what I have watched with him in.