A Little Stroll In Fandom 🪭

The layout of Room 114 was classic hunter chic; faded floral bedspreads, a buzzing window AC unit, and about three feet of space between the two double beds. It was claustrophobic.

You claimed the bed closest to the bathroom, immediately tossing your duffel onto it to establish your boundary. Dean took the one by the door, dropping his jacket onto the mattress before pacing over to the window, peering through the heavy curtains at the parking lot. He was acting like a caged animal. Every line of his body was rigid, the faded flannel tight across his broad shoulders.

"I'm gonna hit the ice machine," Sam announced, breaking the stalemate. He picked up the plastic bucket, giving you a look over his shoulder that clearly said Fix this, before stepping out and letting the heavy door click shut behind him.

The silence that rushed into the room was immediate and deafening.

You sat on the edge of your mattress, keeping your eyes glued to your boots as you unlaced them. Your heart was doing that familiar, erratic dance against your ribs. 

He doesn't know, you repeated like a mantra. He was just taking a shower last night. He has no idea you were standing right outside, listening to him groan. That beautiful grunting groan. You shook your head slightly to attempt to reclaim your focus. He doesn't know. Just be a friend. You are his friend.

Across the room, Dean was staring at the peeling wallpaper, his chest rising and falling in shallow, controlled breaths. His mind was an absolute train wreck. She was right down the hall, the voice in his head roared, a relentless loop of the soft, whimpering moans he’d overheard through your bedroom door. She was touching herself, and you stood there like a goddamn peeping tom. He gripped the edge of the laminate dresser, his knuckles turning white. He was terrified that if he turned around, if he looked at the way your hair fell over your shoulders or the curve of your throat, he’d lose his grip entirely.

"So," you said, your voice cutting through the quiet like a knife. "Massachusetts tomorrow. You think we're dealing with a traditional hex bag, or something worse?"

Dean cleared his throat, a low, gravelly sound. He finally turned around, keeping his distance, his hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets. "Traditional, probably. Witches like to keep it classic when they’re messing with people's heads." His eyes flicked to you, then instantly dropped to the floor between your beds. "Just gotta find where she's hiding the stash and burn it. Then it's over." Preferably, before she ruins my life. 

"Right," you murmured, pulling your boots off and swinging your legs up onto the bed, leaning back against the cheap pillows. "Then everything goes back to normal."

Dean’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. Normal. There was no going back to normal. Not after last night. He looked at you—really looked at you for the first time all day—and the sheer, unadulterated hunger in his green eyes was so intense it felt like a physical weight in the room.

"Yeah," Dean rumbled, his voice dropping an octave, thick and heavy. "Normal."

His deep voice shot through you like a drug. You shivered and glanced up to make sure he didn’t notice. Before the tension could snap the remaining threads of your sanity, the door swung open and Sam walked back in, dropping the ice bucket onto the table with a loud clatter. He looked between the two of you, taking in the rigid posture, the dark look on Dean’s face, and the bright flush on your cheeks.

"Well," Sam said slowly, turning off the main light and leaving only the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamps. "Glad to see you guys really hashed things out."

Dean let out a harsh, bitter breath. "Shut up, Sam."

You lowered your head, pretending to rifle through your duffel to hide the fire you could feel lighting up your cheeks. Dean kicked his boots off and dropped down onto his bed, immediately rolling over so that his back was to you. 

You let out a shallow breath and raised your eyes to meet Sam’s. He just shook his head at you. You mouthed What? to him but he just threw up a hand and headed for the bathroom. 

An hour later, everyone was laying down. Sam was snoring softly. Dean’s breath was heavy and steady so he must be asleep too. He was so close you could literally reach out and touch him. Well, that’s unhelpful. Not what you should be thinking about right now. It’s not like you haven’t been in a hundred hotel rooms with him. Hell, you’ve even shared beds before. You chastised yourself. Trying to talk some sense into your overstimulated brain. You flipped onto your back and stared at the ceiling letting out the tiniest huff. 

A couple feet away, Dean was most certainly not asleep. His eyes were wide open and staring straight ahead towards the window. He heard your restlessness and your huff and all that little puff of air did was drag his mind right back to your whimper. The soft, needy whimper that was playing on an endless, maddening loop in his goddamn head. Fuck. And now he was hard. Again. 

At some point the exhaustion took over and you both fell asleep. Dean got his four hours and you somehow managed to get five and half.

Dean was the first one up the next morning and as he sat with his legs between your beds, he allowed himself to just gaze down at you for a moment. So peaceful. So beautiful. So perfect. 

He reached out and gently moved a lock of hair out of your face, letting his finger brush you cheek and linger for just a second. You scrunched your nose up in the cutest little way that he always adored and he had to bite back a laugh. Finally he dragged himself to his feet and ran out to get coffee for the three of you. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the Impala roared into town in Massachusetts, you were all more than ready to get out of the car after a full day’s drive, only broken up by the motel. First stop was the police station, to see what info they had already dug up, if any. 

The local police station in the small, overcast Massachusetts town looked like every other small-town station you’d ever seen: wood-paneled walls, the smell of stale coffee, and a completely overwhelmed desk sergeant.

Sam led the way, flipping open his fake FBI badge with practiced ease, while Dean followed a half-step behind him, adjusting the collar of his suit jacket. You smoothed down your own slacks, trying to project a professional calm you didn't remotely feel.

"Agents Page and Plant," Sam introduced himself and Dean, then gestured to you. "And our specialist, Dr. Sterling. We’re here about the bizarre behavior spikes in your community over the last four days."

The sergeant let out a weary groan, rubbing his temples. "Thank God. The feds are finally here. It’s a circus out there, Agents. We’ve got people completely losing their minds. Normal, upstanding citizens just... snapping." He pulled a thick manila folder from a filing cabinet and smacked it onto the counter. "Exhibit A: Arthur Pendleton. Town treasurer. Fifty-eight years old, married for thirty. Walked into the middle of the crowded town square yesterday morning, climbed onto the fountain, and started bellowing poetry about how he’s been secretly in love with his barista for the last five years. Then he tried to strip."

Dean cleared his throat, his eyes fixed firmly on the paperwork. "Any, uh, common denominators? Did they eat the same thing, go to the same place?"

"We're looking into it," the sergeant sighed. "But it's not just him. A librarian threw a computer through a window because she was tired of keeping quiet about her hatred for the mayor. It's like whatever filter these folks had just dissolved. They're acting on pure, unfiltered impulse. No shame, no hesitation."

Pure, unfiltered impulse.

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. You didn't dare look to your left, but out of the corner of your eye, you saw Dean’s jaw tighten so hard a muscle practically throbbed beneath his skin. His hand, resting on the edge of the police counter, curled into a tight fist.

"We're gonna need copies of these files," Sam said, his voice smooth, though he purposefully let his gaze drift over to Dean, then to you, a faintly amused smirk playing on his lips. "And the locations where these outbursts started. We need to find the root cause."

"Take whatever you need, Agents," the sergeant said, handing over the folder. "Just fix it before the high school principal decides to act on whatever he's hiding."

Sam went to the library to talk to the librarian and strongly suggested that you two go and talk to the town treasurer, Arthur. As you were walking down the main street heading for the town hall, you decided you needed to clear the air. It’s not Dean’s fault that you’re in love with him, overheard something you shouldn’t have and now don’t know how to act right. 

“So, um, what do you think this witch is getting out of this? I mean, if it even is a witch,” you asked, proud of yourself for forcing your voice to be normal. 

“Uh, I’m not sure. Who knows? Witches are crazy,” Dean said, voice completely even and lacking its normal animation. He shot a quick glance over at you before returning his gaze to the sidewalk ahead. 

“Dean,” you said, stopping in your tracks. 

After a step or two he realized you were no longer beside him and he turned to look at you. “What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes now locked firmly on you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, stepping up right in front of him, looking up at him.

“You’re sor–? What?” he asked, face now completely confused. “Sorry for what? You didn’t do anything, sweetheart,” he said, reaching out and placing his hands on your shoulders. His concern outweighed any awkwardness and he fell right back into his protector role that he instinctively had with you. 

“I… I’ve been in a… mood,” you said trying to find the right, careful words. “I didn’t mean to make things weird,” you said, pausing. “Between us, I mean.” 

You looked up at him with big eyes that held an openness that always made him melt instantly. “Sweetheart,” he said, looking down at you fondly with those beautiful green eyes. “You didn’t make things weird. I… I have been, uh, distracted so I guess it’s my fault.”

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, Dean.”

He laughed then for the first time since he stood outside your door. “Okay, so neither of us did anything wrong. All good?” he asked. 

“Yeah. All good,” you replied, offering him a big smile and bumping him playfully with your shoulder.

“Good,” murmured Dean with a small smile of his own. He finally felt like he could breathe again. Everything is fine. Everything is going to be okay. 

Neither victim was the easiest to talk to except they did reveal that they both had shopped at the same place. So now, an hour later, the Impala was parked down the block from an old, Victorian-era apothecary shop called The Velvet Cauldron. According to Sam's quick cross-referencing of the police files, every single one of the victims had visited the shop to buy specialty teas or herbs within twenty-four hours of their public meltdowns.

The shop sat at the end of a quiet, tree-lined street. The neon Open sign flickered weakly behind a dusty glass window filled with dried flowers and strange, dark bottles.

"Alright," Sam said, leaning forward from the backseat, his laptop propped on his knees. "The shop owner is registered as a woman named Muriel Vance. Moved here six months ago from Salem. No criminal record, but the timing matches up perfectly with the first spike in occurrences."

"So she's our witch," Dean rumbled from the driver's seat. He was gripping the steering wheel, staring directly at the front door of the apothecary. "We go in, we find the hex bags, we burn 'em, and we neutralize the threat. Simple."

"We need to be careful, Dean," you warned, from the passenger seat. "If she realizes we're onto her, she could blast us with whatever she's using on the townspeople. If any of us lose our filters..." You trailed off, the horrific image of Dean finding out exactly what you did in your bed two nights ago flashing through your mind.

Dean’s grip on the steering wheel tightened until the leather groaned. Lose my filter. That’s nothing compared to the other option. If he lost his impulse control, he wouldn't just tell you he loved you. He’d grab you by the waist, pull you across this bench seat, and ruin you right in front of his brother. His heart rate kicked up, a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline making his palms sweat. He blinked hard. 

"She won't get the chance," Dean said, his voice lower and grittier than usual. He opened his door, the crisp Massachusetts air rushing into the cabin. "Sam, check the perimeter. See if there’s a back entrance. Me and her are going through the front."

Sam looked at the two of you, picking up on the thick, suffocating wave of tension that had just flooded the car. He let out a slow, knowing sigh. "Right. The back door. Got it. Try not to trip over any rugs while I'm gone."

Before you could glare at him, Sam slid out of the backseat and vanished into the shadows of the alleyway.

The bell above the door chimed softly as you and Dean stepped into The Velvet Cauldron. The air inside was warm, smelling heavily of lavender, clove, and something distinctly coppery—like old blood. Shelves lined the walls, packed with jars of unidentifiable powders, roots, and bundles of sage hanging from the ceiling.

"Can I help you find something?" a smooth, honeyed voice purred from the shadows near the back counter.

A woman stepped into the dim light. She looked to be in her late thirties, with long flowing dark hair and sharp, almost cat-like eyes and a wicked smile that told you she knew exactly who—and what—you were.

"FBI," Dean barked, flashing his badge, his gun already clearing his holster in one smooth, practiced motion. "Muriel Vance? You're under arrest for weaponizing magic against this town. Where are the hex bags?"

Muriel didn't look frightened at all. In fact, her eyes lit up with absolute delight as she looked between Dean and you, instantly sensing the jagged, electric current of unresolved tension vibrating between you.

"Oh, look at you two," she laughed, a low, musical sound that sent a chill down your spine. "So full of secrets. So tightly wound. You're practically begging for a release."

"Shut up," Dean snarled, stepping in front of you, his broad shoulders acting as a shield. "Put your hands where I can see 'em."

Instead, Muriel raised her hands, her fingers curling into intricate shapes as a strange, violet light began to glow around her palms. "Let's see what happens when the big, brave hunter finally stops fighting his own mind," she whispered, her eyes locking onto Dean.

"Dean, look out!" you screamed, reaching forward to pull him back.

With a sharp flick of her wrist, Muriel threw her hands forward. A violent explosion of purple smoke and sparks blasted across the room, catching Dean squarely in the chest. He let out a harsh gasp, stumbling backward into you knocking you both off your feet, his gun clattering to the floor as the thick, magical smoke enveloped both of you.

When the smoke cleared, she was gone. But her honeyed voice, sounding far away, lingered long enough to taunt Dean. “What will a Winchester do with his heart now?” Her musical laugh lingered as well, slowly fading away.

Sam came rushing through the front door. “The back was blocked. What was that noise?!” he said, taking you both in. You sprawled on the floor with Dean half on top of you with his back to you. He pulled away quickly as if you had burned him. You tried not to let that bother you while the panic of him being hit took hold. 

“The bitch hit me with smoke and light, Sammy!” Dean said, panic rising in his voice. 

Sam wanted to tell him serves him right but who knows what else this spell or hex could do. You scrambled to your feet and stepped forward. Dean took a step back. “Stay back, sweetheart. We don’t know what all she did to me.”

You pouted your lip out but nodded and quickly fixed your face. Dean would be okay. You and Sam would fix this. You had to. 

“Do you feel any different?” Sam asked Dean. 

He looked down, patting his hands over his body like he would be able to tell something. Maybe he was just checking to see if he was still alive. 

He arched a brow, panic still all over his face. He hazarded a glance at you. Nothing different. I don’t feel like I’m about to grab her and kiss her. He looked at Sam. “No.”

Sam let out a sigh. “Good. My guess is we have less than twenty-four hours before that changes. One victim, it hit her within an hour,” he said flatly. 

Dean cleared his throat, desperately trying to swallow down the sudden, terrifying knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. He felt fine right now, but the clock was ticking. Less than twenty-four hours before he completely lost his mind. Twenty-four hours before his filter disintegrated and he spilled every dirty, desperate secret he had ever kept from you. Or he’d be one of the really unlucky ones and his impulse control would vanish and then he wouldn’t just be confessing, he’d be acting on his deepest desires. God fucking dammit!

"Alright," Sam said, already scanning the shelves of the shop, his analytical brain clicking into high gear. "We need to find her grimoire, or better yet, the catalyst for the spell she just hit you with. If we can reverse it before…well you know, then you're in the clear."

"Right. Let's get to tearing this place apart," Dean rumbled. He eagerly moved away from you, practically throwing himself behind the heavy wooden counter to begin ripping open drawers. He needed distance. He needed to focus on the woodwork, on the glass bottles, on literally anything else but the way your eyes were wide with genuine, terrified concern for him.

You stood in the center of the room for a second, your mind spinning. Twenty-four hours. You looked at the back of Dean's head as he aggressively slammed a cabinet door. If the curse took hold of him, what would he say? What would he do? The thought of a completely uninhibited Dean Winchester was both thrilling and utterly terrifying.

"Hey," Sam murmured, stepping up beside you and knocking his shoulder gently against yours. "We're gonna fix this. Don't worry."

"I know," you lied softly, offering a tight smile. "Let's just find something before he completely loses his mind."

The three of you spent the next two hours turning The Velvet Cauldron inside out. You found jars of graveyard dirt, dried toad feet, frogs legs, and enough black magic herbs to supply a small coven, but there was no sign of Muriel Vance, and no sign of a counter-spell.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, ominous shadows through the dusty windows of the apothecary, Dean was practically vibrating with tension. Every time his phone buzzed, or Sam shifted a foot, Dean flinched. He was constantly checking his own pulse, convinced that any second now, the dam was going to break.

"Nothing," Sam finally sighed, dropping a heavy ledger onto the counter with a thud. "She cleaned out her active workspace before she bolted. She knew we were coming."

"So what now?" you asked, rubbing your arms against the sudden chill of the evening air. "We just... go back to the motel and wait for Dean to snap?"

"We don't have a choice," Sam said grimly, looking over at his brother. "I can keep researching from my laptop, but we're sitting ducks out here in the open."

Dean didn't say a word. He just pocketed his hands and walked straight out the front door, the bell chiming a mocking farewell behind him.

The ride back to the motel was somehow even more agonizing than the drive into town. The silence inside the Impala was absolute death. Dean drove with a manic, terrifying precision, his eyes locked on the asphalt ahead. He was fighting a war inside his own skull. Every time the car hit a bump and your shoulder accidentally brushed against his flannel, a violent jolt went straight to his gut. Is this the curse? he thought frantically, his breathing shallow. Is it starting? Am I losing it?

When Dean finally killed the engine in the motel parking lot, he didn't immediately get out. He just gripped the steering wheel, staring at the neon sign of the office flickering against the dark sky.

"Dean?" you asked softly from the passenger seat, reaching a hand out toward his arm but hesitating, pulling it back before you made contact. "You okay?"

Dean closed his eyes, his chest heaving as he let out a rough, ragged breath. He hazarded a glance at you in the dim light of the dashboard. Your beautiful, worried face was almost too much to bear.

"Yeah," he lied, his voice lower and cruder than usual. "Just peachy, sweetheart."

Part 3

You ignored that. “Going to watch a horror movie. Wanna join?” you asked, trying to hide the hopefulness in your voice. 

“Yeah. I’m in,” he said as he finished washing his hands and dried them off quickly. Dean grabbed two beers from the fridge and followed you to the Dean Cave. 

The two of you plopped down on the couch, leaving a respectable distance but still close enough to share the popcorn. You set the bowl between you, more to help you keep your distance than anything. 

You had moved into the bunker with the brothers about a year ago but in the last couple months you had started developing strong feelings for Dean. You blamed it on an intense moment in the Impala after a hunt went wrong. You had come very close to getting taken out by a werewolf when Dean had come out of nowhere and saved you. 

You were both rain drenched and staring at each other wide-eyed in the Impala’s front seat. Dean had placed his hand on your thigh to ground himself, to make sure you were really still there. That only lasted for a brief moment because he yanked you across the bench and into his arms, squeezing you so tightly you couldn't breathe. His hand was in your wet hair and he was trembling, almost imperceptibly. You almost melted into his warmth, a shiver running through you, both from the cold and from the way he was clinging to you. When he finally pulled back, Dean didn’t let go and his face was only inches from yours, his emerald eyes shining in the street light above the car. You thought he might even kiss you, your breath hitching. 

Right then, Sam opened the back door and slid into the seat behind you. Dean instantly let you go and started the Impala with a roar. You scooted back to your side and you both looked straight ahead out of the windshield.

That was three months ago and neither of you ever spoke of it again. Your feelings started slow but had been growing steadily since that night. But Dean— perfect, handsome, stupidly oblivious Dean— didn’t ever touch you or look at you like that again. You had convinced yourself that it was your imagination in the adrenaline of the moment. He didn’t think of you like that. Dean was all about the ladies and if he wanted you, like that, he would have tried a long, long time ago. 

So you decided you’d suffer in silence. You didn’t want to ruin what you had with the brothers. They meant too much to you. You could deal with your love for the handsome, adorably clueless older brother without letting it get in the way. At least you’d managed to so far. Sure, you might lay in your room at night and fantasize about what it’d be like to kiss him, to touch him, for him to touch you. That could be enough. It had to be because you didn’t want to lose your best friend. Dean didn’t seem any the wiser so it would all be okay. 

You looked over and Dean was staring at you. Shit. You’d been day dreaming about him and now he was looking at you like he was waiting for a response. Had he asked you something? 

“What?” you said, voice softer and more shy than you wanted it to be. 

“You okay over there?” he asked, raising a brow. “You.. uh.. zoned out, sweetheart.”

“Yeah. I’m good,” you said too quickly and then groaned internally. Smooth. Real smooth. 

“Okay, then what did I just say?”

“Ummm…”

He chuckled. “Exactly,” he said, picking up a few pieces of popcorn and tossing them at you. 

“Just watch the movie, Winchester,” you shot back, turning towards the tv, hoping he couldn’t see you flush in the dim light of the room. 

Your attention was now locked on the movie and you didn’t notice he was staring again. After a moment he caught himself and turned his attention to the tv as well. You both reached into the popcorn bowl without looking, fingers brushing. Your breath caught but you didn’t look. Dean’s gaze dropped down to the bowl, watching you take a handful and then pull your hand back like nothing had happened. His heart ticked up but he didn’t react, didn’t say a word. 

When the movie ended you said goodnight and went to bed. Laying in the safety of your quiet room, you thought of his fingers brushing against yours, warm and solid. You let your mind drift back to that night in the Impala, as you often did, and the way he held you. The look in his eyes, even if you had only imagined it. You let your fingers slip into your panties and began to trail them over your soaked curves. Slowly, you raised them up to tease your clit, your head tilting back against the pillows, a soft moan falling from your lips. 

Dean raised his hand to knock on your door and froze as soon as he heard you moan. His breath hitched, and his dick damn near jumped out of his pants. With his hand still raised, he stood there, unable to move, unable to walk away and give you your privacy. He felt like a goddamn perv but he was rooted in place. You moaned again, just slightly louder this time. Fuck. Dean’s entire mental was fucked. He couldn’t think straight. You were just on the other side of this door, touching yourself, moaning in pleasure. He wanted to be in there. He wanted to be the one causing you to make those sounds. He wanted to be the one touching you, rubbing on you, kissing you. Fuck, I want you so bad.  

He finally regained control of his body. He drug his hand over his face just as you let out another moan followed by what sounded like a whimper. God, if that little whimper didn’t completely wreck him. He quietly walked away before he did something he couldn’t take back. 

You were his best friend. You teased him relentlessly, loved to talk to him about stuff he was actually interested in too, you hunted by his side, and most importantly you were too good for him. He couldn’t fuck it up by sleeping with you— not that you’d ever given him the signal that you’d even want him like that. You weren’t just some girl in a bar. You were everything but you deserved better than a guy like him. A hunter, who had nothing to offer you but his love; no stability, no future, no white picket fence. 

But hearing you in there had unraveled him. He immediately went down the hall, stripped down and climbed into the shower. His dick was hard as a rock and throbbing painfully. He wrapped his hand around it and began to stroke it in strong, practiced lengths. Thinking of you touching yourself and moaning down the hall had him on the edge quicker than he’d like to admit. He moaned your name softly and tightened his grip. As he continued to push himself closer, unbeknownst to him, you were tip toeing down the hall in one of his old oversized t-shirts. You were headed for the bathroom to clean yourself up and you stopped right before you got to the door because you heard the shower running. Damn. Dean’s in there. I’ll have to go to the one across the bunker. You turned on your heal to walk away and you heard it. He let out a low groan. You stopped dead in your tracks. You glanced back at the wall like you could actually see through it. Is he??  You listened for another moment, and heard another low groan, longer this time, and so quiet you could barely hear it. He is! Your face immediately flushed, bright red. Just then down the hall you heard the heavy steel bunker door close. Shit! Sam’s home and about to catch me eavesdropping on his brother jerking off. Fuck!  

You turned and ran down the hall back to your room, skidding in front of the door to keep from passing it because you were running so fast. You climbed back under the covers in your bed, heart racing. A little bit of guilt flickered through you but mostly, it was just pure heat and need pulsing through your veins. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The smell of old books and burnt toast was usually a comfort, but this morning, walking into the bunker’s kitchen felt like stepping onto a landmine.

Sam was already at the table, a green smoothie in one hand and a heavy lore book open in front of him. Dean was at the counter, back turned, aggressively scraping a knife across a charred piece of sourdough. He was wearing a faded gray flannel with the sleeves rolled up, his broad shoulders tense.

Just looking at his back made your stomach do a violent, twisting flip. The memory of his low, gravelly groan echoing through the bathroom door rushed back so vividly you could practically feel the steam from the shower. He doesn't know, you reminded yourself fiercely, gripping the doorframe to steady your hands. He has no idea you were out there. Just act normal.

"Morning," you managed, your voice a little tighter than you intended.

Dean stiffened, his knife pausing mid-scrape. He exhaled slowly before turning around, balancing a fresh mug of black coffee in his hand. "Morning," he rumbled. His voice was deep—that gravelly, heavy morning tone—and his eyes immediately locked onto yours.

He looked... exhausted. There were faint shadows under his eyes, and the moment his gaze met yours, a muscle ticked violently in his jaw. Shit, you thought, panic flaring. Is he looking at me weird? Does he think I look tired? You prayed to whatever was listening that he couldn’t see the residual flush on your neck from spending the last hour of the night fantasizing about him.

"Coffee's fresh," Dean said, holding the mug out.

"Thanks," you murmured, stepping forward. As you took the handle, your knuckles brushed against his broad fingers. The contact was brief, but it felt like a physical jolt of electricity. You both pulled back a little too fast. Dean’s eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before he abruptly turned back to the stove, grabbing his plate of ruined toast.

From across the table, a loud, deliberate page-flip broke the silence.

Sam was staring at the two of you. He didn't look confused; he looked deeply, profoundly exasperated. He had been watching this excruciating, slow-motion train wreck for months, but today the air in the kitchen was practically vibrating with a new, bizarre brand of manic energy.

"You guys sleep okay?" Sam asked, his voice dripping with casual, calculated innocence.

"Fine," Dean snapped, taking a seat opposite his brother and staring intensely at his breakfast. "Slept like a log." He absolutely had not. He had spent half the night staring at his ceiling, his ears straining for any sound down the hall, utterly convinced he was a degenerate for standing outside your door while you moaned. He was terrified that if he looked at you too long, you’d see the guilt and the raw, unadulterated hunger written all over his face.

"Yeah. Great. Never better," you lied, quickly taking a seat next to Sam, using the giant younger Winchester as a physical shield. You took a sip of the coffee, letting the heat burn your tongue just to ground yourself.

Sam looked at Dean, who was currently chewing a piece of completely black toast like it was a gourmet meal, his eyes locked straight ahead on the cabinets. Then Sam looked at you, who was staring intently into your mug as if the secrets of the universe were written in the foam.

Sam sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He knew both of them were completely, utterly head-over-heels. He’d known since the werewolf hunt three months ago when Dean had practically tried to fuse you into his chest in the front seat of the Impala. It was baffling. They were hunters—trained to notice the tiniest deviations in human behavior, capable of tracking a monster by a single drop of blood—and yet they were both profoundly, aggressively blind to the fact that they were completely agonizing over each other.

"So," Sam said, leaning back in his chair and tapping his pen against the table. "Dean, did you finish up with the Impala last night? I thought I heard you up pretty late. In the bathroom."

Dean choked. A piece of burnt toast went down the wrong pipe, and he hacked loudly, his face turning a dark, furious red. "Yeah," he wheezed, slamming his hand on the table. "Just—cleaning up. Taking a shower. Mind your business, Sammy."

You kept your face firmly lowered, but your heart was hammering against your ribs. Oh god, Sam heard him too? If Sam knew Dean was up late, did Sam know you were up late? Your face burned hot.

"Right," Sam said, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched his brother squirm. He turned his gaze to you. "And what about you? I thought I heard someone running down the hallway around midnight. Like they were fleeing a crime scene."

Your hand shook, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "I... I forgot my water bottle," you blurted out, the excuse sounding incredibly flimsy even to your own ears. "I tripped. On the rug. In the dark."

Dean’s eyes snapped to you, a sudden flash of heat and confusion crossing his features before he forced his expression back into a hard, defensive line.

Sam let the silence stretch for a long, agonizing five seconds. He looked at you, flushed and fidgeting, and then at Dean, who was practically vibrating with defensive, protective aggression. It was honestly pathetic. A two-by-four to the face wouldn't be enough to make you two figure it out.

"A rug," Sam repeated slowly. "Right. Well, I'm glad you both survived the night." He closed his lore book with a loud thud, gathering his smoothie. He stood up, towering over the table, and looked down at the two of you with a mixture of amusement and pity. "I'm going to the library to research. Separately. By myself. Where it's quiet."

He walked toward the door, pausing just before the threshold to look back over his shoulder. "You two should probably... talk. About the hunt. Or rugs. Whatever's making you both act like idiots."

With that, Sam vanished down the corridor, leaving the kitchen completely, suffocatingly quiet.

Dean didn't move. He kept his eyes fixed on his plate, but his knuckles were white where he was gripping the table. The air between you was thick, charged with everything that hadn't been said, and neither of you had the slightest clue that the other was completely losing their mind over exactly the same thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple hours later, you walked into the war room. Sam was sitting at the table in front of his laptop and Dean was seated across from him, looking at the newspaper. You slumped down into an arm chair a few feet away from the table. Dean didn’t look up but he turned the page on the paper a little harder than normal. 

All morning, you two had been avoiding each other but you each didn’t realize the other was doing the same thing. You had brushed shoulders as you passed each other in the hall and it sent a jolt of electricity through your entire body. Dean had come around the corner and saw you walking towards the bathroom so he immediately turned back around and headed the other way before you could see him. You were now both exhausted even more than when you started the day with little sleep.  

“I got something,” Sam announced. 

You both perked up and looked at him. Yes! A case. That will take the edge off. I can focus on something other than Dean and how good his strong hands look holding that paper. They could hold my–

“It looks like it could be a witch. Up in Massachusetts. Victims are acting on their deepest hidden impulses,” Sam said, cutting off your spiraling thoughts.

Dean swallowed hard. He didn’t look at you. His eyes burned straight into the back of Sam’s laptop as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. 

“Alright, Sammy. Let’s go get the witch,” Dean said, voice low. 

“I’ll go pack a bag,” you said, too brightly and turned and walked out of the room. 

Ten minutes later you were sliding into the back seat of the Impala. 

Sam walked in next and looked down at you through the open window. “The backseat today, huh?” he said with a knowing grin, right as Dean walked in, his eyes landing on you in the backseat, but they were unreadable. 

“Uh, yeah. I might stretch out and take a nap,” you said with a forced smile. 

“I’m sure you could use one,” Sam shot back without missing a beat. You glared back at him.  He let out a chuckle as he slid into the passenger seat.

Dean climbed in and said, “Let’s hit the road.”

He fired up Baby, the engine roaring to life with a familiar, deep rumble that usually settled your nerves, but today it just vibrated straight through the soles of your shoes and settled right in your core. Dean threw the car into reverse, his arm backing over the bench seat—the exact same spot his hand had been three months ago—and his eyes caught yours in the rearview mirror.

Just a flick. Just a single, dark, intense second before he looked back over his shoulder to back out of the garage.

The drive out of Kansas was suffocatingly quiet. Usually, the Impala was a battlefield for the radio dial, or a stadium for Dean’s terrible air guitar, but today he just kept the volume low, some classic rock track humming quietly through the speakers.

Sam, ever the instigator, turned his head back to look at you about an hour into the drive. "So, the victims," he started, tapping his fingers on his knee. "The police reports say they're completely losing control. One guy, a straight-laced bank manager, confessed his love to his assistant in the middle of a board meeting, stripped off his suit, and tried to sweep her onto the desk."

You cleared your throat, staring hard out the side window at the passing cornfields. "Wow. Subtlety isn't this witch's strong suit, then."

"Nope," Sam agreed, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he purposely looked at the back of his brother’s head. "It’s like whatever impulse they’ve been suppressing, whatever secrets they’re hiding out of fear or pride... the hex just shreds it. Forces it right to the surface. It’s a total loss of inhibition."

In the driver’s seat, Dean’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned stark white and the leather groaned. His jaw was locked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Loss of inhibition. The phrase practically echoed in his head, immediately followed by the memory of your breathless whimpers from the night before. If a witch got a hold of him right now, with his mental defenses already completely shot? He’d probably throw the car in park, crawl into the backseat, and show you exactly what he’d been dreaming about doing to you for the last three months.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Get a grip, man, he told himself fiercely. Focus on the hunt. Keep her safe. Don't think about her mouth. Don't think about her hands.

"We just need to find the hex bag, burn it, and put a bullet in the hag," Dean rumbled, his voice rough and completely devoid of its usual cocky cadence. "Simple."

"Yeah, well, hopefully we find her before anyone else blows up their life," Sam muttered, leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh. He glanced at Dean, then looked in the rearview mirror at you, practically radiating amusement. "Or before anyone else lets a secret slip."

You let out a weak, tight laugh and leaned your head against the cool glass of the window, closing your eyes. But closing your eyes only made the darkness behind your lids fill with the image of Dean—Dean in the shower, Dean’s low groans, the heat of his skin.

You were trapped in a car with the man you loved, heading toward a monster that literally forced people to confess their dirtiest, deepest desires. You let out a slow, silent breath, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

This was going to be a long, dangerous drive.

You had no idea how it ended that way. 

You needed a new place after your ex decided to have some freaky time with his secretary, and Sasuke, your best friend, needed a new roommate. His brother just moved in with his boyfriend and his room was perfect for you: big bed, large closet, and even a little shelf under the window for your cactus, Cali. 

You had met his other roommates before but didn't know them well. Madara was a bit older and worked directly under his father in the Uchiha corporation. The only reason he accepted to live in a shared flat was because he promised his father to take care of Obito, the last remaining roommate.

Obito was a year older than you, and clearly, he had a messy life. His face, and from what you could see, half his body, bore the mark of a freaky accident which cost the life of his parents. Tajima Uchiha took him in, and Madara saw him as a dumb little brother in need of guidance. 

Sasuke was always telling you how he had the worst friends possible, the last one being a freaky pale guy doing weed in his dorm. 

But after some months of living with them, you started to like them. Madara was grumpy but kind and never forgot his clothes in the dryer, Obito had some of the worst jokes you ever heard but also made the best food, and Sasuke was Sasuke: your best friend since childhood, rough on the edge but with a golden heart. 

Everything was fine, you finally felt at home in that tiny flat. And even if you shared one too many flirty jokes with Obito, and some accidental lingering touches with Madara when you were both on cleaning duty, the atmosphere was relaxed. Until that day.

Ino had invited you to her probably 30th party of the year (and it was only February), and you had promised her to show up. The boys gave you shit on your “too tiny dress for the season” but you were already late, your phone was blowing up with texts from Hinata being lost as a puppy without you, so you decided to ignore them and go. 

The party itself turned out to be boring, you and Hinata ended up tipsy, and when she abandoned you to finally flirt with Naruto, you decided it was time to order an Uber to go home before Ino tried to shove you in Shikamaru’s arms. While in the car, you realised Sasuke had actually texted you multiple times but you weren’t clear enough to read them. 

Getting out of the comfy car was probably a trial sent by some god. It was snowing, your head was pounding and your feet were killing you, the heels you chose were surely designed by some raging misogynistic guy who wanted to make women suffer. So you took them off and entered the flat barefoot, not walking very straight.

Your three roommates were in the living room, you could hear their voices while thanking the architect for designing the flat smartly enough to allow you to reach the bathroom without passing by them. Once you got rid of the alcohol smell sticking to your skin, and braided your hair for the night, you discreetly went out and slid into your room. 

But as you were entering it, you couldn't stop yourself from listening to the guys. You couldn't really make out the words but their deep voices were making you feel things. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the lack of sex in your life, or maybe you were in total denial, but tonight the urge of using your pink vibrator was pressing. 

After pretty much no deliberation you take your vibe out, some lube, and leave your bedroom door slightly cracked to be able to hear their voices. Panties discarded, shirt pulled up over your breast, you go to town with your favorite toy.

You're nearly riding your first orgasm when you hear a light creaking noise, followed by a hush. Before you can even think about it, a large hand covers your mouth, while another takes the vibe from you. Opening your eyes, you can barely distinguish anything in the darkness, until you acclimatise and realise it’s Sasuke’s hand that is muffling you. Behind him you can see Madara and Obito, standing still, looking at your half-naked body. 

A sound tries to escape your lips, but Sasuke’s fingers are firmly pressing against them.

"So you're a little naughty creature eh ?" you hear Sasuke murmur into your ear. 

Out of reflex, your left hand reaches his wrist, trying to push him away, while your right hand is now desperately searching for your cover. Unfortunately for you, Obito is quicker to push it out of the bed. You’re suddenly very aware of your nudity, and the 3 mens in front of you are definitely not helping with your arousal. 

Sasuke lightly switches his position, moving on top of you, before leaning into your ear again, "just say yes and we'll take care of you." 

You feel sweat sliding down your forehead, but between your missed orgasm, the alcohol and your general horniness, your brain becomes cloudy. You feel his hand move from your face and you hear yourself saying yes.

Immediately the three men lose their clothes and move onto the bed with you. You feel two strong pairs of hands pulling you into the middle of the bed, while Sasuke starts kissing you and removing your shirt. 

The two hands on your ankles are now moving further up, and before you know it two fingers are in your aching cunt, the other hand keeps your hips still. You deduce it's Madara when you hear him mumbling "good girl" while his thumb comes playing with your sensitive button. Your back arches under the pleasure, and soon a third finger enters you. You twitch in delight, asking for more, and Madara delivers by adding his tongue into the mix. With every stroke of his thumb and every movement of his tongue, you can feel the pleasure building up in your core. And when Sasuke decides to start marking your throat, it’s your end.

You finally peak for the first time tonight, crying as you feel your orgasm explode through your body. 

As you come down from it, you realise Obito is stroking himself silently in front of your bed, but you can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not, actually you’re not sure if anything here is good or not. Madara moves from in between your legs to come lay by your side, and you can feel his hot body near yours. 

While you start maneuvering to come closer to this delightful source of heat,  you finally understand that the noise making your brain screech is actually Sasuke asking you for the third time if you're ok. You turn your head toward him and grumble a yes.

"Good. Then suck my cock."

"Sasuke, manners!" Madara erupts. Two strong arms embrace you and guide your shivering body towards his. You can feel his impressive cock nesting against your thigh, making you giddy. 

 "Are you ok sweetheart? Do you wish to continue?"

You nod your head firmly, moving your leg suggestively against his member. 

''Good.” 

He kisses you passionately, before helping you on your hands and knee, ass up in the air, over his muscular body. You can now see his cock, and it’s huge, and already pearling some precum. Slowly you take it in your hand and start stroking, the skin is smooth and hot under your palm. It's big, way bigger than anyone you’ve been with, and the thought of sitting on it is making your pussy flow with juices. The base is so thick, the head so heavy, and your hands are growing tired just by curling around it.

In the middle of that dick admiration, you realise Sasuke has now positioned himself in front of you. 

"Open your pretty mouth for me, sweetheart."

You can feel his cock head against your lips. It’s clearly not as massive as Madara’s, but it's long. You can feel yourself salivating at the idea of it coming down your throat. 

As you were opening your mouth, you suddenly hear Obito moving behind you.

"Do you trust me?"

Do you trust him? Well with your laundry certainly not, the man doesn't understand the concept of delicates. But you’re not a lace bra and his raspy voice is very enticing. So you decide that yes, you trust him. 

"Gimme your lube then."

You push Sasuke to reach the pink bottle in your nightstand, and slide it to him. 

Madara tenses under your slim fingers, and stops your movement. “Slow down sweetheart, I want to cum in you.”

Panting, he takes a breathing break while you finally start to suck Sasuke off. It's indeed long, so long you nearly gag twice before adjusting to his size. Your tongue plays with his length while you feel his hands tug at your braid, setting a slow but sturdy motion to your head movements. Tears fill your eyes at the sensation of feeling so full, yet the words of praise help to alleviate the stretch.

Behind you, you can feel Obito's hand tracing slowly the curve of your back, before landing on your ass. He plays a bit with your plush assets, massaging them, and suddenly his thumb is tracing your hole. You let out a moan around Sasuke's cock, making him shiver. When it finally enters, pushing your tight pink muscles, you feel your knee grow weak, accidentally brushing your cunt on Madara’s hard cock. 

Obito starts to open you up, moving slowly in little circular motions. A second finger enters you and it's heaven. You didn't think you could feel any better, but Madara had better ideas. His hands grasp your hips, and he lowers you on his dick. You feel your dripping pussy opening wide around his member. It's so delightful you don't even realise your tongue is curling around Sasuke's cock in pleasure. It makes him squirm so hard he peaks, spilling his seeds in your mouth. You swallow, trying to catch your breath, when Obito, who added a third finger, suddenly pulls them out. 

You whine at the sudden emptiness, while still adjusting to Madara’s size. Your pussy is so stretched out you're not sure it will not rip. But he maintains you, murmuring praises while you help Sasuke catch his breath on the bed. 

But now Obito is sliding his dick against your ass, teasingly. And when you feel his cockhead press against your hole you realise he is bigger than Sasuke, and your puckered hole slowly swallows him with difficulties. When he slams into you completely, it's the end of your coherent brain. Madara starts to move, and both quickly find a rhythm.

At some point they both find just the right place inside of you, making you whimper. And they hear it. And do it again, and again and again... until you're just riding on pleasure. You bend forward, kissing Madara with all your soul. You just crave some kind of emotional connection and Madara doesn't seem to mind. It’s maddening how they turned you into putty between their hands. You can feel Obito biting your shoulder, while he is bottoming out. It’s a mix between pain and pleasure, and Madara sucking and nipping at your lips is the cherry on the cake.

Coming back to his senses, Sasuke moves and sneaks his hand between you and Madara to play with your clit. It's the end for you. Your orgasm snaps, making your pussy and ass tighten around the men who also explode in pleasure. You feel their hot cum filling you, as you drop on the bed into Madara's arm, numb and happy.

You feel Obito pull out, making cum drip on your ass. Madara pulls out as well while pressing you against his chest. You’re not coherent, but his finger playing with your hair is all you need now. 

You hear in the background Sasuke and Obito take their leave. After what seems to be hours, Madara offers to take you to the bathroom. Your body is so limp he resolves to carry you there and helps to clean you up. Finally coming to your senses, you put your shirt and panties back on, and make a defeated sight when you realize the state of your bed. The sheets need some cleaning, and the cover is on the floor… but then Madara simply guides you to his room and makes you lay with him. You’ll see to the bed tomorrow and possibly this is all for show, but for right now, you’re happy simply to cuddle with him.

(If you made it to the end thank you ♥️ i know it's a clunky piece of work, english isnt my first language and writing isnt my talent really)

Credit for the dividers