eve 18+!

“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” Dean grabs your jaw, angling it exactly where he wants. “Prettiest girl in the fuckin’ world. My girl.”

You moan, head lolling. Dean smirks and taps your cheek.

“Look.”

It takes all the praise and coaxing in the world, but you manage. It’s the most sinful thing you’ve ever seen. You, glowing and drooling in Dean’s arms, your eyes lidded and lips swollen from his countless kisses. There isn’t a part of your body he hasn’t marked, an inch of skin that he isn’t teasing or groping. His face is twisted in concentration, his muscles flexing and bulging around you, the shaft of his massive cock slipping in and out of your pussy like a machine.

“See how fuckin’ gorgeous you are?” Dean mutters in your ear. “Prettiest fuckin’ girl in the world, makin’ a mess on my cock.”

And you are. You really are. You can’t look away from the slick, creamy mess where your bodies meet. Dean squeezes your cheeks again, your eyes meet, and it crashes into you like a storm.

He looks at you like you’re a goddess. In his arms, you feel like one.

“Watch,” he hisses, dragging your gaze  back to the mirror, right as he starts to rub your clit in furious tight circles.

You can’t help it. Your transfixed by the sight of you, more beautiful that you ever thought you could be, unraveling in Dean’s arms. He’s quick behind you, slamming home and stuffing you up with hot ropes of cum, fucking you through it with shallow thrusts.

Neither of you move for a while after. You don’t want to. You’re afraid the spell will break.

“Look at you, baby,” Dean murmurs, kissing over your neck. “Never seen anythin’ fucking better.”

And it’s so easy, to believe him. You know it won’t last. But you’re sure that, if you ask him, he’ll be happy to show you over and over again. Until it really, truly sticks.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: request! dream situation

“So, why… are we drivin’ this far away?” Dean asks, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

“Reports say… there’s some… man, tormenting people, ruining neighbourhoods, disturbing residents at their homes…” You ramble on, flipping through the small pages of your notebook, squinting in the dark Impala.

“Sounds like the son of a bitch is just havin’ a bad day,” Dean responds, glancing over at your notes. “Doesn’t seem like our type of… deal,” he shrugs, using one hand to rub his jaw.

“Well, reports say… he might have superpowers, or some sort,” you shake your head, flipping through more pages. “Super strength, doing damage to things you shouldn’t be doing damage to,” you explain, glancing over at Dean.

He sighs and keeps his eyes on the road, carefully steering Baby through the winding roads in the night. He glances over at you again, reaching over to lightly tap a page, his ring glinting in the moonlight.

“What’s that about?” Dean asks, glancing over and then back at the road.

You scoff. “It says if we were to find him… he’d be at a strip club, probably.”

“Now we’re talking,” he smiles, tapping the steering wheel excitedly. “Super strength, watchin’ ladies strip… doesn’t sound like he’s doin’ much wrong,” Dean shrugs, and he leans on the gas a bit more.

“Yeah… except he’s tormenting people, and being a complete dick, Dean,” you shoot back, but he still has a shit-eating grin on his face, suddenly eager to get to small town. “It says he’s dangerous, calls himself ‘Soldier Boy’.”

“The song?” he asks, looking over at you, and you immediately roll your eyes.

“No… no, ‘Soldier Boy’, like… a soldier?” you glare at Dean, and he’s smirking, purposely making you frustrated with him. What’s new.

“I say we hit the strip clubs,” Dean declares.

The black Impala winds down the long roads, taking the two of you deeper into the small town, and Dean takes those damn glances at you; constant eyes finding your thighs, and he’s glad Sam is off somewhere, probably doing something with Ruby, and doesn’t have him in his ear, telling him how wrong it is to find you attractive. 

You had joined in the little trio when you were old enough to—Bobby’s your father, and trusts you with the Winchester boys more than he’d like to admit. And with your passion for hunting, and how damn well you do it, it would almost be blasphemy for them to ignore your skills.

It left you in an odd place: between Sam and Dean. Dean was always flirting with you, even when he’d bring home some blonde bimbo from the bar, shooing you and Sam out of the motel until he was finished. And Sam was Ruby now, occupied beyond belief, doing suspicious things behind the scenes that broke some brotherly bond you couldn’t understand. 

And now here you are, doing a case alone, with Dean Winchester. The first one ever.

Baby rolls to a stop, parking along a curb, bright neon lights casting a constant glow onto the car. The sign is bright and loud, and Dean smirks at the name: Lustful Lounge.

Dean is out of the Impala before you, and you’re scrambling behind him, quickly joining his side. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, only to flash the fake FBI badge at the bouncers, and he nudges you to do the same.

Mister and Misses Smith for tonight, completely unrelated. Very, very believable, Dean.

“This is a job, I hope you remember that,” you mumble to him as you walk down the long hallway, with a red tinge to the lighting, and you hear the loud music growing louder.

“Yeah… a job with strippers,” he nudges you again, smiling and fake-smoothing out his hair, before dipping into the small entrance.

There are several stages scattered around; women on poles move, swaying their hips and shaking their breasts, skimpy outfits bejewelled in rhinestones, and it reeks of marijuana, the smell coming from the back, away from the regular customers. Dean looks like a kid in a candy store, and so does Soldier Boy.

He’s lounging in one of the chairs in the VIP section, a blonde woman doing a solo dance for him, and he’s smoking a joint, nodding. Her hips twist, and her long legs bend, and he’s not even bothering to throw cash, merely observing and taking it in for himself.

“Dean,” you nudge him with your elbow when you notice his eyes straying away, focusing on the exotic dancers instead of the task at hand: operation find Soldier Boy, and get him out of there.

You lightly take hold of his hand and groan in frustration, taking him deeper into the strip club, and a VIP sign flashes. Bingo.

Another two flashes of your badges grant you access into the room, and two bouncers hold the odd beaded drapes that hide it, and your eyes widen the minute you see him: Soldier Boy.

You look at Dean and then Soldier Boy: sharp green eyes, the same sculpted nose, soft lips, a smirk that they both have on while looking at the same woman—Soldier Boy’s hair is longer than Dean's, and he’s bigger than him too, and your lips part in awe. Maybe it’s the light playing tricks on you, morphing Soldier Boy’s face. It can’t be.

Dean hasn’t even noticed.

“Who ordered this whore?” Soldier Boy suddenly calls out, his finger pointing directly towards you. “And… her fuckin’ cuck of a boyfriend, too,” he laughs, barely noticing the stark similarities the two have. But Dean does.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean curses the minute his eyes find Soldier Boy, and it’s like he’s staring in a damn mirror, if the mirror ages you about twenty years. “This son of a bitch stole my face!”

You’re too in shock to notice Dean taking steps towards the man lounging on the couch, and he glares at Dean, eyes narrowing at the younger version of himself. He blows a plume of smoke out of his mouth, but purposely towards his twin's face.

“You stole my face, kid,” Soldier Boy retorts, tilting his head to the side. “Been here for hundreds of fuckin’ years, America’s greatest. Ain’t copying some washed-up pussy, and his slut that’s too much of a bitch to come over here.”

Soldier Boy makes that sound that sounds like nails on a chalkboard–it’s like he’s calling a cat over, a gross kissy noise with his lips, and he’s calling you over with a wave of his hand, and you slowly begin to walk over. You feel like you’re more surprised than Dean is.

“No… no, I have been here for just as long as you have,” Dean retorts, pointing at the man lounging, and Soldier Boy laughs. “You’re just some old shapeshifting fucker.”

“Shapeshifting?” Soldier Boy howls, shaking his head. “Is this some fantasy, role-play kinky shit between the two of you?” he uses his blunt to gesture between your bodies. “It’s fuckin’ disgustin’, and you’re not even strippin’ for me,” he calls directly to you.

“What? I’m not a stripper–” you quickly say and shake your head, but Soldier Boy interrupts.

“With that fuckin’ body? A god damn shame you’re not,” he scoffs, and Dean, well, agrees.

“I’ve told her this,” Dean chimes in, nudging you a little and Soldier Boy narrows his eyes. 

“How much you payin’ her?” Soldier Boy suddenly asks, gazing between the two of you. “Prostitutes around here don’t usually look that fuckable.”

Soldier Boy eyes you more closely, and it’s weird—not even because of how filthy he’s being, but because of how closely he resembles Dean, who is currently red in the face from anger, or embarrassment. 

“I’m not a prostitute, I’m…” you mumble, fishing out your fake FBI card, and he immediately snatches it. 

“Ah, a liar and a whore, Miss… Smith,” Soldier Boy mumbles, his eyes raking over the fake name and shitty photo. “Lookin’ like a real doll in the photo though,” he grins, handing back the ID with two fingers, and you snatch it and shove it in the pocket of your jacket.

“Listen,” Dean mumbles, leaning a bit closer to his doppelganger. “We just wanna know what the fuck is goin’ on, okay? If this is some trickster shit, or whatever the hell,” he murmurs, and Soldier Boy is staring at Dean like he’s speaking another language.

“Jesus Christ, this really is some kinky shit,” Soldier Boy barks, reaching over to grab you by the hip. “He payin’ you? He a cuck?” he asks, eyebrows raised, and he casually hooks his arm around your thigh, drawing you to the edge of the leather chair.

“Yes,” you say softly, nodding and gazing down at the man, and you can feel the look on Dean’s face without looking. “We…are… we are looking for a third,” you grin, and Soldier Boy looks at Dean. You’re trying not to laugh. “She fuckin’ with me?” he asks, and Dean looks at you–you shoot him a death glare, and he does that face, that stupid shit-eating grin, though it’s mixed with dread.

“No,” Dean says through the forced smile. “She’s my girlfriend.”

Soldier Boy keeps his arm hooked around your thigh, and you mentally curse for deciding to wear a short skirt instead of the usual jeans you stick with. He taps his thumb against your bare leg and looks up at you, his jaw clenching.

“Your fantasy is to fuck a guy that looks like your… boyfriend, in front of your boyfriend?” Soldier Boy drawls, bringing his joint to his lips. “That’s fucked… some real slut shit you’re on,” he shakes his head, looking at Dean.

You roll your eyes, and Dean looks like he wants to kill himself; he’s just staring at Soldier Boy and the firm grip he has on your thigh, the awkward position that puts him eye-level with your stomach. He grits his teeth and sighs.

“So, are you gonna… have sex with my girlfriend or what?” Dean speaks up, his words coming out harsh, like he’s forcing them out of his mouth–he is; he wants no part of this.

“‘Course I am,” Soldier Boy shrugs, sliding his hand out from your thigh to firmly pat your ass. “Would’ve fucked her even if she really was just an FBI agent anyway,” he mumbles, gripping the back of your thigh.

You awkwardly squirm on your feet, trying to ignore the woman who is still half-naked, dancing on the pole before the three of you, the bright, neon lights in your eyes, and Soldier Boy is standing on his feet, sighing heavily.

“We’re parked just outside,” you chime in, and Soldier Boy casually wraps his arm around your waist, looking down at you.

“You got some fuckin’ nerve, doin’ this to a fool like him,” he drawls, nodding towards Dean, who is glaring at you and the overly large version of himself. “Can’t blame you though… looks like he wouldn’t know how to fuck a woman if she came with a manual.”

“We look the same,” Dean immediately shoots, his eyebrows furrowed.

You bite your lip, trying your hardest not to laugh at this interaction–Dean is oddly less concerned than you thought. He’s more so convinced that this is some trickster bullshit, and this entire situation has been planned perfectly, just to get the three of you alone, and then he can finally strike and kill the juiced-up man. He doesn’t believe for a second this is a hundred-year-old superhero who just so happened to steal his face, and slap on some facial hair, and maybe fifty pounds of muscle.

The three of you slowly leave the club, and Soldier Boy nods to the few bouncers who seem to have let the criminal off the hook–probably paid them off with the wads of cash he took from the fucking bank. You had read it in the report: rabid man running through the streets, shouting profanities and threatening to do worse. And now his arm is hooked around your waist, heading towards the impala.

Soldier Boy nudges his broad shoulders into the back of Baby, and you sit in the passenger’s seat, your eyes on the road. Dean looks in the rearview mirror, still trying to shake the feeling of having his long-lost twin in the back, who is around twenty years older than he is. He sighs and turns the key to the ignition.

“We doin’ this at a motel? Or do one of you sick fucks wanna do this in your bed?” Soldier Boy chimes, leaning forward, his eyes gazing at the curve of your neck. “Wouldn’t mind either, just wanna make your girlfriend know what it’s like to be fucked by a real man, you know?”

“Motel,” you say softly, nodding, and Soldier Boy clicks his tongue.

“Thought you’d be more of a degenerate,” he shrugs, looking out of the car windows. “Almost feel bad for this kid–he’s gonna watch me defile you,” he says it so plainly, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“You’re not gonna–” Dean grits his teeth, and he has to stop himself from blowing up the entire plan.

“Oh, yes I am,” Soldier Boy taunts, nodding. “Gonna force you to watch me fuck her brains out–-doll, what’s your favourite position?” he then switches his attention to you, and you blank.

“She likes missionary, all the romance shit,” Dean plays into it, and you furrow your eyebrows, glaring at him.

“I ain’t do the romance shit, but I can put your legs behind your head,” Soldier Boy shrugs, his head tilting to the side slightly. “You flexible?”

“She is,” Dean speaks up for you, glancing in the rearview mirror, and Soldier Boy is smiling, nodding.

“Is some other kinky shit?” he asks, looking at the side of your face. “He does all the talkin’, and you sit here like a sex doll?”

“No,” you cut in, shooting the criminal a glare, and he lifts his hands in defence.

Silence fills the Impala, a brief break, and you swallow hard, trying to act like this scenario is normal. Somehow, fighting vampires and ghouls makes more sense than having a hundred-year-old soldier in the back, with the face of Dean Winchester, with the sex drive of an animal in heat. 

“So, Soldier Boy,” Dean starts, swiping his tongue over his lips. “Where did you come from?”

“Why does that matter?” he asks, leaning back into the seats. “Never gonna see me again after this; you don’t need to know lick about me, or whatever else the fuck you two freaks need to know,” he shoots, his eyes noticing the flickering red motel sign.

You glance at Dean, who is already looking at you, realizing this was a lot harder than you initially had thought. Most vampires and demons, whatever the hell you stumble upon, have thousands of years of lore written down in books and on the internet, and you’ve never come across a gem like this, one that seems to be aware of the fact he’s being hunted, but still taking offers to fuck random women. You swallow hard when Baby rolls into the parking lot.

The three of you head into the motel room, and Soldier Boy makes it a point to slap your ass the second all of you are in the small room, and Dean is seething at the constant remarks–if only Dean knew that he sounds the same sometimes, but usually a bit less… filthy.

Soldier Boy sits on the bed, while you and Dean sit on the two small chairs. His brows are forever furrowed, and his arms are crossed, head cocked to the side, realizing this might not be exactly what he expected: a hookup with a girl, while his twin watches. He clenches his jaw.

“We’re just… gonna set some… boundaries first,” you lightly explain and nod, and Dean lifts his hand, half-covering his mouth, trying not to laugh. “To… make it safe.”

“Safe? Is there some fuckin’ waiver I gotta sign before fuckin’ you?” he asks, those green eyes looking into yours, and you swallow hard, shaking your head. “Usually I pay for the slut, and she shuts the fuck up. Nothin’ about a god damn waiver or rules, or safety.”

Dean rolls his eyes and leans back in the chair, his legs parting, and Soldier Boy turns his head, gazing at him. He narrows his eyes at the young version of himself, all while he lifts his hand, waving for you to come over. You look to Dean, who is reciprocating the stare-off, and you stand to your feet, walking towards the Supe.

“Isn’t this better?” Soldier Boy asks, and it’s only after he’s pulled you onto his thigh, forcing you to sit on the thick muscle. “Easier to listen when I have a plaything just waitin’ on my lap, you know? You wouldn't,” he grins and looks at Dean.

The sight has Dean’s fists clenching; you’re sitting on this grown man’s lap, his hand wrapped around your waist, a hand against your stomach, holding you up straight, the other hand slyly sliding down to inch up your skirt. It’s barely noticeable, but Dean notices, and he can’t say a word. This is a part of the plan, yeah?

“Soldier Boy…” Dean mumbles through that fake smile, but he’s interrupted.

“Ben, you can call me that too,” he shrugs lazily, keeping you on his thigh, and you oddly adjust your hips, looking up at the motel ceiling. You swallow hard, trying to ignore the firm limb between your legs, and how it doesn’t feel… like the worst thing in the world.

“Okay, Ben,” Dean starts again sarcastically, hastily rolling his eyes, looking at you and then the larger version of himself. “Can’t be beatin’ around the bush, you have to tell us some stuff before I let you… you know,” he mumbles, gesturing with his hands.

“You sure?” Ben asks, raising his eyebrows. “This bitch is already drippin’ all over my fuckin’ thigh; it doesn’t seem like she needs to know anythin’ else,” he shoots, shaking his head.

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head too. “What? No—”

Dean grimaces and looks down at Ben’s thigh and then up your body; the way your chest is heaving, the flush creeping up your neck, the sweat brimming at your hairline. His forehead wrinkles in disgust, and he realizes this man might not be entirely lying.

It’s not computing properly, the arousal you’re currently feeling; the odd ache between your thighs, the way your back is arching lightly, your thighs squeezing around Ben’s, and Dean is disgusted, completely caught off guard by the interaction, and the turn it’s taking.

“What are you doing to her?” Dean asks, his head tilting to the side, and his sharp eyes are looking at you. “Stop whatever the hell you’re doing!”

“Calm down, kid,” Ben shakes his head, licking his lips. “Not doin’ a thing, she’s just a whore,” he hisses, and you don’t even defend yourself–it’s overwhelming, the sudden lust clouding your head, and your eyes are growing heavy.

“You’re clearly doing something to her!” Dean says, standing on his feet, and Ben lifts his hand, shaking his head.

“Wasn’t this the deal? I fuck her guts, and you watch?” he drawls, raising his eyebrows, his large hand gliding down your waist and to your thigh. “Can even teach you a few things; you probably need it, don’t you?”

“I do not need some son of a bitch to teach me how to fuck women–I do it plenty, and the last thing I need is to watch her get fucked,” he groans out, his hand rubbing over his jaw. “We will leave you alone, never come back–just give her back,” he commands, like it’s an exchange, and not your body.

Ben stares at Dean, thinking. “No.”

“No?” Dean asks, a stitch forming between his brows. 

“No,” he says smoothly, adjusting you on his thigh. “What do you think, doll?” He then adds, turning to glance at you.

“No…” You mumble and shake your head, and Dean’s eyes widen at your response, and he turns his head to look at the motel door and then you.

“What the fuck do you mean no!?” he practically shouts, huffing and sitting down in the seat. “This was not the plan–this is not a part of any god damn plan,” Dean rambles on, scratching his neck.

“A plan?” Ben asks, his hand sliding up your thigh casually, sliding right between them, lightly cupping your core. “What plan did you and… him have, huh?” he murmurs, turning to press his nose against your cheek.

Your head lazily tips back on Ben’s shoulder, and Dean furrows his eyebrows, quickly putting two and two together; his hand is up your skirt, and out of his eyesight. There’s only one thing that could be happening right now, and he’s in disbelief.

“Just watch,” Ben tells Dean, and you feel that large, warm palm lightly curl, and you whimper. “See? This how you touch a lady, none of that bullshit I know you do,” he curses, eyes narrowed.

Dean swallows hard and watches, unaware of what to do right now; you’re clearly enjoying yourself, and Ben is too, and he’s not sure what the tank of a man would do if he tried to leave, or better yet, intervene. He looks away.

“You ever make a girl nut?” Ben asks Dean, and he’s lightly rubbing two fingers right through your underwear, focused on your clit. “Or you jus’ leave her the second you do?” he asks, that cocky grin curled into his lips.

“What?” Dean asks, trying to ignore the soft noises slipping out of your mouth and how utterly good you feel right now.

“Look at her,” Ben says, nodding towards you. “Absolutely fucked right now, and I’m just rubbin’ her through her fuckin’ panties. Women are sluts in that way, and you wouldn’t have a  fuckin’ clue about it,” he shoots.

Dean’s eyes drift towards you; the way you’re panting softly, squirming against Ben’s thigh, quietly whining and biting your lip, helpless hands trying to pull down your skirt. He clenches his jaw and looks back to Ben–the whole twin thing is still throwing him the fuck off.

“She’s not even in her right mind,” Dean says, pointing to how out of it you are; practically drooling, your head slumped back, lightly grinding into Ben’s hand now.

“Yeah, cause of me,” he rolls his eyes, snorting. 

It is cause of him, and there are two reasons behind it; one of them being the sick and twisted Soldier Boy he is; telling you to take a sip of a drink back at the strip club, and you, trying to be the compliant and obedient thing you are, took it, and didn’t know what he had slipped in it. And the second reason being him; charming and good with his hands. The combination is making a filthy situation, and you’re unfortunately basking in the attention. 

“Now,” Ben starts, lightly slapping your core. “You’re gonna watch me pound her from the chair,” he grins, and Dean listens to you whimper, your eyes fluttering at the light sting between your thighs.

The room is quiet, and Dean sits there, watching the way Ben manipulates your body; carefully lifting you, placing you down onto the motel bed and onto your back. The reports were definitely right; super strength, easily moving you around, like you’re the plaything and doll he speaks about.

“Actually,” Ben starts, gazing down at you. “Better look over here, c’mere, son,” he taunts, and Dean shakes his head.

“Nope,” he refuses, shaking his head again, looking up at the ceiling.

Ben rolls his eyes and sighs, gazing down at your body; your dress hiked up your thighs, your hair fanned out against the bed, your eyes heavy and your lips parted. There’s an unfortunate part about this whole thing, and it’s that you don’t… hate it. 

You’ve always had that silly crush on Dean, and it made you seethe when he’d bring back bimbos from bars and hunts, and you had to sit and listen, sometimes watch when he’d try to stealthily fuck the girls while you slept on the bed over. It’s his turn, and it’s with his damn twin.

Ben carefully slides his hands up your bare thighs, watching you squirm and writhe against the mattress, and Dean can hear the light fuss from you; the whimpers, the tiny whines.

“Missin’ out,” Ben drawls, his large hands parting your legs instead. “Real fuckin’ beauty right here, and I doubt you even fuck her properly,” he calls out.

Dean rolls his eyes, and Ben is cupping you again, watching your head tip back. He clicks his tongue in disappointment, glancing over his shoulder at the awkward male in the room.

“C’mon, what do you do to the poor thing?” Ben asks, lightly slapping your core again. “Gonna probably fuckin’ cum from just this shit—you neglectin’ her?”

“Nobody is being neglected, idiot,” Dean shoots, gazing at the scene before him. “She’s not even my girlfriend!”

Ben howls at the confession, and he looks back down at you, his free hand sliding down to grab your face, aggressively pinching your cheeks.

“So, you’re a lyin’ bitch?” He asks, eyes narrowing. “Could’ve just waited on the corner, probably would’ve taken you home regardless. Instead you gotta make up some bullshit lies—the fuck is wrong with you?”

You whine and shake your head, and he shuts you up by spitting onto your face. The saliva is warm as it drips down between your eyebrows, gliding down the slope of your nose. He grins at the look on your face, looking back over at Dean.

“What is she then, huh?” Ben asks, still holding your cheeks, listening to you whine. “A sister? Oh, you’re real fucked if this is your sister,” he laughs, snorting.

Ben looks back to you and lets go of your cheeks, his hand lightly slapping your face, and you moan at the feeling, your hips lifting. He smirks at how needy you are, but he’s more concerned with the lack of care you’ve apparently received. You’re the neediest thing he’s seen.

A strong hand slides down your body, and his fingers don’t pull down your underwear; no, they rip it off, a loud sound in the motel room and Dean’s eyes widen. There’s the strength of a supe, and it’s being used to rip off your underwear.

“What the fuck—“ Dean says, standing on his feet, and he walks over, and Ben doesn’t seem to have an issue.

“Real man you are, only comin’ over here when you know you get a look at her pussy,” Ben laughs, a hand sliding down to part your legs more, his thick fingers lightly spreading your folds. “C’mon, take a look.”

Dean’s eyes bulge out of his head at the sight; you flopped on the bed, underwear on the floor, your eyes closed, lips parted, looking like you’re in ecstasy, and now, he’s seeing you bare—completely bare. Not just when he accidentally walked in on you changing, but spread open.

“See? Fuckin’ wetter than hell,” Ben laughs, examining between your thighs, licking his lips. “Look at it… leakin’, never seen anythin’ like this,” he shakes his head, turning to Dean.

Dean hesitantly looks, and he swallows hard. Despite his demeanour and the filthy remarks he makes, he’s gentle; you’ve seen the sex before, watched how soft he was with the women, the tender caresses, the sweetness that overtakes the dirty words that he says when he’s just trying to seduce the women. This is completely out of his ballpark, and he’s not sure how to process it. 

“Dean,” you mumble, your eyes finding his, and his lips part the words that leave your mouth. His name, not Ben’s.

“Dumb bitch is callin’ for the guy who isn’t fuckin’ her,” Ben scoffs, and he slaps the side of your face again, and you whimper, biting your lip.

Ben reaches down, and he’s unbuckling his leather belt, the soft noise clinking in the motel, and Dean’s eyebrow furrows when he notices what’s happening. He looks to Dean, ticking his head.

“What? That much of a pussy? Can’t look at another man’s cock without gettin’ shy?” Ben asks, working on his own pants, his eyes looking back to you. “Ain’t gay, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he grins, and Dean is taken aback by the guts on this guy.

Ben’s hands slowly pull down his pants, and he’s resting his knee on the bed, his two hands now finding your thighs, spreading you open more, getting a better angle while he nudges his between your legs. He groans the second he runs his cock through your folds, and he looks at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

“Jesus Christ, she’s fuckin’ wet,” Ben hisses, his head tipping back a little, and Dean can feel his body growing warm the longer he stares at you. “She a virgin?”

Dean doesn’t respond; he merely watches, and Ben isn’t bothering with waiting for an answer. He pushes in and watches your eyes immediately squeeze shut, your back arching off the bed, and he laughs, shaking his head.

“Fuckin’ Hell,” Ben groans, burying himself as deep as he can go, breathing out. “Clenchin’ around me like a god damn dream, and you never fuckin’ hit this? God,” he laughs in disbelief, speaking to Dean, who is in disbelief. 

Ben stares down at you, watching your body rock with each thrust; your eyes fluttering and your mouth agape, drool trickling down the side of it, spit finding its way out of your lips. He curses, holding your hips as he ruts into you, listening to the mewls.

“Put your fingers in her mouth,” Ben commands Dean, nodding towards you. “Shut her up, don’t gotta be hearin’ that shit the whole time,” he mutters.

Dean hesitates, but he does it, as if he’s being held at gumpoint. He shifts closer to the edge of the bed, trying to ignore the sound of skin on skin, the slapping of Ben’s hips snapping against yours, and the way your body moves with each thrust, the way you’re so blissed out. 

Dean slides his two fingers past your lips, and your eyes roll back the second you realize that it’s his, and not Ben’s. You can feel the silver ring by your lips, the rough digits on your tongue, the way he’s lightly gagging you, and his eyes darken the minute he realizes how good this actually feels.

“See? Just an obedient whore,” Ben hums, confusing the relentless movement of his hips, a rough movement. “Can’t believe you had this thing walkin’ around, didn’t even try to do anythin’.”

Dean grits his teeth and deepens his fingers down your throat, listening to the soft of you gagging, the soft choking on his fingers. His lips twitch, and he can feel himself hardening in his jeans, and he glances down, ashamed of himself.

It’s a dream for you; eyes opening to see the same faces looming over you; those familiar green eyes, soft lips parted, and you close your eyes, basking in the feeling instead of resisting it. Whatever drug he has in you has you on cloud nine, and all you can do is suck on Dean’s fingers and take Ben’s cock

“Press on her stomach,” Ben then nods to Dean, and  Dean glances down at the way your shirt rides up, that sliver of skin showing. “They love that shit—force her to feel my cock,” he continues, his one hand holding beneath your knee, the other one lightly slapping your other thigh.

Dean’s getting off on it now, too, and he slowly pulls his fingers out of your mouth, pressing his palm to your lower stomach, applying the pressure that Ben asks, and he nods.

“Push hard,” Ben commands, and Dean is taking orders like it’s his job. “Make her piss herself,” he mumbles, and Dean’s eyes widen, hesitantly looking down at you.

You squirm around, moaning now that your mouth is free; the sounds slip out, and Dean can feel himself getting harder at how drawn out there, how much you’re enjoying this. His eyes glance to you, and he lightly presses harder, awkwardly leaning over. Ben doesn’t seem to care.

“Atta girl,” Ben mumbles, his head tipping back when he feels you clenching harder, focusing on taking him, and holding in your piss now. “Keep pressin’, kid,” he tells Dean, and his eyebrows furrow at the awkward submissive position he’s put in.

Dean rubs the heel of his palm lightly against your lower abdomen, pushing down harder, and he can oddly feel himself enjoying this too; the way you wince and whine, how hard you’re trying to keep yourself composed, all while being focused on too many things at once.

“Gonna piss on my cock, doll?” Ben taunts, cocking his head to the side. “How’s this poor son of a bitch ever gonna see you the same again, huh? Hold it for him, not for me,” he shakes his head, and your head tips back instead, shaking it. 

Dean won’t see you the same again, especially because you are pissing yourself, softly crying as you feel it streaming down, onto the bed and right in the midst of it all. Ben chuckles and doesn’t even bother stopping, just landing a cold slap against your face. Dean’s eyes widen.

“Dumb bitch,” Ben grunts, his hand lightly swatting away Dean’s, and he pushes his fist down instead, and you groan, eyes squeezing shut. “Really embarrassin’ yourself, yeah? Pissin’ all over yourself, and now you gotta sit in the car with him afterwards.”

Dean breathes heavier, his hand sliding down to press against the front of his jeans, subtly adjusting himself. And Ben finishes, a loud groan in the motel room, and he watches the way your body tenses up, your toes curling, fingers grasping at the bed sheets, and he’s filling you up, not even bothering to pull out.

“Never pull out,” Ben tells Dean like it’s casual advice. “Make ‘em take your seed, wastin’ it is for boys, not men, bet you use a condom,” he teases, still groaning and hunched over your body, holding your hips now, pressing his fingers into you.

Dean is silent and just watching, feeling him awkwardly leak into his boxers at the sight of you; your body all limp and flush, panting heavily, your eyes closed, absolutely drunk and dumbed out. Ben isn’t thrusting anymore, just keeping himself pressed between your thighs, keeping himself stuffed in there. 

“She’s feelin’ it all right now,” Ben groans out, staring down at your blissed-out face. “Girls ever tell you that? That you make ‘em feel full, or do they just ask if you’ve finished yet?” he presses, and Dean is wondering why Ben is so set on humiliating him, too.

“She looks…” Dean mumbles, hovering over you, his hand lightly finding your forehead. 

“Fuckin’ hot,” Ben cuts in and nods, licking his lips again. “Feels fuckin’ hot too, tightest pussy I’ve felt in a while–you sure she’s not a virgin?” he asks, and Dean shakes his head.

You whine quietly as the boys bicker over top of you, discussing whether or not your virginity was just taken in front of Dean by his god damn twin. You whine and tip your head back again, your chest puffing out.

“Poor thing, she's never been fucked by a real man,” Ben clicks his tongue, and Dean registers the word: supe. “Really irresponsible of you, you know that? Jus’ filled her guts with more cum than you’ll ever produce in your life,” he laughs, referencing the odd amount of semen this man can produce–it’s for reproduction to carry on these godly genes, and it’s inside of you, stretching and filling you out. 

Dean is slightly realizing the gravity of the situation; you, being fucked by the thing they were hunting. If it were a vampire, or any other god damn creature, he would’ve shot and killed the thing by now, and burned its bones, but Ben’s human-like similarities, and… well, the charm, made him forget that you were being plowed by some superhuman, with superhuman abilities.

Neither are sure how you’ll explain this to Sam, not at all. And Dean gulps when Ben looks at him, gesturing to your limp body.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

You pretend you don’t know, but he’s not that good at hiding it. Your underwear doesn’t just grow legs and walk off by itself. Before you were dating, Dean used to steal it used, clenching your panties in one fist and beating his cock with the other. He’d smell that little wet spot and moan your name against the fabric, the arousal and need in his chest just managing to outweigh the shame. Once you’re together, you start just passing them into his hands without a word. The day you let him eat you out through your panties, then keep them after? One of the best of his life.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Dean’s the first to call himself a whore, as if it doesn’t bother him in the slightest. And it didn’t used to. Sex was for fun, to feel good, to forget about the pain and—for once in his damn life—do something useful for someone else. But after you, it’s different. The experience was just practice, just building up to this. To knowing exactly what women like, exactly what makes them feel good, and using his mastery to turn you into a pretty little puddle beneath him. He’s a champion, and you’re quickly the only game he wants to play.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

There isn’t really a position Dean doesn’t like—he can make anything feel good, and he takes pride in it—but his favorite position soars above the rest of the already high standard. When he’s got you in his lap, brows pressed together, mouth slack and easy to kiss, it’s close to heaven. Your boobs bounce and push against his chest, your ass wiggles in his massive palms, and your cunt hugs his cock just right at the angle. You can ride him until you get whiny, and he can pin you down and fuck up like an animal, watching your face go slack with pleasure, your eyes glazing over and tiny moans of his name falling from swollen lips. You cling to him, and he holds on back, keeping you just as close as you’ll allow.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Dean lets you set the tone, every time. He’s just happy to be there, and he can make anything work. If you need to be treated like lace, he’s serious and gentle, murmuring low praise and worshiping every inch of your body. If you fall into bed after a date or climb on top of him in the middle of a movie, he’ll tease and joke until you’re whining and glaring at him under lidded, glossy eyes. His shit eating grin won’t fall until you’re screaming his name, and it turns smug and proud. He knows you love it, when it’s easy. He loves it too.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He tries to stay groomed, but life on the road makes it hard. Even when he gets to settle in the bunker for a week or two, shaving isn’t very high on the list of priorities. He does his face because a beard is hard to maintain, and basic maintenance around his cock to keep it clean, but not much else. The look of the tool doesn’t matter much. He knows how to use it right either way.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

When it was just hookups, he sometimes wouldn’t even bother to learn the right name to moan. It wasn’t about being vulnerable or romantic, it was about being a fleeting, passing ship that lent another some warmth. A shadow of intimacy, to stead over the gap in his chest from sinking too deep. But then he had you, and even when you’re play fighting before sex or giggling while he fingers you stupid, there’s a thin layer of adoration under every single kiss and touch. It’s rawer and sharper in the dead of night, when he cradles you in his lap and presses his face against your neck, or folds himself over your body and drives in with slow, torturous thrusts. He’ll never say it allowed, but that’s how he loves you. With a real good show and undying attention, whether the sex is rough or slow or quick in the bathroom, it’s all just to be close to you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Sam used to joke about him taking long showers, but he had no idea. Dean tries to ignore his cock when it gets demanding—when you’d bend over in a skirt or brush past him in the hall—but he started feeling like a teenager with no damn control, and he’d storm into the bathroom to care of himself, quickly and brutally. It gets better after you start dating, but sometimes you have to be apart. Then old habits return, and he finds himself kicking Sammy out of the motel room just so he can pull out a picture of you and jerk himself off.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

There are more of them than he cares to count, but three stand out above the rest. There the only three that can still make Dean, of all men, blush. 

Cockwarming until the sun comes up. Holding you around him until you’re dripping and wiggling and whining his name, until he’s so hard it hurts and ends up just rutting into you like a dog. It’s not the filthiness of the act that gets him, but the intimacy of it. You’re so close he can’t tell where he stops and you end, and it makes him so dizzy he almost loses control. He’d trade a life to keep you like that all the time. Soft and completely, totally his.

The first time you call him sir, he almost feels something in him shift. He’d always said he didn’t get that kind of shit—sex was supposed to be give and take, not just a girl doing everything for him—but then he had you below him, babbling the word by sheer accident, and his cock twitched like it had been jumpstarted. He liked it. He liked it too much. He’d follow you like a dog to the end of the earth, but right here, when he was making you feel good, he was the one in charge. He had a handle over the situation, you trusted him to be in charge of you like this, and that tiny whimper of sir made him lose his goddamn mind.

And the breeding kink he tries to hide. He’s not trying to baby trap you, or reduce you to just a body for him to knock up, but the idea of it makes his mouth water. Fucking you so good a little bit of him sticks. Forcing his cum into you until you’re stuffed up, your eyes rolling back in your head from the pleasure. Making you round and glowing with his baby, letting the whole world know just how well he treated you. You notice it, because you always do, and son of a bitch, you encourage him. You let him press his hand flat on your stomach so he can feel his cum spurting into your heat, you cling to his shoulders and moan when he asks if you like it, and he can’t help it. He wants you good and bred. He wants you to be his.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He wouldn’t call himself an exhibitionist, but there aren’t many places he won’t do it. As long as it’s not a crime and you’re comfortable, the bathroom in a police station is as good to go as the kitchen in the bunker. However, there’s nothing he loves more than his bed. A good mattress, the sheets sticking to your skin, the smell of you all around him, it’s almost enough to get him hard all on it’s own.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

The list is so long, he stopped trying to understand it a long time ago. There are the simple things—your mouth around a banana, the curve of your ass, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, when you get mouthy and bratty and he wants to drag you over his knee or pin your to the wall—but then there’s… other stuff. The time you shoved him and spat in his face after a fight, and he was seconds from splaying you out on the table, squeezing your jaw with one hand and fingering you with the other, all while rutting against your leg like an animal, kissing away the drool when dribbled down your chin. The other time you drove baby for five seconds, and he made you pull over so he could eat you out in the backseat. He’s starting to think it might just be you. He doesn’t really care, either way.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

When he was younger, Dean would try anything once. The benefit of that is that now he knows what he really doesn’t love. He doesn’t get piss stuff or age play, but he doesn’t count himself one to judge. The one time he let a girl tie him up, he ripped his hands out of the bonds and had a knot in the top of his chest for a week after. Life is hard enough as it is, and as fun as a lot of that kind of stuff looks, there can be too many deep, serrated scars in him for it to feel good.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

While he’ll never say no to getting some head, the only sight better than you on your knees with his cock in your mouth is you flat on your back, grabbing at anything you can reach as he tongue fucks you into oblivion. He thinks he could live and die between your legs, your pussy gushing on his face and his name falling from your lips. And he’s good at it. He knows he’s good at it. He’ll shoot you a wink before he kisses his way down your body, because he knows you’re never even try to resist him. Once he convinced you to sit on his face, and he’d never known anything closer to heaven.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can read and match the tone well,  depending on what you want. When he’s rough, he bullies his cock into your like a drill, making the bed creak and tears spring into your eyes from the almost overwhelming pleasure of being fucked over and over and over like some sweet little doll. When he’s slow, he’s slow, taking his time to make your feel every thrust, every kiss, every brush of his fingers over your clit. But even when he’s slow, he drives into you with the force of a man falling into a black hole. He can’t help himself. The way your gummy walls squeeze him just feels too good, to not make them clench and flutter around him.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

If you’d let him, Dean would just fill the whole day with quickies. Wake up and fuck you between the sheets, get breakfast then have a second meal between your thighs, interview a few vics and cradle your head while he drive, pulling off to the side when you suck his cock a little too well, and his vision starts to go blurry. Sometimes he’ll spend a whole day teasing you, just to try and get you to start it. It’s a great victory, if you drag him into a supply closet to bang one out. It’s all he’s ever wanted in the world.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Anything once really did teach him to know what he liked, so at this point it’s more indulging any risks you’d want to take. He knows his lines, and he’s more than willing to help you find yours. If you shyly ask him to tie you up or wrap a hand around your throat or fist you, he’d have to be a madman to tell you no.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Even at his age, Dean counts himself impressive. He might not be pulling the day long marathons he did in his twenties, but he can go the whole night if he keeps the focus on your pleasure, which he finds easy to do. If you make him cum in your mouth or hands, he’ll dedicate as long as he needs to teaching you a few lessons and opening you up, before he’s hard and ready to go again. Once he’s in you, though, he’s no chump. He can hold himself off for over an hour on the best of nights. Sure, there were the few cases when you were just too soft and pretty and he couldn’t stop himself, but you found it hot anyway. The loss of control, just from looking at you, you’d never felt more beautiful. And it wasn’t like he didn’t make it worth your time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He’s tried a few toys on himself, but they’re all complicated, and he lives with his damn brother. Knowing each other’s porn habits is bad enough, the idea of sex toys getting exposed makes him feel a little sex. He’s got a perfectly good hand, and a hot girlfriend, and that’s all he’s never going to need. If you want him to pull out that vibrator you keep in your nightstand, though, he’s never going to protest. Watching you come apart—your thighs rolling against the head of the toy and your mouth hanging open—is always too good an opportunity to pass up. The toy might be the one giving you the pleasure, but Dean’s the one holding it. He’s the person you’re crying for when you cum, and he usually gets to fuck your already swollen pussy after. Doesn’t get much better than that.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Some might call him a monster. And the some is you. You didn’t know how much you could get worked up, until Dean came around and showed you. Through the day he’ll make you flush with little comments, then trace his fingers over your inner thigh in the car, making you flush and pant before he just kisses your cheek and walks away. And you thought that was bad, until he actually got his hands on you, and you learned how much the asshole loves edging. Getting you so wet and flustered your almost sobbing for him, whispering dirty praise until your face is burning, somehow keeping you on the edge with teasing touches, even as his cock drives right into that gummy spot inside of you. He says you’re too adorable not to tease. You roll your eyes, but never ask him to stop. It’s always, just a little, too good.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

The mouth on him should be worthy of a lawsuit. Between the moaning and grunting, the strangled, rumbling sound he makes when he pushes himself inside of you, and the deep, filthy dirty talk, you think you might just be able to cum from his voice. It’s not fair, but Dean doesn’t play fair, and you don’t want him to. One day, when you’re brave, you’ll ask him to test the theory. He’ll oblige, and you’ll certainly end up right.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Dean’s never in it for himself. If his partner wants him to hand over control, he’ll do it, but it’s never going to be what he prefers. He spends every day of his life begging for the people he loves to listen to him, for once in their damn lives. He’s got a grip over his own world, even if his hands shake on the worst of nights. It’s not liberating for him to be degraded in sex when all he’s known is bruises and spit from the people who were supposed to love him. He wants to be trusted more than he’s ever going to be able to say, to be the only person you turn to for pleasure, to take his hands and mouth and body and have them feel safe for just one, one fucking person. He might be in control during sex, but it’s still all about you, and that’s exactly how he likes it.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He doesn’t get his confidence from nowhere. For a while—before you—it was sort of the only kind of confidence he had. Dean didn’t count himself for much, but no one could deny their own eyes. The size of him is one thing—long enough to hit spots you didn’t know you had, veiny and uncut and almost pretty—but the girth- It makes your mouth fall open, the first time you see it. You’re not sure you can stretch that wide, and when Dean tells you that you will, sweetheart, you almost roll your eyes. But, damn him, he’s right. You mold around that thick, big cock like a glove, and feel him in every inch of your body.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

If anything, he only gets worse with age. In his younger days, fucking was something he could work himself up to almost any day of the week, even if he wasn’t sure he wanted to an hour ago. A pretty girl and a good drink, the engine could get itself going. Then you came along and made him feel things, and then he let you get close and start making him eat well and drink water and go for stupid walks, and suddenly there isn’t a second that’s enough. If life didn’t get in the way, he’d never let you leave the bed.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He’ll push through the exhaustion for some proper aftercare, but the moment he’s sure you’re good, Dean’s out like a stone. He doesn’t sleep well under any other circumstance, but you work him hard, then let him use you like a human body pillow, and he finds the closest thing he knows to peace, right there, with you in his arms.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: i think about him. all the time <3✦

By the time the glowing sign of the motel came into view, you were barely conscious. Before the engine had even died, he was already lifting you as gently and quickly as he could. 

The mattress softened beneath you as he laid you down, his hands cradling your bruised and bloodstained face. The look in his eyes—that worry, that love—was enough to pull you back. He hesitated for only a second before rushing around the motel room, grabbing whatever he could. He yanked open the first-aid kit, gauze spilling onto the floor.

He crouched down and peeled your blood-soaked shirt up, exposing the wound on the side of your stomach. A tiny whimper left you when the cool air hit the wound. It was a deep slash that could barely be seen through all the blood. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. 

You opened your eyes to look at him. He was damp. Sweat and blood caked in his hair and smeared on his face. His gaze was tender, but so much worry sat behind it. His hand moved to your wound, gently pressing a towel against it. You held back the scream your throat wanted to let out. 

“Get ready,” he murmured, giving you a moment before pressing harder against your stomach. A broken cry left your lips, followed by a ragged breath. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he panted, eyes darting to your face immediately. Slow blinks. Tiny breaths. “Talk to me,” he pleaded through his teeth.

“I…like…your shirt.” 

A broken laugh left him. “Yeah?” He leaned over you, looking at your frail face. “You pick now to flirt with me?” 

“Yeah…” you sighed, eyes fluttering shut. 

“No.” 

His voice cracked as his hand left your side to cup your face. “Keep talking, baby. C’mon.” You hummed, forcing your heavy eyes open and gathering the strength to speak. 

“I don’t…” You drew in a shaky breath. “I don’t have insurance.” 

Another broken laugh escaped him. “On the house.” 

Your face twisted with pain, and every part of him was screaming to pull you into his arms and apologize until his throat gave out. But instead, his trembling hands returned to your wound, carefully pressing fresh gauze against it—doing everything he could to stop the blood and keep you alive. 

After the gauze was soaked in blood, he knelt to assess the wound, trying to see how deep it was. His breath caught. It was still deep, but not nearly as bad as he’d imagined. He let out a slow breath before hurrying to the sink, grabbing water to clean the area. He was back at your side almost instantly, carefully washing away the blood until the wound came into view. His big hands worked slowly, as tenderly as they could, so he wouldn’t cause you more pain.

He tore through the med-kit again until he found the wound closures. The slash definitely needed stitches, but these would have to do. He peeled a few from the package before looking back up at you. 

“Alright, baby.” He held one up between his fingers. “I gotta pull the cut together.” 

You nodded weakly as he pressed the adhesive strips into place. 

“This is gonna hurt.” His fingers settled on the first strip. “Breathe for me.”

A choked cry tore from your throat, back arching off the mattress before you could stop it. His eyes pinched shut, and his jaw tightened, like he felt it too. “I know,” he said immediately. “I know, baby.” 

He hesitated, fingers refusing to move to the next strip. When he looked at you, you were still trying to catch your breath. 

“Do it, Dean,” you whispered. 

He nodded once and tightened the second strip. You sucked in a sharp breath, knuckles turning white against the sheet. Before either of you could overthink it, he pulled the last one closed. Once the wound was finally together, he carefully laid a thick gauze pad over it. 

“You’re a cute…doctor, doctor.” 

He ripped a piece of medical tape with his teeth, raising his eyebrows at you. “Doctor, huh?” 

You hummed, looking at him through heavy eyes. “You’re bloody.” 

“Yeah, well…” a small, broken smile tugged at his mouth. “You’re one to talk.” 

You hummed again, letting your eyes drift over him one more time. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The motel room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and the soft tear of medical tape between his fingers. You could feel his hand on your side, staying there long after the pad was secured.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?” 

“Am I okay?”

His eyes dropped to your stomach before slowly finding yours again. The hesitation was small, but you caught it. “I think so, sweetheart.” 

“Okay,” you whispered, letting your eyes flutter shut again. 

His expression changed immediately. “No.” His hand tightened against your side. “Flirt with me more.” 

“M’tired, D…” Your voice faded, barely more than a whisper. 

“I know, baby.” Every part of him wanted to let you rest, but the other part needed your eyes open and looking at him. Looking at him like you always do. Steady. Quiet. 

“I know. Just…give me a little longer, okay?” He leaned over you, hoping the sight of him would keep your eyes open. “Tell me something stupid,” he whispered. “Anything.” 

“You’re really pretty.” 

For a second, he forgot how to breathe. 

“Pretty?” he repeated softly, like the word didn’t belong to him. 

You nodded, clearing your dry throat. “Yeah.” 

You were exhausted. Frail. Bloody. And somehow, you were still smiling at him. You lifted your hand, fingers weakly reaching up to tussle his hair.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he chuckled. 

“Saying goodnight,” you mumbled, giving him one last smile before your eyes slipped shut. His entire face dropped. The panic came rushing back. He couldn’t do anything but watch as your breathing slowed, counting every rise and fall of your chest until he was sure you were still there. He waited a few minutes before carefully moving you into a more comfortable position on the bed and pulling a blanket over you. 

He tried to keep busy. He cleaned up the mess on the floor and threw away the bloodied supplies—anything to keep his hands busy. Eventually, he grabbed a chair and placed it beside the bed. He sat there for a while in silence until he couldn’t keep himself grounded.

“Bobby,” he said, voice tight, eyes still on you. “She got hurt. Bad hunt.” He swallowed, staring at your sleeping face with his phone pressed to his ear. He was sitting there hunched over, elbows digging into his thighs. “I patched her up, but—” His voice caught, and he looked away for a second. “Bobby, I hope I did enough.” 

His eyes dropped to the floor, foot tapping the carpet softly. “No, she’s sleeping.” He rushed the words out. “She’s sleeping. She was talking. She was joking with me. She—“ 

He stopped, letting out a breath. 

He listened for a minute, eyes fixed on you. Then his voice came out quieter. “I thought she was going to die before…” He paused, swallowing hard. “Before I could tell her.” 

“No, I know.” His jaw tightened. “But I was scared, Bobby.” 

He looked down at his hands, still stained with layers of blood. “I thought I was gonna lose her.” He went quiet, listening to Bobby on the other end for a couple of minutes. Then a small sound left you, and his head snapped up immediately. “Hang on.” 

Then you shifted beneath the blanket, slowly turning onto your back.

“Bobby, I gotta go.” His eyes stayed locked on you. “Think she needs me.”

For the next hour, he watched. He memorized your breathing patterns, he counted every time you twitched, and replayed the events of the night until they blurred together. He was tired, but he’d never admit it. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed beside you. But he couldn’t fall asleep. He had to be here when you woke up. 

His head rested against the back of the chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling. 

Then he heard you.

“Dean?” 

He moved so fast it almost hurt. He was on his knees beside the bed in seconds, right next to your face. “Hey,” he said softly. He watched you swallow, catching the dryness in your throat. Before you could even ask, he was already reaching for a glass of water. 

Your eyes drifted to the chair next to the bed. “How long was I out?” you choked out, watching him cross the room to you. 

“About an hour.” 

You nodded, slowly pushing yourself up onto your elbow. 

“Careful, sweetheart.” 

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice dry as you reached for the glass. You drained it in one long drink before gathering yourself to sit on the edge of the bed. 

His brows pinched together as he stepped toward you, ready to catch you if you fell. “What are you doing?” 

“I am showering. Feel icky.”

“No.” 

“No?” you repeated with a small smile, slowly easing yourself off the bed. Your face pinched with pain for a second before relaxing again. 

“I’m coming in.” 

“I’ll be okay, Dean.” 

“Not asking.” 

He walked behind you as you made your way to the bathroom, his hand hovering behind your back. The bathroom was cramped. You held onto the sink, looking at him through the mirror as he turned on the shower. The back of his shirt was stained with blood, not like the front, but enough to show tonight’s events. He turned around, and you went right to him, pulling him into a hug. He held you gently, careful not to hurt you, but he couldn’t shake how tightly you were holding onto him.

“I’m okay,” you mumbled against him. All he could do was hum, not fully believing you after everything that happened. You started to pull back, but he didn’t let go right away. He couldn’t. He held you for just a little longer before finally forcing himself to release you. His eyes were heavy, and you kissed his cheek gently, letting it linger before moving away to undress yourself. 

He lowered the toilet lid and sat down, watching as you moved carefully. When you tried to bend down to take off your shoes, your wound pulled painfully, stopping you. He immediately patted his thigh, silently offering to do it for you. It was quiet aside from the sound of your shoes hitting the tile. Your fingers moved to the waistband of your bottoms, moving slowly so your wound didn’t get agitated. He watched, waiting for any sign you needed him. 

“Got a dollar?” 

“What?” 

“For the striptease.” 

He sighed, trying to hide the smile he wanted to give you. Your fingers moved to your shirt, already half off. The stretching instantly caused you to wince, and he immediately stood to help. He threw it in the sink, and without asking, undid your bra and laid it on the counter. Your eyes met his in the mirror. He looked wrecked. 

His hands settled gently at your hips, hooking beneath the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t say anything, just pulled them down and let them fall to the floor. 

“Go shower,” he mumbled. 

He moved back to the lid as you stepped inside the shower. The warmth cradled you as he sat there deep in thought. You tried to go about your normal shower routine, but the second a wince left you, he opened the curtain and stuck his head in. 

“You okay?” 

“Yes, pretty boy.” 

He nodded once, moving back to stare at the ceiling. His mind wandered right back to the hunt—the blood, your voice calling his name, and how he thought he lost you. His heart kept climbing into his throat every time he didn’t hear you move. You were only in there for a few minutes, but it felt like an hour. 

His head lifted to the curtain when you stepped out, dripping wet. The shower was still running behind you as you grabbed a towel, flipping your hair forward to twist the towel around it. He forced his eyes anywhere but your body, settling on the floor instead. You wrapped another towel around yourself before stepping closer. His breath caught when your hands cupped his face, lifting his gaze as you scanned the cuts on his face. 

“You’re hurt, D.” 

“I’m fine, sweetheart.”

You gave him a look, sighing softly. “The water’s hot.” 

“I don’t need—” 

“No.” You cut him off, and for once, he didn’t argue. He stood, stretching slightly before pulling his shirt over his head. Your eyes scanned his chest, then his stomach. There were a few small cuts, but nothing that worried you—his face and hands needed the most attention. He bent down, undoing his shoes quickly before moving to his belt. His eyes lifted to yours as his fingers worked the buckle loose. 

You gave him one last look before stepping out of the bathroom. He watched you for a second before dropping his jeans and boxers. The steam filled the air as he stepped into the shower, and you went about your normal after-shower routine. You gathered a fresh shirt and boxers for him, placing them on the sink as he stood under the water. He still hadn’t let himself breathe; he was still tense even if his body was starting to calm from the warmth.

He took a fast shower, trying desperately to get back to you. You were sitting on the second bed, damp hair and the med kit next to you. For the first time tonight, you had a moment to actually process everything, but your mind just kept settling on Dean. All you wanted to do was hold him and make sure he was alright. 

He stepped out of the shower, and his eyes darted to the pile of fresh clothes on the sink. A tiny sigh left him; he didn’t know why it meant so much. He ran the towel through his hair as he walked into the room, looking for you immediately. He tossed the towel and sat next to you on the bed. 

The motel room was quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner and the faint sounds of people outside. You looked at him, taking in every piece of him that was still there. And he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were still here. He never enjoyed the smell of your lotion more than he does right now. Your eyes dropped to his hands. His knuckles were swollen, scraped raw, and already bruising. 

“Should ice your hands.” 

“Too late,” he sighed, looking down at them. “Kept going after he was gone.” He swallowed, jaw tightening. “Didn’t even realize I’d gone through him and was hitting the pavement.” 

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. Not because of what he’d done. But because you knew why. You didn’t even remember that happening, even if you were lying on the ground next to it all. You brushed your thumb over his bruised knuckles. For a second, he looked like he wanted to lean into you, like he was trying to fight the urge to rest his head on your shoulder. 

“Don’t think my face is that bad,” he muttered.

“Let me play doctor for a minute,” you sighed. “You got to.” 

A tiny smile came across his face, and you went to open the med kit. He only had a few cuts, nothing serious, but you still wanted to patch them up. You shifted closer, tending to the wound you could reach on his temple. But then you stretched a little farther, trying to tend to the other side of his face. Your brows pinched as you pulled on your wound a little, and he noticed. 

Of course he noticed. 

A small sigh left him, and before you could protest, his hands settled at your waist, softly, since he could feel the gauze pad underneath your shirt. 

“C’mere, baby,” he mumbled, lifting you onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world—like it didn’t make his heart race to feel your weight on his lap. His voice was deep with exhaustion, and it nearly made you crumble. You gazed down at him, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. He looked back at you, tired and bruised. “Can you reach now?” 

You nodded, already moving to address the two cuts on that side of his face. He didn’t look away. He just watched you. Watched the concentration on your face, the careful way your fingers moved, and the way you treated every little injury like it mattered. When you finished, you gently pushed his damp hair back from his forehead so it wouldn’t ruin the bandage. And without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you. Not tight. Not the way he wanted to. He could feel where you were still hurt, and the last thing he wanted was to make you ache more. 

So he just held you, his head pressed against your chest. You dropped your cheek against his hair as your hand moved to the back of his head. He breathed you in, closing his eyes softly for the first time all night. He froze when he felt you lift your head, thinking you wanted to pull away. But instead, your lips pressed against his forehead. Once, over a bandage. And then, back to his forehead. A quiet hum left him, his arms tightening just slightly around you before he remembered and eased up.

“You should sleep, D.” 

“Don’t want to,” he mumbled against you. 

A soft smile sat on your face. “Yes, you do.” 

“Can’t let you go,” he whispered, and your hand slowed against his hair. 

“Baby,” you said softly, and he hummed again. “Come lay with me. You don’t have to sleep, but just please…lay down.” 

He lifted his head slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. One hand left your back and moved to cup your face, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

“Come on,” you said softly, carefully moving off of him. You held your hand out even if the walk to lie down was practically non-existent, but he grabbed it anyway. He rolled into the bed so he was on the right side, knowing you couldn’t lie on yours. He settled against the pillow as you crawled in next to him, resting on him. The room went quiet, and very quickly his breathing started to change. Slower. Deeper. You looked up at him to find his eyes already closed. For the first time all night, he finally gave in and let himself be. You stretched ever so slightly toward the nightstand, flicking off the light before settling deeper next to him to sleep. 

Shortly after sunrise, you woke up on your back with him flopped over on you. He was snoring softly in your neck, lips vibrating gently against your skin. His weight was heavy and warm, and for a moment you sat in it. You didn’t want to wake him, so inch by inch you slithered out to the bathroom. But by the time your toothbrush was in your mouth, he was standing in the doorway. Hair messy. Eyes barely open. 

“You okay?” he asked through a yawn.

“Yeah, D, go back to bed,” you mumbled under the toothbrush. 

“No.” You tilted your head at him. There was something vulnerable about the way he stood there. “Come back,” he said softly, almost like he couldn’t admit it. 

You rushed through brushing your teeth, and he waited the entire time, watching you with sleepy eyes. The second you finished, he took your hand and led you back to the bed. He rolled back into the sheets, still holding you as you settled beside him. Then, without fail, his arm wrapped around you again, and his face was tucked in your neck. Your hand moved slowly along his back, trying to ease him back to sleep. But he didn’t. He just shifted closer. 

His nose brushed along your jaw before his lips pressed softly against your skin. You tried to steady your breath, not because you didn’t want it, but because he was awake enough to know exactly what he was doing. 

His kisses grew slower, lingering as they moved over your face and along your neck. But then he found your sweet spot, kissing you long enough that a tiny moan left your lips. You felt him smile against your skin, kissing you there again. Then, his tongue slipped out, making you gasp. 

“Dean.” 

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured, amusement in his voice. His hand came up to hold your face, and you melted into it, giving him more room. Another moan. 

Then he shifted, moving up to look at you. You both held each other’s tired gaze, but through it, he could see everything—the girl he thought he was going to lose, the girl he’d loved for a while, and the girl he couldn’t imagine letting go of. He didn’t even have time to think before your hands grabbed his face and pulled him to your lips. 

The kiss was long and slow. Neither of you wanted to be the first to pull away. And for a moment, there was nothing but that kiss. That devilishly deep kiss that neither of you could take credit for because it was so evenly done. Everything about last night seemed to have made sense, like it was what you both needed to realize. 

You both rolled onto your sides, closer now, frantic now. His hand lifted your thigh onto him as yours tugged at his hair. Sunlight was beginning to fill the room, and when you felt how hard he was, a moan slipped into his mouth. He pulled you even closer so you could feel all of it—he wanted you to feel it twitch in his boxers. 

His hand left your thigh and moved slowly against your underwear. He could feel your wetness growing as he ran his knuckle up and down, which gained a whimper from you. His lips moved into a smirk, breaking the kiss before you pulled him right back. You were hungry. And he loved that. He kept teasing you, running his knuckle up and down and pressing softly into you. He could feel you shifting your hips toward him, pleading for more of his touch. 

And because he loves you, because he loves every second of this, he pushed himself up on his elbow to pull down your underwear. His fingers curled around the band before he leaned down to give your hip a big wet kiss. He could feel you pulling up his sleeve so you could kiss his bicep, which made him smile against you. He let you kiss him until he couldn’t take it anymore, moving back fast. He looked at you with furrowed brows before kissing you again, fingers moving to your wetness to play with you. 

He was devouring your whimpers, playing with you so slowly that your hips wouldn’t ease off of him. But then he slipped two fingers inside you, making you gasp in his mouth. 

“Fuck baby,” he breathed, feeling you soak his fingers. “You’re soaked.” 

You whined at his words, and he started moving slowly inside you—like it would be a disservice to not learn what you feel like inside. Your mouth was parted against his jawline, moans pouring out as he kept going. He watched your face, how you were crumbling beneath his fingers. He started picking up the pace, and you got louder. 

“Yeah,” he grinned, and you hated him for that. 

“Dean.” 

“What sweetheart?” he mumbled.

“Don’t stop,” you choked out. “Please.” 

He thought about making you beg. God, he wanted to hear that, but at the same time, he wanted to give you everything and more. He went faster, deeper. But then your hand trailed down his stomach and slipped into his boxers. He let out a low groan when he felt you grab his cock, the one that had been throbbing painfully. He’d never been this wrecked from whimpers, whines, and moans before. 

You held him for a second before coming out and tugging at his boxers to let his cock out. His eyes stayed on you as you spat in the palm of your hand. His fingers weakened inside of you when you started twisting and pumping his head. He threw his head back against the pillow at the feeling, moaning your name through a broken breath. Spit was pooling at the base as you moved your hand up and down. He was moaning deeply, and almost forgot to breathe once your lips met his neck. He let this go on for a few minutes before he rolled you over because he couldn’t bear not being inside you anymore. 

“Need to fuck you so bad,” he mumbled, leaning down to kiss you one more time. He looked down at your stomach, hoping this wouldn’t hurt you. You caught it instantly, fingertips running up and down his forearms. 

“I don’t care, D.” The tiniest bit of concern spilled onto his face. “I need your cock.” You paused, shifting so you were flat against the mattress. “Need you to fuck me. Please, baby, please.” 

“Fuck,” he muttered, throbbing at your pleas and the pout that sat on your face. “Just tell me.” 

“I know.” 

The sun had fully taken over the room as he held his thick cock in front of your dripping pussy. He shifted toward you, dragging his head up and down your opening. His eyes were down, watching it the entire time, like he was waiting for the right second to push into you. You kept your focus on the sensation of him sliding up and down, the ache in your pussy deepening with every slow pass until he had you withering beneath him. 

“You want it, baby?” he smiled, sliding even slower. 

“Want it so bad, Dean.” Your voice was quiet, breathy, almost. “Stop teasing and fuck me.” You pouted, reaching out to touch his stomach. 

A hum left his throat, and he pushed slightly inside you. “You’re so cute…need my cock that much, huh?” Before you could even reply, he slipped inside you, getting a loud moan from you. The feeling of you wrapped around him in all your dripping glory completely ruined his original idea of fucking you slowly. He didn’t want to waste any time. He wanted to fuck. He wanted to give you every inch of him and hear every sound that fell off your tongue. 

And he got it. 

Messy moans and cries filled the air as he drove his cock in and out. His own moans began mixing with yours, low, rugged, and sexy. And he was caught on the way your pussy sounded, how sopping wet you were with him buried deep inside you. 

“Ah, fuck, sweetheart,” he said through a pant, grabbing your thighs and pounding even more. 

“I’m yours,” you moaned, the words strong in your throat. “You know I’m yours.” 

He slowed down almost to a stop and looked at you, his cock twitching softly inside. The words hung in the air, and he swallowed them down, letting them settle deep in his chest. 

“Baby, I’m yours,” you repeated, wrapping your fingers around his forearm. 

He leaned down, grabbed your face in his hands, and met your mouth. His hips picked back up, but this time, there was a different rhythm to it. A slower, more deliberate pace. Your foreheads were pressed together, eyes fully stuck on each other. 

“Mine. Fuck—“ He breathed against your mouth. “You’re mine.”

“Not going anywhere, Dean,” you choked out, moans melting with your words. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling you even closer like he could press your words into his chest. 

His pace stayed slow and deliberate, but he was deep. So deep you knew you’d feel him for days after. He couldn’t focus on anything but your sounds and your growing wetness around him. The sounds of your wetness and moans were sending him to the edge. He moved his fingers down to your sweet spot, rubbing softly because he couldn’t bear the idea of you not having an orgasm—he was determined for you to come on his cock. 

And a few more thrusts and rubs, he got you close. He didn’t want to ruin it for you. God, he’d hate himself if he did. You could tell he was near, so you lowered your sounds until your orgasm hit. He kept his pace with both his fingers and his cock, not letting you miss any ounce of pleasure. Your moans filled the motel room, his name slipping through your cries. 

He knew he was done after that.

“Come for me, baby,” you whined, wrapping your arms around him so he stayed close. He let out a low groan and kept pounding, feeling every bit of warmth and plushness you had to offer him. “Dean, gimme it.” 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moaned loudly, your words opening a floodgate of pleasure. 

Another deep moan left him when you squeezed around him, adding a little extra pleasure for him when he hit the peak. His sounds were heavenly, rumbling through you like they were meant to live inside of you. He took longer to come down than normal, his orgasm hitting harder than it had in a while—like he was saving it just for you. 

He rolled off next to you, not wanting to squish your wound that came out of this unscathed. Pants filled the morning air, the smell of sex mixing with the scent of coffee outside. Without hesitation, he pulled you close, looking at you for a moment before kissing you slowly. 

After a couple of minutes, he mumbled against you. 

“Breakfast, baby?” 

ৎ୭ feedback and requests are welcome here! or in the replies lol

It was a low bar. You just had to not egg him on like Butcher, or try to give him a free, unlicensed therapy session like Hughie. You just sat there, and glowered while he grinned, and everyone said you had Soldier Boy on a leash.  

“What’s wrong with you,” you hiss during the meeting, and Ben shoots you a sideways glare.

He still doesn’t say anything. When you poke his arm, he recoils, flinching as if he’d been shot.

That’s what makes you freeze.

Ben doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t wince, and he doesn’t whine or bitch or moan. You’ve seen a rocket launcher slam into his chest, and he’d roared like an animal before throwing the thing back at the shooter. You’ve poked and slapped him almost every day for the past year. He’s only ever looked down at you with raised brows and a smirk, like you were a misbehaving bunny trying to eat his socks.

But this time, his eyes are black, and his brow is knit. There’s a tension in his jaw that makes your breath hitch, and his nostrils flare. The table whines under his grip. You’re rooted to your chair, unable to rip your gaze away. He grunts your name, low and rough, and you’re suddenly all too aware of it. The space between your bodies. Your knees aren’t pressed together under the table. His fingers aren’t grazing your arm every few moments, like they have every single day since Butcher tossed you into his den and told you to keep the old man from blowin’ something up.

There’s a heat radiating from his body that makes your head spin. It’s not the radiation or the bomb. His eyes aren’t empty and there’s no glow coming from his chest.

Ben runs warm. You’re more aware of it than he’s ever going to get to know. Ben’s always made of the kind of heat that pools between your thighs and makes your heart skip, even when you’re shoving his chest and flipping him off.

But this.

This feels like a fever.

Soldier Boy isn’t supposed to be able to get a fucking fever.

You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong again. Ben looks away, and leans back in his chair. His body is angled away from yours. Your feet bump, and he jerks away with a low, almost feral sound. You swallow, a bile rising from the back of your throat. He’s never passed up a chance to touch you.  

Through the entire debrief, there wasn’t one word. He grunted in response to questions.  Not an insult or crude joke, not a brag or boast about how much they’d needed him, not even an attempt to get into your pants. He’d sat, stiff and silent, then left the moment Butcher waved for everyone to fuck off.

You watch him go, your hands clasped under the table, worrying at the cuffs of your sleeves. You’re not worried about him. You don’t get worried about him. He’s an old ass with a pretty face, who spends more time trying to make you spread your legs than listening to plans for missions. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, and it feels like a ship, rocking back and forth in a storm.

“Butcher?” You call, still watching the door Ben vanished through.

Butcher turns back to the table with a groan, glaring at you in your chair. “Fuckin’- I was about to go get Waffle House, love, so if you’ll excuse me-“

“What happened?”

“What-“ Butcher cuts himself off, running a hand down his face. “You mean on that mission Ijust fuckin’ debriefed-“

“No, I mean with Soldier Boy-“

“Ah, your sweet lil Ben-“

“No- I mean- He’s not-“ You shake your head. “Butcher, I’m fucking serious, he’s being- He was quiet.”

Butcher shrugs. “So? Far as I can see, he’s learnin’ how to be a good boy.”

“But he’s not,” you say flatly. “He’s not a good boy, and- You fucking know that.”

“Maybe. But I don’t go ‘round lookin’ for holes in good things, Love-“

“Oh, fuck off, that’s all you do-“

“Well, I’m a changed man.” Butcher gives you a lazy grin. “You got anything else for me? Gonna whine about grandpa actin’ too polite?”

You narrow your eye, holding Butcher’s stare. His tone is indifferent. His posture is bored. “You know I’m right about this,” you say, cold and quiet. “Don’t try and- And fucking dance around this. Ben’s acting weird, and-“

“Ben,” Butcher coos, and you snap your mouth shut. “Ain’t that sweet-“

“Butcher, I swear to fucking God-“

“What? You’re gonna tattle on me to your Ben-“

You shoot to your feet. “I am worried about the safety of our team, you dipshit-“

“Then go talk to your sweet Benny Boo, and maybe he’ll let you tickle his balls for an answer-“

The door slams open, and you and Butcher both freeze.

You’ve never found Ben as scary as you maybe should. He’s all muscle and talk and bite, but the teeth don’t seem sharp when they’ve only ever been bared for you. He tells you he’s a breathing fucking weapon, so you should watch your mouth. You ask him why you should bother, when he’s watching it for you. He laughs in that way that only you ever get to hear, and tosses his arm around you on the couch. Not a danger. A mountain of a man, that you know better than to try and topple with nothing more than moral hands.  

A mountain that you’re used to bowing down to your height. That usually looks at everyone else like he’s measuring the minimum amount of effort he can use to crush their skull, right before offering you a hand to climb. When you take it, his lips twitch. When you tell him you don’t need help, he stares at you like he’s still learning how to look.

You know what the team says about you. What they think about the peace you’ve found with Ben, and the way it lingers around him whenever you’re near. But that’s really all it is. An understanding. Something close to friendship that you’re not brave enough to name. You think about him in the dark. He tries to fuck you, and you turn him down because you know.

It would be easier to fall for him that it should be. Whatever things are broken inside of you, he’s made of a kind of gold that pours into the cracks and makes them shine. But it’s fool’s gold. It would crack under pressure, leaving you more hollow than before. He’s not the kind of man that would want to build something. You only want to build something. And so he gets nothing, and you remain empty in a way that still lets your heart beat.

And you never fear Ben.

Not until he’s looming in the doorway, glaring between you and Butcher with a white-knuckle grip on the door and a glint in his eyes.

Butcher takes a small step back. You can’t move. Ben makes a low, rumbling sound from his chest, and the air suddenly feels hot and wet. No one dares to move.

“Ben,” you breathe, and his gaze snaps to yours. “Wha- Are you okay-“

He vanishes. You feel the floor rumble, as he stomps away, leaving you and Butcher frozen in the room. You turn slowly, glaring at Butcher. He throws you a winning grin, and slips out the door before you can ask if that seemed normal. Your fingers curl on the table.

Something’s going on, and you’re going to figure out what the fuck it is.

In the days after the meeting, Ben seems to almost get better. He speaks again. He walks around and jokes and smokes on the couch like everything is normal. Butcher acts like nothing happened, but you catch MM and Hughie giving him cautious looks. Annie and Kimiko are hanging around you more, and Ben seems angrier about it than usual.

“I think we need a new dryer,” you mutter one morning, sighing when Hughie gives you a curious look. “It’s eating my underwear.”

“Eating your- What?”

“My underwear. Like- How washers eat socks.” You frown at your cereal, poking it with your spoon. “It’s all going missing, I think it’s the dryer-“

“The fuck is wrong with the dryer,” Ben grunts, dropping next to you at the table.

“She thinks it’s eating her underwear,” Hughie mumbles, watching you nervously. “Are you sure you’re not just like- Dropping it in the hall or something?”

“Yes, I- I’ve even gone back and checked, it’s all just- It’s getting eaten, I swear-“

“Well- Um-“ Hughie glances at Ben. “Has your underwear been eaten?”

“Fuck no,” Ben grunts, and you sigh.

“He doesn’t believe in the dryer.”

Hughie blinks. “What- What do you mean, doesn’t believe in it?”

“Too many fucking buttons,” Ben grumbles. “Never trust a fucking robot to do what you can do with your goddamn hands. I wash my shit in the sink.”

“Mhm,” you smile at your coffee. “And then I wash it with the machine.”

Ben glares at you. You smile in return, and his mouth twitches. You expect a smart little comment about whatever gets you touching his boxers. Instead his eyes dart to your cereal, then your mouth.

“What-“

“You’re not eating.”

You blink. “I- I was talking to Hughie-“

“Why.”

“Because- My underwear- And-“ You swallow. The room is getting hot again. Ben’s glare is almost like a laser, driving into your body. “Ben, I’m going to eat-“

He grunts, and pushes the food closer to your body. He doesn’t look satisfied until you’ve cleared the bowl. You glance at Hughie, who seems just as lost as you do.

“Um- The dryer-“

“I’ll look at it,” Ben stands up, his own coffee and bacon completely ignored. You and Hughie exchange another look.

“Ben,” you say gently. “You- You can’t even turn it on-“

“It’s just fucking buttons, I’ll figure it out-“

“But- Ben-“

He’s already walking away. You chase after him, and barely manage to stop him from ripping up the whole laundry room. You’re not sure if this is part of it. You’re not really sure of anything right now, except odd looks behind your back, and your increasingly declining supply of underwear.

You keep an eye on him, closer than you have to. You don’t want him exploding, or going feral, or getting sick. If he gets sick, you’re the one who’s going to have to deal with it.

If he gets sick, you’re going to have to watch him get pale and small, and the thought makes your gut turn into a tight, strangling fist that reaches your throat. You spend the night curled up, staring at the ceiling. You walk to Ben’s room and linger outside the door, then shake yourself and go back to your room. You’re not some foolish, doting nurse. You’re his friend, and he’s a grown man who can take care of himself.

“Are you feeling okay?” You ask him in the morning, because you can’t help it.

Ben laughs, rich and deep. “Feel like a million fucking dollars, doll.”

“Hm,” peer at him on the couch. He’s relaxed. The color on his face is back to normal, and his thigh is pressed against yours easily. Ben catches your gaze, and smirks.

“You got something you wanna say to me?”

“No,” you say quickly, and Ben laughs.

“You gonna take my fucking temperature? Ask about my sleep and my fucking smoking habits?”

Your nose twitches. “No, I’m just- You had a fever yesterday-“

Ben cuts you off with a grunt. “I don’t get fucking fevers.”

“You were sweating, Benjamin-“

“Room was hot,” he grumbles. “Don’t lose your damn head about it.”

You scowl, moving up to your knees. “I’m not- You were acting weird,” you hiss. “You weren’t talking, and you- You didn’t touch me once-“

You cut yourself off, face flooding with heat, and Ben’s smile becomes wolfish.

“Oh,” he drawls, turning in his seat. “You missed me touchin’ you?”

“I- That’s not what I said-“

“Isn’t it?” He leans forward, fingers brushing near the top of your thigh. “You want my touch, sweetheart, all you have to do is say please.”

You narrow your eyes, tipping your chin up like it can defend you. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t you want to,” he teases, and your jaw drops.

“I- You’re fucking- I hate you.”

He laughs. His fingers trace the hem of your shorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You’re a shit fuckin’ liar-“

“You’re a shit fucking liar.” You spit, hoping he buys the false venom in your voice. “You were sick, Benjamin.”

Ben shrugs. “And you’re givin’ me the sex look.”

Goddamn him. Every, massive, cocky inch of him, and how you can’t seem to figure out how to stop him from affecting you. “I- I am not- There’s no- No-“ You look around the room, leaning forward to hiss low enough no one will hear. “There’s no fucking sex look.”

Ben hums, looking you up and down with that dragging gaze. The one that makes your body hum in excitement, that feels like more pressure than any other man’s hands.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, and he laughs.

“You’re real mouthy this morning, aren’t you.”

You scowl, sinking back into the cushions. “I’m hungry.”

Ben goes rigid. His hand fists on his knee, and his eyes lock on yours with that gleam again. You blink, leaning slightly back. Ben’s mouth presses in a thin line, and a low grumble rolls from his chest.

“Wha- What-“

He stands up, and marches away. You don’t move, too confused to remember how. Things hadn’t been back to normal, but they’d been a stilted version of it. Then he’s gone again, leaving you with too many fucking questions and an empty couch.

You’re seconds away from following him, when he stomps back into the room with a scowl.

“Ben, what’s- Shit-“

He tosses an apple straight into your lap. You fumble with it for a second, trying to figure out if a secret code or something, then look up at him with an openly confused expression.

“I- Um-“

“Eat that,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you’re fucking hungry, didn’t you?” He snaps, jerking his head to the apple. “Eat.”

You stare at each other for a long moment. The apple feels heavier than diamond in your hand, but Ben’s gaze is a burning, impossible pressure. It presses down against your core and makes your thighs ache. His eyes have gone almost wholly black. He’s back to that predatory stillness. You look at the apple, then him, and slowly raise it to your mouth.

Ben watches you take a large bite, and hums in satisfaction. You chew, and his eyes gleam. A little juice dribbles down your chin, and your tongue swipes out to catch it on instinct.

He moves back. You sit up, the apple tight in your fist, and Ben stumbles backwards like you’d punched him.

“Ben, what the fuck-“

He marches away again. You’re alone again, this time with an apple instead of Butcher.

At least the apple is less judgmental, while still offering the exact same amount of answers. You stare at it for twenty minutes, before you move. Ben doesn’t come out of his room for hours, and when he does, he won’t even look at you.

And that heat. The air-waving, mouth-watering heat is back, rolling off of him like an approaching storm. No one else seems to notice it. You’d think you were going insane, if you didn’t still have that apple, tight in your fist.

“You didn’t finish it,” Ben grunts from behind you, and you yelp in surprise.

“Jesus fucking- Ben-“

You whirl around, and cut yourself off. He’s right behind you. His legs are pressed to yours, his arms braced at his side, the weight of him almost locking you against the counter. Your hold on the apple goes slack, and it thuds to the floor. Ben’s glare deepens. His brow is beaded with sweat again.

“Hi,” you breathe, and he grunts.

“You were supposed to eat the fucking apple.”

“I- I had eggs,” you say, and Ben’s jaw locks.

He takes a long breath through his nose, leaning further down. This is the kind of thing that should make you want to run. It doesn’t.

“Who the fuck made you eggs,” Ben growls, and you blink.

“Me? I- I mean- I made me eggs- And- Um-“ You scan over his red face, his black eyes, and God, all that heat is so intoxicating you might be getting dizzy. “Be- Ben?”

He grunts your name. His arms brace on either side of your body. You might be about to melt.

“Can I please check your temperature?” You whisper. “I’m getting really worried. About-“ You take a deep breath, closing your eyes and forcing the words out. “About you.”

Ben doesn’t answer. You don’t dare to look. There’s something hard and thick, poking into your upper thigh. You grab Ben’s forearm for balance, and a low, dangerous sound rumbles from his chest.

Then, suddenly, the weight of him is gone. And when you open you’re eyes, it’s almost like he was never there at all.

Hughie coughs from the dining table, and you blink at him. You hadn’t even realized he was there.

“What- What the hell was that?”

You shake your head, staring blankly ahead at the wall. “I- I don’t-“ You cut yourself off, then look back to Hughie. “You were on the mission.”

Hughie swallows. “I- Um-“

“Hughie-“

“What mission?” He says, moving to his feet. “I mean- We go on so many, it’s easy to lose track-“

You block his path out of the kitchen, and he swallows.

“Please don’t-“

“Sit,” you point back to his chair, and he obeys.

“I- I really- I think Annie’s calling me-“

“Talk,” you hiss, and Hughie swallows. “Now.”

Ben got hit with a chemical. Hughie doesn’t know what—none of them do—but you’ve got a theory.

It’s a fragile thing. The way he’s acting, how you could possibly deal with it. You walk into the kitchen in the morning and find that he’s made you eggs. The plate gets shoved towards you with a grunt. Ben doesn’t stop staring until you’ve eaten every last bite, and then he stomps away without another word. You do your laundry and catch him staring at your clothing with twitching hands. You shower that night and open the door to find him standing in the hall, his whole body tense and his mouth hanging open.

“Ben,” you say gently, and he takes another one of those stumbling steps back.

You sigh, as he vanishes down the hallway. He hasn’t had a normal conversation with you in three days. The last time you bothered to try, he’d pinned you down on the couch and stared until you whispered his name, and he ran again.

He spends most days locked in his room. He comes out to make sure you’ve eaten or follow you to the grocery store, pressing behind you in the milk aisle and glaring at anyone who comes too close.

“Do you want anything?” You ask him softly before you go to checkout, and he just stares at you. Some days he’s not even talking anymore. Last night Annie tried to walk past you both on the couch, and he snarled like a dog.

He leans down until his nose is pressed to your hairline. His lips drag over your brow, and you stare up at him, trying not to let your heart burst out of your chest. He inhales deeply, and a low rumble rolls through his chest. His hand finds your waist, massaging and kneading at the skin.

Your gaze drops down, and there it is again. The outline of his cock, tenting in his jeans. You bite the inside of your mouth. Your knees wobble, and your hand flies to Ben’s shoulder. He’s burning up, skin searing even through his shirt.

He yanks back again, eyes black and chest heaving. You sigh, and turn back to the grocery cart. You’re too used to it now. It makes you worry more.

You try to get a straight answer out of Butcher that night. It’s somehow more useless than last time.

“I know Hughie blabbed, ain’t no reason in tryin’ to talk to me-“

“You know what’s wrong with him,” you hiss, and Butcher shrugs.

“Maybe. Gonna make any fuckin’ difference to what you’re doin’?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m fucking asking-“

“Oh, like you ain’t figured it out yourself.”

You glare at him. He smirks back, challenge lining every inch of his expression.

“You gonna go put your money where your mouth is, doll?” Butcher mocks. “Or just keep whinin’ around about it?”

And you don’t have an answer. Because he’s right. You figured it out when Ben snarled at MM for offering you a cup of coffee, a boner pressing through his sweats that everyone pretended to ignore. It would take a true idiot, to not be able to figure it out.

“When did you know,” you mumble, leaning back against the counter. Butcher shrugs, watching you carefully.

“Moment it hit the fucker.”

“Where you there-“

“I was the only cunt in the room.” Butcher shudders. “He started moanin’ and gettin’ hard, it was the most disgustin’ thing I’d ever seen.”

You sigh, giving him an unimpressed look, and Butcher smirks.

“He was cryin’ for you, love. Almost had to put him back under to stop him just sprintin’ back to the house to take you. Like a fuckin’ dog.”

You blink. Your heart does a little flip that you refuse to acknowledge. “He hasn’t touched me-“

“Don’t know why,” Butcher mutters. “I thought I was gonna follow him inside and find him- Well, you know.” He winks, and you narrow your eyes.

“But he hasn’t. Which-“ You swallow, looking up to the ceiling and biting your tongue.

It’s fine. It’s fine if it’s not you he wants to do this with. Probably for the better. It helps you cling to that last shred of dignity. The sliver of an illusion, that you don’t think about him more than you think about yourself,.

“Do we think this- Can it hurt him?” Your voice is smaller than you want it to be. Butcher just shrugs.

“Ain’t gonna kill him. Probably hurts.” His lip curls. “Permanent fuckin’ blue balls. Hell don’t go deep enough.”

You sigh. “Well, what if we hire him like- a hooker-“

“Tried that,” Butcher dismisses. “Almost got punched through a damn wall.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. “What? That’s- Ben wouldn’t turn down a hooker-“

“He did,” Butcher gives you a pointed look. “And it ain’t a hooker he’s makin’ eggs for, genius.”

You blink at him. “No, that’s- That isn’t part of it-“

“You willin’ to bet his life on that?”

And you aren’t. You’re not willing to bet anything. Because it hasn’t just been boners and staring. Ben’s been feeding you, following you like all illusion of not being your personal guard doesn’t matter anymore, refusing to let you do anything that might get you hurt.

“But- If it’s just a sex chemical,” you say slowly, and he cuts you off with a raised hand.

“I ain’t holdin’ your hand through this,” he says. “You talk to him yourself, and-“ He looks you up and down, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Bring protection. We don’t need soldier tots runnin’ around the house now, do we.”

“Butcher-“

“Not just a sex chemical,” he shrugs. “And you know it.”

You do. You wish you didn’t but you do.

A sex chemical would be easier. You could climb into bed with Ben, get railed into oblivion, then collect your heart off the floor and move on. But this is more. This is possessive and targeted and that means something. Something you don’t want to know. Something you have to know.

Butcher leaves you in the kitchen to collect yourself. You close your eyes, and try to control your breath, but it’s useless against your pounding heart. He turned down hookers. He moaned your name.

If this means nothing, you’re going to fucking kill him.

If it means something, you’re ready to deal with it. You don’t think you really have any other choice.

“Ben?” You knock on the door once, forcing your voice to steady. “Ben, can you please- We need to talk.”

He doesn’t answer. You weren’t expecting him to. The knock was more of a polite courtesy, then a question. You steel yourself, holding the doorknob with shaking fingers, and push into his room.

You barely make it a step inside, before all the will is knocked out of your body. It’s as if you walked into a wet dream. One of the private, dirtiest ones that make you wake up with the sheets bunched between your legs, that make reality feel like a slap to the face.

The room reeks of sex. Salty and heady, sweat and something rich that just smells like Ben. The sheets have been ripped and tangled on the floor, the pillows tossed off the unimportant corners of the room with piles of boxer and shirt and panties.

Your panties.

Ben sits, silent and dark-eyed on the bed, completely naked. One hand is fisting on of your panties, the other is wrapped tight around his thick, red cock. It’s veiny and so big it makes you sore just to look at. It throbs in his grip, and your cunt pulses in return. White pre-cum leaking from under his thumb, and his balls sit heavy between his thighs.

Your tongue darts out over your lips, and you force your gaze to drag up. Ben’s staring at you with a vein in his brow and that same burning intensity. The heat lingers in the air, humid and electric. Sweat falls from his neck, over his broad, flushed chest. His thighs are locked, his lips parted and eyes narrowed. 

You glance back to the panties in his hand and swallow. You suppose, at the very least, you were right.

“I lost those,” you breathe, and Ben grunts.

“I’ll give ‘em back later.”

You blink, then glance at the pile in the corner of the room. Ben doesn’t look away from you for a second, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest. It sends a thrill up your spine, and you have to lean back against the door to stay upright.

“You here just to collect your panties, doll?”

You shake your head, looking back to him hopelessly. You’d had a whole speech, about how he needed you to fix this, how you knew it must hurt, how if he asks nicely, you’ll let him take what he wants. It’s misting into thin air, with every thin, fraying thread that had been holding your dignity. Ben doesn’t make it easy. His gaze rakes over your body, a strange, blurred line between worship and hunger etched over his handsome features.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to pretend like this. With all of him at your fingertips, only a few steps away. You’d prepared yourself to be a toy, but you’re a lamb to slaughter. An offering to a god who won’t take anything else, who holds your sanity like a delicate bird in his rough hands. He could destroy you, and you’re going to thank him. He could recreate you, and you’d never know a better blessing.

Ben leans back, something iron lining his words. “You should go.”

You shake your head, and his jaw ticks.

“Go.”

There’s a low, deep command in the word. You almost obey.

“Those are mine,” you breathe, nodding to the panties, and Ben sighs.

“Fuckin’ Christ- Go-“

“Why are they mine?”

The question is soft. You know he hears it, because he goes quiet again. You stare at each other for another long moment, and you take the smallest step forward. A low groan pulls from Ben’s throat. Your knees almost buckle.

“Don’t,” he gives you a look like it’s a command, but there’s something thinner under the word. Something soft.

“I- I know about the chemical,” you whisper, and Ben’s throat bobs. “You could’ve asked-“

“Ask what? For you to suck my cock? Like some limp-dick pussy who can’t handle his booze?”

Your lips twitch. “Your dick isn’t limp.”

Ben gapes at you. His cock jumps in his hand, and you take another step.

“You’re- Fucking unbelievable,” he grunts, and you laugh. “This shit ain’t funny, doll-“

“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, stopping right above him.

No part of you is touching. Every inch feels gravitational. He has to be the one to crash first.

“You turned down hookers for me,” you whisper, and Ben scowls.

“It doesn’t want hookers.”

You glance at his cock, then his tight face. “What does it want?”

He glares. You don’t back down. You never have before, and you’re not about to start now.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease-“

“Don’t be a dick,” you lean down. Ben’s legs part to make room for you. It’s an effort, not to just touch him. “What does it want, Ben.”

What do you want.

He hears the invisible question. His jaw works, and his eyes drop to your lips.

“I’ll fuckin’ break you,” he rasps, and you smile.

“No,” you say. “You like me too much.”

Ben’s gaze rips back up. You raise your brows, daring him to do it. To say it. To put you both out of your misery.

A low growl rips through his chest. “Go. Now.”

You don’t move, and watch as the last line of Ben’s control snaps.

He grabs you by the waist and drags you fully into his lap. You gasp as his lips smash against yours, the kiss rough and demanding. There’s so part of you that isn’t consumed by it, that doesn’t mold into his touch. Your legs spread so you can straddle his lap, and Ben grabs your ass with a grunt, forcing you up so his cock is pressed against your clothed cunt. You moan against his lips, and he presses his tongue into your mouth.

“Be- Ben-“ Your nails scrape at his shoulders, and he squeezes your ass with a grunt. “Fuck- Ben-“

“Already whining,” he mutters, dragging his free hand up to rest on the back of your neck. “Barely fuckin’ touched you are you’re already sayin’ my name like I fucked you.”

Your face burns, and Ben weaves his hand through your hair, gathering it in on fist and pushing it down to deepen the kiss. You almost don’t know what to do with yourself. His touch is hot and possessive, sending shivers through your whole body. His cock rubs against your underwear with every shift, and the pressure makes your legs spread wider. You start to grind down to chase the friction, and Ben moans, deep and low.

“That’s it,” he grunts, massaging your ass with shockingly gentle hands. “That’s a good girl. Show me what you’ve got, doll, prove that you’re gonna take this cock for me.”

You try to drag him closer, but he’s immovable. When you push, his hand moves from your ass to your lower back, pushing down so you can feel every inch of his dick, rubbing between your thighs. You make a strangled noise, and Ben chuckles. It’s an even rougher sound than before. His mouth has started to wander over your cheeks and jaw, pressing open, sloppy, kisses everywhere he can reach.

It’s almost like you’re being seduced into the same, sex-focused daze that’s taken a hold of him. The kisses light undying fires over your skin, spreading and spreading until you think you’ll die if he moves away. Ben’s started to lose focus himself, pawing at your ass like an animal and growling against your skin.

“Bennn,” you moan as his fingers graze on your inner thigh, turning your face to bury in his neck. “Mmmm- Ben- M- More-“

He growls again, and his hips slam up. It knocks the air from your lungs, and he’s not even inside you. Your arms wrap around his neck, trying to hold on as he starts to rut against your core, broken, desperate sounds falling from his lips.

You manage to lean back to look at him, and he’s thoroughly wrecked. He grabs your jaw, still rutting, and you try to smile. His nostrils flare and he kisses you again, the fervor only seeming to build as he chases his own orgasm. You hum against his lips, trying to make yourself pliant and soft, easy for him to use.

“Smell good,” he rasps against your skin, beard tickling against your neck. “Always smell so- So fuckin’ good-“

He cuts himself off with another groan, his cock twitching between your thighs. He shoves you further down, rocking his hips back and forth as he keeps trying to get there against your body.

“Gonna wreck you,” he mutters, mouthing at a pulse point. “Fuck you ‘till you can’t walk, fuck you stupid, fuck you mine.”

You moan happily, dragging your hands down his bare, thick back. The muscles ripple under your touch, and Ben moans like that touch is almost enough to set him off. You kiss over his cheekbone and beard, along his jaw, and slowly guide his mouth back to yours. He lets you lead this kiss, mindlessly focused on trying to fuck himself against your body. He’s panting so hard you’d be worried about anyone else. 

He groans against your lips, clawing at your clothing with blunt nails. “Off- Get- Fuck- Get this shit off-“

He whines like a dog when you push on his chest, and you expect him not to let you up, but his grip loosens. You smile down at him, moving back to your feet, and he stares at you with a slack jaw.

“Get back here,” he growls, one hand still splayed on the back of your thigh. “Now.”

“I’m helping you,” you tease, slowly pulling down your shorts. “Say please.”

Ben’s eyes flash, and his jaw locks. You know he won’t beg. You don’t really want him to. This—the undivided, adoring attention, the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing he could ever possibly want in the world, when he’s spent a century of life indulging in sweet things and easier desires—is more than enough.

You sink to your knees, and he lets you. That hand on your thigh drags up to fist back in your hair, and he goes back to that predatory stillness as you rub his thighs with light hands.

“I ain’t beggin’,” he grunts, and you hum, letting your fingers brush against the base of his cock.

Ben’s hips jerk up, a moan ripping from his chest. You giggle, guiding his hand away, and he glares at you under hooded eyes.

“Something fuckin’ funny?”

“Mmm,” you shrug, wrapping your hand around his cock, and god, he’s even bigger than he looks. “I’m just… Learning.”

“Learning,” Ben echoes, the awe pushed through gritted teeth. “Jesus fuckin’- Christ-“

You lick a long, slow stripe up the length of Ben’s cock, and he tosses his head back like he’s praying.

“Holy- Fuckin’ hell-“ He tugs at your hair without actually trying to move it, biceps bulging as he tries not to overtake your mouth. “You’re- warm-“

You giggle again, pumping your fist as you kiss the tip. Ben makes a low, sinful sound, his free hand fisting at the sheets. You’ve never seen him in such control of himself. A living god that could skullfuck you until you sobbed, trying to let you lead your way. You think it’s something in the way he’s holding you like you’re made of lace instead of silicone. It makes an unbearable ache return to your core.

You take Ben in your mouth until he bumps against the back of your throat, and he groans your name so loud it must echo through the city. You work what you can’t fit in your mouth, sucking on his cock like it’s candy.

“Fuckin’- You can suck some fuckin’ cock, doll-“ He chokes out, hips bucking when you squeeze him near the base. “Best mouth I’ve ever felt- Son of a-“

His words turn to moans, and you look up at him under your lashes. He’s leaning back with a glazed eyes and veins pushing at his neck. His shoulders are tense, his abdomen flexing, and you can’t control your own hips as they start to chase relief against the air. Ben catches the movement, watching it as if he’s under a spell. His cock is heavy and pulsing in his mouth, and it just makes your cunt ache more, imagining the weight of him buried inside of you.

“Jesus, you’re a needy thing,” he mutters, his thumb dragging over the soft skin behind your ear. “You fuckin’ like this? Like choking on some proper dick?”

You whine, eyes rolling back as he presses back against your throat. You press your shoulder forward, forcing your tits further up for him to see. Ben jaw clenches, and you feel him try to not move. His pre-cum is getting thicker, and who knows how long he’d been going before you.

“Ben,” you pull off for a split second, dropping your hand to massage his balls as you kiss over the head of his dick. “Please.”

You drop back down, and he understands in a second. He uses you like a toy, pulling your head up before slamming it back down. You make your jaw slack, moaning around him with every single thrust. Your eyes roll back in your head, and the need builds and builds between your thighs.

You drag you’re hips forward shamelessly, grabbing Ben’s leg and angling your clit to rub against whatever it can reach. Ben groans at the sight, and the sound just floods between your legs.

“Shit, I can feel how fuckin’ wet you are,” he growls, and you whimper, watching him under glossy lashes. “Shit- Lookin’ at me like that, gonna make me-“

You moan eagerly, and Ben’s control snaps again.

It’s fun to see the edges of it. How the pit of his restraint is far deeper than you would’ve imagined a week ago. He tries to drag you off his cock as he cums, but you push yourself back down. It comes in thick, sticky ropes, shooting down your throat until you’re gagging and almost unable to breathe. You try to swallow, but there’s so much it falls out of your mouth like drool, dripping down your cheeks and onto your breasts.

“Jesus, thought you were gonna drown in it,” Ben pulls your dazed head off, grinning down at you. “Look at you, baby. Little fuckin’ trooper.”

You blink at him, still trying to lick the remains off your lips. You glance down to his cock, and it’s still hard. How the fuck is it still hard.

“Hasn’t been goin’ down since that shit hit me,” Ben mutters, dragging his thumb over your lower lip. “Needs it’s pussy.”

“It’s pussy?” You breathe out, and Ben sighs.

“Your pussy,” he mutters. “Needs you, smartass.”

“It needs me?”

You give him your best innocent look. He glares at you, and you just tilt your head, smiling like you’re made of honey. You sort of feel like you are. You’ve never been this gooey, just from sucking a guy off. You’ve never even liked sucking someone off.

But this is Ben. Rough everywhere, but made of tiny divets that go soft when pressed. The kind of man you can crawl into and never have a harsh hand find your body again.

He swallows, his thumb lingering on your lips. You kiss the pad of it, then the knuckle, before slowly wrapping your lips around him and sucking. Ben’s cock twitches, somehow getting harder. You don’t think you’re ever going to walk again.

Worth it.

“I need you,” he rasps, pulling his thumb away. “Feet. Now.”

He taps your nose, and you scramble up. You’ll fight him tooth and dirt when he’s fighting back. When he’s not, you can’t think of a single reason to deny him a thing.

Ben grabs the back of your thigh again, watching you with an expectant glint in his eyes. You swallow and pull your shorts down, trying not to fall over when he stares at your core like you’re showing him a treasure. His fingers dig into soft skin, and his free hand wraps around his cock, pumping slowly as you continue to strip in front of him.

You peel off your shirt, and Ben’s tongue darts over his lips. His grip on your thigh tightens, and he slowly coaxes you forward. You rest your hands on his shoulders, shoving down the bubbling, electric nerves in your chest.

“Ben,” you whisper, and he hums, dragging a massive, rough hand up your side. “E- Easy-“

“Oh, doll,” he coos, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your breast. “This is easy.”

Your legs wobble, your confidence quickly waning. The doubts start to pool like rainwater in a gutter, as Ben takes in your naked body. Maybe you weren’t the dream doll he had in his head. Maybe you pushed it too far with the teasing. Maybe he doesn’t really want you in the same, volcanic kind of way you want him.

He drags two fingers along your inner thigh, teasing the sensitive skin as he mouths at your breast. You close your eyes, trying to just breathe, and Ben chuckles.

“And you wanted me to say please,” he drawls. “Look at you, all fuckin’ sweet for me. You gonna beg for me again, baby? Or that mouth only good for sucking my cock?”

You whimper, a gush of heat flooding between your thighs.

“Yeah, you like me talking,” Ben mutters, kissing over your sensitive nipple. “Like knowing you’ve got the only fuckin’ pussy in the world that makes me act like an idiot. Pretty girl, pretty fuckin’ tits,” he  sucks a dark spot on your breast, his thumb slowly dragging between the lips of your cunt. “Pretty fuckin’ pussy, wet like a whore in the summer for me.”

Ben thumbs at your slit, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking hard. His thumb drags up in the exact same moment, finding your clit and rubbing tight, unrelenting circles. You vision blurs and you stumble forwards, wrapping your arms tight around his head.

“Be- Fuck- Bennnn-“

He hums around your nipple, grazing his teeth over the perked bud. His mouth is warm and wet, his tongue flicking back and forth until you’re in a sex-addled frenzy. You press your face into his hair, gasping his name as he drags his thumb back and forth across your clit.

He wraps a massive arm around your body, fingers splaying over your back and cradling you close to his body.

“Feel that fuckin’ mess,” he drawls, kissing over your breasts. “No one else gets you this wet, do they?”

You shake your head, and Ben leans back with  narrowed eyes. He slaps your pussy with a harsh little tap, and a broken cry escapes your lips.

“Do they,” he growls, and you shake your head.

“No- No-“ You try to lean down, desperate to just kiss him, to get as close as he’ll allow. “Just you, Ben, just you-“

He smirks, slaps your cunt again, and goes back to making out with your nipples. You moan, slumping over his body as the tension becomes almost painful. You don’t know what he’s getting out of this until you feel his hips rocking beneath you. His cock rubs against his stomach and your thigh, already smeared with pre-cum again. You gasp and Ben moans around your nipple, the sensation vibrating through your whole body. 

“Oh- Oh my god-“ You squirm, the pressure getting unbearable. “I- I’m- Oh my god-“

You’re babbling, but you’re not sure what else there is to do. You cunt his clenching around nothing, the thick scent of Ben clouding your head as he works you like a toy. Ben nips at your nipple and pushes his thumb down hard. Your knees buckle, almost making you fall back to your knees on the carpet.

Ben’s arm around your back tightens, and he rolls you both over, tossing you back onto the mattress without even a grunt. You almost cry out at the sudden cold, the lack of Ben all around you. It only lasts a second before he grabs your ankle and drags you forward.

You’re lain on the bed, staring at Ben with an open expression. His jaw clenches and he rubs your thighs, slowly pushing your knees up to your chest. Your cunt is on full, open display to him, and your breath catches as he drags his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy.

“Look at that,” he almost purrs. “Mine.”

You whimper when he flicks your clit again, but it quickly falls into a moan as he leans down and presses an open mouth kiss to your pussy. Your eyes roll back in your head, your hips arching to meet his chapped, full lips. Ben groans against your cunt, his grip on your legs tightening.

You’ve had men eat you out before. You’ve had them be good at it, and horrible.

Ben does it like it’s a job, and he’s never hated work a day in his life. You were already on such a thin wire that the first press of his tongue against your clit makes you snap, a cry falling from your lips and your hands flying wildly to catch a hold of something. Ben grabs them and pins them against your stomach, forcing you down into the mattress as his mouth keeps working against your cunt.

He’s open with it, moaning and sucking and pushing his tongue into your fluttering cunt as he rocks his face back and forth, dragging your orgasm out until you’re almost floating. The heat hasn’t stopped building. Every time you think you’re going to come down, Ben kisses your clit, and darts his tongue back and forth like he’s trying to get a high score of most orgasms in an hour.

Maybe two hours. You can hear the bed creaking in a steady rhythm, as Ben’s fucks down into the mattress, but then he drags another orgasm out of you, and the only thing in the world is Ben’s mouth against your cunt. The sounds he makes, the way he’s watching you under hooded, smug eyes, the way his massive back forces your legs further apart whenever you try to close them and exposes you to him further.

You writhe when your third orgasm hits, shoving at his head with weak hands.

Ben draws back, pinning your legs down to the bed and fixing you with a stern glare.

“Stay still,” he grunts, and you swallow.

“Too- Too much-“

“You want cock?” He snaps, and you nod frantically. “Only good girls get cock, baby. You bein’ a good girl when you whine?”

Your lip wobbles. Your face burns. Ben raises his brows, daring you to be a brat, and any other day you would. You’d stick your tongue out and mock him, you’d test his buttons, you’d see just what you could say, to get bent over his lap or tossed around the bed.

But there are tears streaming down your cheeks, and you’ve never been so totally aware of how empty you are. You really think the chemicals might be contagious. You really don’t fucking care.

“No,” you whisper, shame burning at your cheek and between your thighs. “I’m not.”

Ben hums, spits on your clit, and starts to rub it with a fast thumb. “You gonna be a good girl?”

You nod, and Ben smirks.

“Yeah. I know.”

He dives back down, and stars burst behind your eyes as another orgasm overtakes your body. You’re trembling and gasping for air, pulling at his hair and only earning another moan that makes your back arch. Ben laps at you through the orgasm, hips still slamming against the bed.

Then, one second, his beard his grazing over your inner thigh and his lips are pressed against the over sensitive, pulsing bundle of nerves. The next you’re face down with a thick arm around your stomach, dragging you back against Ben’s chest like a ragdoll. 

“Need to get in that pussy,” he growls, dragging his cock between the lips of your cunt. “Give you this cock real good, show you who the fuck you belong to, right now.”

Ben bites and sucks on your neck, the head of his dick bumping against your clit, but he still doesn’t push inside. Your nails dig into your forearm, the wet sound of him sliding against you filling the room, and you almost don’t know what the fuck he’s waiting for.

“Please,” you breathe out, dropping your head against his shoulder and giving him your best, sweetest eyes. “Please, Ben- Fuck me.”

Another one of those feral sounds rips from Ben’s chest, and his hand drags down to press two thick fingers against your clit as he slowly pushes himself inside. The breath is knocked from your lungs at the first inch, a broken sound escaping your lips.

Ben’s free arm wraps around your neck, the bulging bicep forcing your head back further so he can kiss over your open, drooling mouth.

“That’s it,” he coos, rubbing your clit back and forth as he presses deep into your cunt. “That’s a good little slut, takin’ just what I give you, come on-“

You whimper, and Ben deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue down your throat as he pushes another inch. You clench down around him and he groans, kissing you brutally as he bullies the last few inches inside of you.

He’s so big it makes sparks dance on the edge of your vision. You’ve never been this full, every single nerve in your body all too aware of the delicious split of Ben’s cock. Between the head lock and his mouth against yours, the tears can’t stop streaming down your face. Ben growls your name, kissing a stray one near your lips, his tone a warning you can barely hear.

“Christ- You’re fuckin’ tight- Gotta- Relax-“

You can’t. You’re overstimulated and so needy you can’t think, can’t move, can’t do anything but feel the smeared arousal between your thighs, the drag of Ben’s cock against your g-spot, the muscle and heat of his body wrapped all around you.

You clench down again, and the very last bit of Ben’s resolve snaps.

He cums inside of you suddenly, moaning down your throat as he ruts up in short, rough thrusts. The cum spills into your until you’re warm and stuffed, then runs down your ass and over your thighs. It’s so wet you think he’d slip right out of you, if it wasn’t for the headlock. You’re so full you don’t even remember how to breathe, until Ben squeezes just under your breast and groans your name.

“Don’t go out on me, doll, c’mon-“ He groans and kisses you again, his hand dropping back down to spread against your tummy. “Fuck- You feel so fuckin’ good- Better than coke, baby, Christ-“

You make another broken sound, your voice hoarse and small from the arm around your throat.

Then Ben starts to fuck you, and you think you might ascend.

He rolls his hips in long, deep thrusts, dragging in and out of your cunt like a machine. The sound of your cum mixing—sliding between your bodies with every single shift—is obscene. You’re being used like the most tended to, adored fuckdoll in the world. Ben cradles you like he thinks you’ll break, and fucking you like he’s trying to take you apart.

You feel him everywhere, with every single slam of his cock against your g-spot. Your vision swims, the tears falling freely, and Ben kisses every single one away with another, brutal thrust.

“Fuckin’ crying for me, babydoll?” He nips at your lower lip, and you whine a sound like his name. “Pretty girl can’t fuckin’ take it after begging? So sensitive you need to fuckin’ whine?”

You turn your cheek, giving him your best, pleading doe eyes. You can’t tell if his gaze sharpens or focuses. His thrusts become deeper, and his thumb finds your swollen, pulsing clit again. You sob, and he kisses the sound away with a hum.

“Bein’ such a good fuckin’ slut,” he mutters, pinching your clit and rolling it between his fingers. “Takin’ this cock like a pro, baby, like you were fucking made for me.

You babble his name again, and Ben smirks. This kiss is slower. Almost loving, and in a stark contrast with how he’s drilling into your gaping cunt.

The orgasm washes over you like a wave, and Ben moans your name as you squeeze down around him. Your vision goes white and you thrash, your body being wracked with so much pleasure you can only scream. Ben’s cock slams home against your g-spot, and rush of something wet and hot flood out of your pussy, and you think you might pass out.

At the least, you’re floating out of your body. Ben cums with rough, spat out praise, then slowly lowers you back down to the mattress. Weight shifts around. He rubs your back as you gasp for air, then slowly rolls you over and pushes your legs back open.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, the words far away, but his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Didn’t know you could get this fuckin’ dumb and quiet. Should’ve been fucking you every day.”

He laughs to himself, and your hand flies up, unsure what it’s looking for.

Ben catches it, twines your fingers together, kisses your knuckles, and presses it back into the mattress.

“Need more, doll,” he rasps, and you whimper. “I’ll go easy. Not tryin’ to break my-“

He cuts himself off. You don’t have the words to push him. You don’t have the energy to do anything. Ben kisses your stomach, then lower, then lower. You gasp softly, when you feel his tongue lapping at your pussy. It’s gentler than before. Slower, almost careful. He works you open, mixing your releases together and tasting it almost for the sake of tasting it.

Your eyes cross, as the soft, tickling sensations. They’re strangely relaxing, even if they make your pussy flutter hopelessly.

“Easy,” Ben murmurs, kissing over your clit. “Nice and fuckin’ easy.”

It is. You go limp again, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of his tongue. He’s not trying to make you cum, or get you ready. God knows you could probably take a fist in there right now, with how he’s left you soaked and open. You can hear his fist working against his cock again, and find the energy to look up again.

He’s almost art, above you. Hair mussed and tangles, dominating your vision, whole face wet and eyes blown out. You squeeze his hand in yours and smile. He blinks, and his jaw sets as he understands. 

This time, he doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He must understand by now, that you might be more depraved than even he can dream up. You’d sit on his cock for the rest of your life, if he let you. And there are worse ways to be worshipped, than with everything a man—a broken, titan of a man who’s made of more than he can understand—has to give.

You let yourself lose track of it all. Ben moves you into positions you didn’t know you could make, hauling you back into his lap, flipping you over and dragging your ass in the air, sitting you on top of him and guiding your hips back and forth until you’re mewling his name and shaking around his cock. The whole room might have to be burned, when this is over. There isn’t an inch of your body he hasn’t cum on, kissed, spanked, or grabbed.

He ends up on top of you again, holding your knees back against your chest with a single arm, fucking you slow enough to drag long, loud moans from your lips every time.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters, watching his thick, swollen cock slide in and out of your cunt, smearing and spreading hours of cum between your thighs. “My pretty fuckin’ doll.”

You moan, reaching up with shaking hands to cup the back of his neck. His gaze drags back to yours, and you smile. You don’t know where the delicate, flowering thing inside of you is coming from. You think it’s always been there, and Ben’s stripped you so bare there’s nowhere to hide it, no way to make it wither. With his hands so gentle on your hips and thighs, his gaze so clouded with adoration you think that—to anyone else—he wouldn’t look like the same man, there’s nothing left to do but let this bloom.

“I love you,” you breathe out, the first words you’ve said in hours. “I love you, Ben.”

His eyes go impossibly darker. His fingers dig into you, and he crashes forward with a groan.

Ben cums one last time, and you pass out at his kisses all over your face, murmuring words you feel more than hear.

He doesn’t say it back. You didn’t think he would. Ben coddles you like a child after, wrapping you in a shirt that somehow survived the damage and carrying out back to your room. You get a warm bath and glass of water. Your stomach rumbles, and suddenly there’s food in your hand. Ben rises you both off in the shower, his breathing heavy and his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

You can feel it with every single touch. That he’s trying to find a way to tell you. That it’s carving through his chest that he doesn’t know how.

And you’ll wait. Telling him he doesn’t have to will do nothing but make him more frustrated, and you’re happy to have whatever he can offer after… this.

He figures it out faster than you thought, though. He lays in bed with you, glaring at the ceiling and rubbing your side. You watch him, your head propped on his chest, and smile. You lean up and press a kiss to his jaw, and he grunts in surprise, his gaze dropping to yours.

You smile again. His throat bobs. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks back to the ceiling and lets out a slow, deep breath.

“Marry me.”

You blink at him. If you had an ounce of strength left in your body, you’d sit up. “What?”

“You heard me,” he grunts, glancing back down at you. “You mean what you said?”

“Of- Of course I meant it-“

“You sure?”

“Fuck you,” you shove his chest, and his mouth twitches. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t sure, asshole. But-“ You point a stern finger. “I’m not marrying you.”

That makes him really, deeply frown. “Why not.”

“Because I’m not crazy.”

“That ain’t crazy, doll, you love something, you fucking marry it-“

“Marry it?” You snort. “What, are you gonna marry the fucking TV?”

“No, you brat, I’m marrying you.”

Your mouth falls open. Ben glowers at you, his fingers digging on your hips again, like he’s worried you’re going to run. “Me?” You whisper, and Ben grunts.

“Don’t see me fuckin’ proposing to anyone else, do you.”

You laugh weakly. “But this is- Ben, this is a bad proposal-“

“It is not bad-“

“It’s horrible-“

“You’re going to say yes,” he snaps, and you sigh, tracing over the line of his pecs.

There’s something raw under that demand. Something you don’t want to mock or poke at. That you want to nurture, to get him to show without barbing it in a defensive wire.

But you’re also not marrying him after one sex marathon.

“I want dinner,” you say, and he frowns.

“I’ll get you a fucking ring-“

“No.” You lean down until your noses bump. “Dinner.”

Ben glares at you. You glare back, rubbing his chest, and he slowly relaxes under your touch.

“Dinner,” he mutters, and you beam, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

He grabs the back of your neck, holding you above him. “You’d say yes, though,” he rasps, and god help you, you would.

You just kiss him instead. Long and slow and deep, telling him in a language you know he prefers to speak. And you can feel it, under every single touch. How much he really, truly means it.

Five dinners, you tell yourself, but if Ben keeps holding you like this, you know. You’ll only last until he asks you again, and then—just like before—you’ll all too happily give in.

✦End note: theory answered: yes he can ✦

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“I swear I’m gonna throw up.”

“Come on, Dean. It’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it. 

“I’m choking, sweetheart.” Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. “I can’t breathe. Oh no, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.”

“You literally have nothing to leave. You don’t even have a will! You’ve been legally dead like—five times.”

Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse. 

Calling it a warehouse is a dishonor, though, considering all the walls are pure white marble and every corinthian column holding up the insanely tall ceiling is made of rose quartz. There’s no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like you’re walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this. 

You’d gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as “a disturbance in the force” around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. You’d driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town. 

You’d spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could be—another horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even God—just to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead. 

Deciding that walking in without any idea of what you’d be facing was a terrible idea, you decided to do some research first.

But somehow, none of the locals are able to see the warehouse even though the thing looms over the town, glinting bright pink under the sun, blinding and imposing even from the town square. 

You tried talking to some hipster girl outside an artsy cybercafé, the small hill where the shop was located giving you a perfect view of the building between all the valentine’s day decorations hanging from the light posts.

When she claimed to have never heard of such a place, you stood right next to her and pointed directly to the marble cathedral, forcing her gaze away from Dean and toward the horizon. Suddenly the owlish heart-eyes she was making disappeared, and fog settled over her irises. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her whole body tensing. Then she blinked, like she was just waking up from a heavy nap, and turned back to Dean as if nothing happened. 

“Nah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.” All three of you gaped as she twirled a strand of carrot-dyed hair with her finger, not even acknowledging you or Sam or the fucking magical castle right in front of her eyes. “Maybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.”

You wanted to suffocate her with her woolen beanie, maybe scoop her eyes out with those stupid, huge non-prescription glasses. Instead, you gave her a polite goodbye and stomped your way down back to the town square, dodging inflatable cupids and heart balloons. Sam and Dean followed suit a few seconds after. 

You continued asking around, but every time you directed someone’s gaze to the warehouse, they got the same hazy look in their eyes. Some of them continued to talk after like Hipster Girl, some of them scurried away as soon as they snapped out of whatever spell they were under, one poor high school boy ended up throwing up into the pink rose bushes of the local park.

“So, are we thinking witch?” 

You were back in the Impala, officially declaring interviews useless around noon. Sam and Dean were in the front seat, munching on some hotdogs while you picked at your pink-dyed cheese fries in the backseat, chewing on heart-cut pieces of bacon as you thought back on Hipster Girl’s eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip. 

Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Dean’s grin turned sharp at the sight of it—

You needed to focus. 

“Probs. There’s definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I don’t know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.”

Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didn’t meet his eyes. “Deity, then?”

You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldn’t be too long until one of them—most likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talk—cornered you about what’s been going on. 

The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.

Valentine’s day is tomorrow, and it’s been driving you insane.

All Dean seems to talk about is the festivity, and how eager he is to dive into the first bar he finds and “comfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokin’ girls.” You threatened him with your knife, “shut up or I’ll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.” He only got louder. 

Evading the man you’re in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesn’t work very well. Every tune in the radio is a love song, every movie in the staticky motel TVs is a rom-com, every diner you enter has a new Valentine’s milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while you’re usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound. 

Dean doesn’t love you, not like you love him. 

It’s the end of the fucking world, you’re hunting down the Devil, and still Dean can’t find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who they’re now stuck with. The man who’d sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, can’t fathom to look at you twice. 

Sam brought you back Valentine’s themed gummies when you stopped at a gas station this morning instead of your usual ones. You sneaked off to the restroom and flushed them down the toilet. 

You’re being petty. It’s Armageddon time, you’re entitled to some pettiness. 

You continued your research after lunch, but the whole town turned out to be incompetent. No records of the building or its construction, no local folklore or legends, no precedents of supernatural activity. 

Feeling restless and ready to break some skulls, you proposed to just walk in and see it for yourselves. Dean was all for it, but Sam forced all of you to grab some witch-killing bullets and a few extra guns first. By mid-afternoon, you were walking through the rose-tinted glass door of the place. 

You were expecting an evil lair, a palace of some kind, maybe an actual place of worship, but what you found instead was a storage room. 

“What the—” Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes he’s still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground. 

There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentine’s decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestals—an expensive-looking vase, many marble statues of little angel babies and naked torsos, a half-eaten apple for some reason. Ballet music was playing from somewhere, there were romantic and erotic paintings everywhere but none were actually mounted on the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rose petals and peaches. 

Which brings you back to the present, with Dean pretending to die from sweet, stuffy air while you all sort through the mess in search for something that gives away your cupid’s identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap you’d accidentally stepped on, you’d just assumed it’s a cherub.

“Can’t wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.”

The little glass swan you’re holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks. 

“Have we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?” You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic. 

You move to the back right corner of the warehouse, where a bunch of books are arranged in a neat pyramid. Maybe this cupid keeps a diary, who knows?

“I don’t think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. I’m not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.”

You nod, glancing up at Sam as he finishes with the heart boxes and moves to look through a stack of what looks like discarded love letters, judging by the glittery ink and tearstains on the old paper. 

Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, who’s searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. There’s a bunch of beauty products already laying carelessly on top, expensive blushes and mascaras and a million lipsticks. Dean keeps going through the cabinets, pulling out everything he finds. He picks up a perfume bottle and sniffles it, immediately grimacing. So much for feeling dizzy. 

He glares down at the bottle like it personally offended him, looking goddamned adorable under the pinkish glow, the golden flecks of his eyes sparkling. 

You focus back on the book pyramid and grab one at random, flipping it open with your chest heavy and your throat dry. Dean fits right in with the collection of beauty surrounding you, always the prettiest thing in the room. You, on the other hand, are more like a dark cloud in a perfect blue sky. 

The stupid flutter of your heart is immediately halted as it stops completely.

You picked up a porn book. Not a magazine, it has a hardcover and there’s text all down the right page, but the left page is pure porn. Three pictures, like a collage, all featuring the same couple. A girl on her knees, sucking some guy’s dick. The same dick now between her tits, a hint of a smile on her lips. The guy now with his head buried under her skirt, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Regrettably but almost unconsciously, you flip to the next page. A guy, bright eyes hooded and pretty mouth parted, desperately humping a pillow. The book slips from your hands, landing wide open on the ground. You scramble to pick it up and snap it closed. 

Ignoring the brothers’ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one. 

One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. There’s one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. There’s one with two girls making out in the mud. There’s one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one. 

You’re not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, there’s this thing. It writhes and snarls and wants. It makes you feel sick, it makes you feel high, it makes you want to explode. Sometimes, you let it out—muzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away. 

It feels too dangerous, perverse. It’s scary, just how feral it can be. 

It cannot be healthy. You’ve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy. 

You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words “sexy,” “steamy,” or “adult” gets thrown away right away. Any slightly suggestive title gets turned around so you can inspect the information in the back cover. The books that look innocent enough get inspected further. Some of them are in other languages—some Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you can’t read gets discarded.

Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little “hidden” books, some simply take whatever innocuous topic they name on the front page and turn it unnecessarily sexual. You read through half a cooking book before finding a recipe for cum cupcake frosting (ew), you find a porn version of The Wizard of Oz that makes you giggle, you find a mechanic’s guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.

You’ve started to open the books halfway through, just to skip any buildup bullshit, and quickly regret it. Because there, spread across both pages, is a black Chevy Impala. Not a ‘67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. He’s completely naked, lean muscles glinting in the sun of whatever arid place they shot this in, fucking up into a girl whose face has been cut out of frame.

The guy has dirty blond hair, a little too dark. His eyes are a shade closer to lime than forest, and his skin is paler than the gold that haunts your dreams. Still, there are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and shoulders. His nose is straight, his lips are full, and his jaw is sharp. It’s too fucking close. 

His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girl’s thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girl’s pussy. His chest is lined with scratches—deep, angry red that he sure seems to enjoy. It might be just you, but his lips seem to be holding the shape of a plea, his eyes teary and his whole body taut. 

His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. There’s bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny. 

He looks like Dean. 

The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every time—how hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels. 

Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.

“Hey,” Dean says your name, way too close. “Look!”

You shut the book closed so hard that the smack echoes through the warehouse, the blow making your bones shake. You turn around to face Dean like he caught you with your hands inside a corpse’s innards. You almost wish he had, you’d feel less dirty. 

“Hi.” Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns. 

“You okay?” You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Dean’s eyes shift down to it, forest green that’d look beautiful all teary. You squirm. “You sure? What’s that thing?”

“Just a true crime book about ‘crimes of passion.’ It’s a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. I’m fine now.” You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. “You wanted to show me something?”

“Right.” Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. “I found this, and I thought you’d like it.”

He extends his hand toward you, holding up some kind of bronze arm cuff. Three thin copper wires swirl in pretty spirals, braided carefully and embedded with pearls and crystal charms. Two flowers rest at the ends, rose quartz petals and iridescent centers. The whole thing sparkles like it’s covered in fairy dust. 

“It’s gorgeous, Dean.” You delicately pick it up from Dean’s hand, thumbing at the smooth pearls and cold metal. There's something engraved behind each petal, you can vaguely make out a few Greek letters. “Where did this angel get all this stuff?”

“Dunno, but I guess they won’t miss one thing.”

You blink up at Dean. He’s glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. “You want me to keep it?”

Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Sam’s attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess. 

“We don’t come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.” The words seem sour in his own mouth, like they’re spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. 

No, I don’t. Not really. 

You’re glad when Sam chimes in. 

“I don’t think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. We’re still not sure it’s a cherub, and we don’t wanna upset anything.”

Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You don’t get many beautiful things. You don’t get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. That’s just your life. 

“There’s nothing in these books,” you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. “We should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what we’re actually dealing with.”

With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. You’ve only taken three steps when Dean stops you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist firmly.

When you face him, his eyes are downturned and a little pleading. Too close, too fucking close. 

“At least try it on.” It takes you a second to figure out what he’s talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.

“De—”

“Come on.” You don’t understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “When will I—any of us get enough money to buy something like that?”

You hold your breath, Dean’s fingertips, so callused from his pistol, gently tracing circles over your pulse. You deserve beautiful.

You nod, barely-there jerk of your head. Just this once. “Fine. But I’m taking it off before we leave.”

Dean seems satisfied enough, letting go of your arm before shoving his hands on his pockets, feigning nonchalance. You can see the mask slipping on, the armor he’s built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You don’t understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, it’s so obvious now. 

Dean pretends to be cool, you pretend to be sane. Neither of you call the other out.

Slowly, you slide your right hand inside the cuff, being mindful not to break it or damage it somehow. It feels like something you’d break, too lovely for your reverse Midas touch. The bronze is cold against your skin, and the wires feel too loose all the way until they reach your mid arm. Like magic, the bracelet seems to resize itself, wrapping around you just tight enough not to fall, but not digging into your skin. Your whole body tingles.

“What do you think?” You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam. 

He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place. 

You end up facing a giant mirror, gentle swoops and little doves engraved in the golden frame. Your eyes latch onto the jewelry on your arm, and it looks indeed beautiful. The flowers are delicate against your flesh, soft and too pretty to be yours. The sentiment appears to have extended to the rest of you.

Because when you find your own face in the reflection, you look… cute. Hard edges eroded by the soft lighting, fairy dust shimmering in your eyes and lips. It’s not a physical change, it’s still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light. 

It feels nice. It’s been too damn long since you felt anything other than contempt towards yourself.

Dean is behind you, looming over your shoulder, and he looks even more gorgeous than the arm cuff. He looks like an angel—not the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.

Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Dean’s chest is there to hold you up, like it always is, and both of you exhale loudly. As if the same weight had been lifted off your shoulders. 

You can’t help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.

“Guys, I think I found something.”

Sam stands just behind the vanity, throwing you a double look over his shoulder when he finds you pressed together. Your cheeks flush harder than before, and you clear your throat at the exact same time Dean takes a step back. The distance hurts, but everything always seems to ache with Dean. You both walk over to Sam without looking at each other. 

There’s another pile of miscellaneous things at Sam’s feet, and for a moment you wonder if he only wanted to separate you from Dean in an attempt to save you from later heartache. But then you take a look closer. 

The first thing you see is a deck of tarot cards. Next to it is a baby blue crystal ball, a few boxes of incense, a bunch more candles. But then you see the sword, shadows swimming along the blade like lost souls. And the Book of Shadows, and the glowing bow, and the suitcase full of little vials. 

And the hexbags. 

“Shit, you think it’s actually a witch?”

“Not quite.” A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. “But you’re getting warmer.”

All three of you turn around at the exact same time, Sam and Dean with their guns in hand. You tug your knife out from your belt, your fingers brushing your lower back. Your skin feels more sensitive than usual, you ignore it in favor of surveying your new companion. 

Your white-knuckled grip goes slack around the handle of your blade.

Sitting on top of a nearby pedestal, smooth as the statues around him and dazzling as everything else in the room, there’s a kid. 

He looks around eighteen or nineteen, his eyes big and angelic. His lips are pouty, bright pink and glossy. His whole body is glossy, that after-sex glow that makes people look holy. His hair is light blond and messy around his face, but in a deliberately sensual way, and he’s wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones. 

He’s blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless. 

The boy laughs, low and velvety, and it really is a sight to behold. Perfect teeth, pink tongue peaking out, smooth bare thighs dangling from the black plinth. He’s not the kind of man you’re usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you can’t help but ogle a bit.

It’s only fair, you’re almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.

“Put that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.” The kid lands on the bronze floor gracefully, giving Dean an up-and-down look that drags you out of your enchantment slightly. He bites his lower lip, picking up a little dove figurine from a nearby table, spinning it between his fingers.

You’re always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time there’s not an ounce of doubt. 

Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises. 

Of course, someone like that could not be human. 

His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you. 

“Don’t get any fucking closer.” Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. It’s always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. “What the hell are you?”

You turn to Sam, and you find him already staring at you. Silently, the two of you try to put it together while Dean distracts your Adonis. 

Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Sam’s voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face. 

That’s certain, I don’t think angels can look like—that. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either. 

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist. 

“No wonder you kids are famous, look at you!” At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Dean’s gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesn’t seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. “Those pretty faces, those eyes!” He cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. “I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t given you the Ganymede treatment.”

Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.

“Holy fuck.” You gasp, dragging the god’s glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentine’s day, erotic overload. “Lord Eros.”

The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit. 

Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who you’re up against. This isn’t good. This can’t be good.

“I see you’re the smart one! Such beauty as well.” Eros purrs, licking his lips slowly. It makes you squirm, both uncomfortably and for a different reason that makes you want to vomit. You must be worked up from the books. Your whole body feels swollen and vulnerable. “If anyone was to find my little vault, I’m glad it’s you.”

“All of this is yours?” Sam asks, lowering his gun. 

“I’m bad at throwing things away.” The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. “What can I say, I’m sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.”

He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur. 

“Eros. Which one is that again?” Dean seems to have shaken off the god’s enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. He’s given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.

It’s not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire. 

“Cupid, for the Romans.” Eros groans loudly at Sam’s words.

“Romans, they were so fucking boring.” The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. “Had such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.” He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times. 

You hope he’s not getting a hard-on. 

“Okay, so you’re like—a supercharged cherub?” You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.

“Don’t you ever compare me to those guys!” Eros’ voice is still saccharine and melodical, but now he sounds all whiney as he squeezes the little dove in his hand until his whole hand is white. Dean’s shoulders relax. Oh no. “They’re disgusting little things who can’t tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!”

You can see Dean choosing his retort carefully, you try to give him another warning. Your breath stutters at the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, and you end up choking on the words. The arm cuff feels warm against your skin. Every inch of your being feels hot.

“Careful there, princess, you’re gonna break a nail.”

Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time. 

“I would be really careful, Dean Winchester.” His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. “I may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.”

“Dean,” you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you? 

“Am I supposed to be afraid?” He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. “What, you’re gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?”

“Dean.” This time it’s Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. “He’s not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.” Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until he’s just a step away from the three of you. You can’t handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close. 

“Yeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.” The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. “But it’s not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but he’s simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy… that’s who you should be afraid of.”

His eyes scan you one by one, staying on you for just a moment too long before moving to Dean. Then, he grins, leaning so close that his little button nose brushes Dean’s crooked one. 

“But you already are, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces. 

“We're not here to antagonize you.” Sam intervenes. You’re still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. “We just wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“And it’s not.” Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. “You have all of those people in town under a spell. We can’t have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.”

Dean and his fucking bravado. It’ll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while you’re too damn defective to act. 

You try to talk to Eros, take back Dean’s words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Eros’ eyes flare.

“You’re more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But you’re also more… complex.” He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. “Nice bling you have there.”

Shit.

Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck can’t get any worse. 

Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesn’t budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.

“What did you do?” Dean snarls. 

When the sharp metal starts to dig on your skin deep enough to break it, you give up. The bronze wires go back to resting gently around your arm as soon as you let go, reverting to warm and delicate. 

“I didn’t do anything.” Eros’ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. “You did. It’s not nice to take what’s not yours, you know?”

Dean and you stare at each other, terrified. Hot flashes, ache between your thighs, wet.

You double over, hands holding your lower stomach. Every cell in your body howls, your mouth waters, your legs tremble, and you can’t hear anything. For a moment, you’re sure you’re dying. 

“—me! I took it! Kill me!”

Dean’s voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Eros’ cackle is piercing. It brings you back. 

“I’m not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste that’d be.” The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. “I’m the god of desire, baby. I’m here to make people feel good.”

“Wait, wait,” you cry, trying to straighten up. You only manage to take a step toward Eros before you fall to the floor, knees smashing against bronze. “Fuck!”

You remember when you were younger, around seven or eight, and you used to throw yourself to the floor. Letting your knees give up, at any given moment, giggling all the way through. The thud of bone against tile, the slight ache, the bruising. You did it, over and over again, until your skin turned all shades of purple. And then you’d run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed. 

Disgusting, from the very start.

“Fuck!” You repeat, but this time it’s in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. “Stop, stop, please! It feels—” 

Your words are so breathy that you’re not sure anyone can understand you. Your eyes are glassy as you crawl back from the amused god, the world turning technicolor as the pressure builds. Your back hits something, a wall or pedestal or table, and you pull your knees up to your chest.

“I’m gonna—ah.” You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whatever’s behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. “It hurts, please. Please, stop.”

“You think it hurts now?” Eros kneels by your side, and you’re able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like it’s melting back into the ocean. Not a release, but a promise. Your body ends up achy with the frustration of dropping so suddenly, boneless and exhausted. “The flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until you’re in your fifth orgasm.”

“You son of a bitch!” Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy feet. “Take that shit off of her, or I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”

Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so close—Dean’s muddy jacket against the pristine white of Eros’ shirt—makes you buzz all over. 

“That’ll just hurt you more than me, handsome.” The god winks, salacious. “Oh, in another life, in another life.”

It’s a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure. 

The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit you’ve never found hot before. 

“How about I make you boys a deal?” Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. You’ll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. “You help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?”

“Survive this? So it is gonna kill her.” You don’t think you’ve heard Sam this furious before. 

Did the cuff affect your perception of reality? Or does the fairy dust glow affect others? Because the Winchesters would never be this concerned about you otherwise. Why are they so angry? 

They probably don’t want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, you’re dead weight on their already sinking ship.

“No, but it’s gonna get… nasty.” Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.

A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, “How do we help?”

Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull. 

“You’ll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.” The god is still glued to Dean’s chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. “You’re either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or you’re gonna despise her. Either way, I’m in for a fabulous show.”

With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches. 

Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everything’s sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so it’s easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh. 

“...we gonna do?”

“...ake her back…somewhere safe, so she…”

“...don’t know w…”

“...research in the car. Come on.”

Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories. 

Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violence—Eros’ whole deal. 

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Sam’s voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. “We need to get to the car, and you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. Okay?”

You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean won’t carry you. 

It makes sense, you wouldn’t want to touch something as gross as you either.

Before your mind can slip again, arms slide under your knees and back. A second later, you’re airborne.

You gasp, holding onto Sam’s shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and you’re able to take in the brothers’ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. It’s a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get. 

Dean’s shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but you’ve learned to recognize when he’s upset like a sixth sense. You must make a noise of some kind, because Sam is shushing you under his breath and murmuring gentle reassurances just for you. 

“We’re gonna find out how to get the cuff off. You’re fine, we won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with us.”

“I know.” Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybe—just maybe—you were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. “I trust you.”

He gives you one of those beams that bring out his dimples, fringe falling onto his eyes as a gust of fresh air hits your face. The smell of soil and grass is comforting, no more roses or cream. You’re safe. 

For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.

Shut the fuck up.

Of course, peace doesn’t last long. The path down the field to the road out of town is long, cobblestone surrounded by yellow grass, and it all starts again soon enough.

The bronze heats up, your skin grows sensitive, a weight on your chest grows. Your tongue feels too slick against your teeth, your thighs are pressed too close together, the necklace around your throat is pushing deliciously against your windpipe. The ocean roars, preparing.

“Sam.” 

Your voice is low and whiny. You’ve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Sam’s arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesn’t drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you can’t do this right now. 

Sam has never been more than a possible friend, a little brother that you love wholeheartedly. But your body is on fire and the pain feels good and he smells too much like Dean—

“Sammy,” you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. “Sammy, I need—I need you to stop touching me. Right now.”

“What?” Sam sounds confused, but you can’t make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Sam’s hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. It’s building. Up, up, up.

“Stop touching her.” Dean’s somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. “Sam, fucking let her go!”

“But—” 

Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesn’t help. “Stop touching her or I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Just like that, you’re plummeting. 

The world spins, air roars all around you, there’s more screaming. Then, pain. 

Hard concrete under your hands and knees, stinging on your skin, warm crimson dripping. It should be awful, it should stop the heat between your thighs and uncoil your gut, but it only makes it worse.

Someone yells your name and you make a little agonizing noise, curling onto yourself on the dirty ground, arms wrapping around your middle like you can contain the blazing bomb ticking inside of you. The cuff rasps against the pavement, you want to cut off your arm.

“You told me to let her go!”

“I didn’t mean drop her, you fucking brute!”

The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of blood—you gasp desperately. 

You’re sick. You’re so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and you’re left begging it to please, don’t do it. You’re a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.

You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well. 

Divinely, intrinsically sick.

Breath by breath, second by second, you claw your way back from the edge. The heat gets more bearable, the fuzz goes back under your skin, the fog dissipates. The space between your legs is still throbbing, dripping and scorching, but now you can shift your knees without feeling like you’re gonna fly off your body. 

Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that you’re still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air. 

The wave has passed. 

“I don’t think—” Your voice is hoarse, you hope you weren’t being too loud. “I don’t think you should touch me anymore.”

You feel like a kid again, tiny and weak on the floor while the two men stare down at you. You keep your eyes on your bloody hands, ashamed, just like you had when your mother had caught you looking at a Heath Ledger magazine cutout for too long. You can feel the judgement in her eyes, her ugly words of immorality, the shame. Shame, shame, shame. 

“Son of a—” Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. “Come on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Baby’s right there, you can do it.”

Your eyes flicker up to find the Impala, parked just a few feet to your right. You almost, almost made it. It only makes you feel worse. 

Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breasts—your stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuck—you rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little. 

Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. It’s humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Dean murmurs before closing your door, once you’re already laying down across the backseat. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes. 

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

The car ride is hellish.

You’d decided to rent a small house instead of a hotel, expecting to work this case for a couple of days. It has two rooms and a small kitchen, secluded enough that no one would catch you working spells or burning bones. 

It’s a blessing. You can’t imagine having to deal with this in a motel room. At least here you can scream your head off if you want to and no one will call the police. 

But it’s also a curse, because it meant you were trapped in the Impala for a while, with the roaring of the engine making your bones vibrate and everything smelling like earth and gunpowder and DeanDeanDean.

“I can’t find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.” Sam’d said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?”

You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement. 

You hadn’t talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all you’d been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, who’s slowly waking up again. 

Still, you felt Sam’s gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.

How’re you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.

I don’t know who’s gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.

The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?

“I fucking hate when you two do that.” Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. “Fucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.”

Dean. Sam rolled his eyes before retorting something to his brother out loud, his eyes leaving yours.

Dean.

Your stomach flipped. You closed your eyes and didn’t open them again until you reached the house.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once you’re already out of the car. In the old colonial house everything smells like cockroaches and old lady, and Dean is far away from sight somewhere in the kitchen. It at least makes it easier to waddle into your room without collapsing.

Eros was right, it slowly starts getting worse. Your skin feels completely raw, like someone plucked all your feathers and left you to roast over a bonfire. You don’t understand how it is supposed to feel good. It’s just torture.

Your legs tremble as you crawl into bed, breath choppy and muscles on fire. Your clothes feel too coarse against your tender flesh, scratchy and heavy and wrong, so you rip them off with frenzied hands. 

It’s only once you slide your panties down your legs that you notice how ruined they are. The thin fabric completely soaked through, translucent and sticky with it, some even trickling down your thighs. 

The cold air of the room against your naked pussy feels like both a punishment and a relief. You break down in goosebumps, legs giving up as you fall face first on the mattress, completely bare except for Eros’ cuff and overpowered by the terrible ache seizing your body.

Suddenly, musk, coffee and motor oil hit your nose. With a strangled moan, you tilt back your head and find one of Dean’s shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh. 

He’d been late this morning, scrambling all over the house while you and Sam waited outside. This is his sleeping shirt, some old band merch that he barely washes. He probably just threw it over his shoulder when he came to check the salt lines in your window.

When you’re questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, you’ll claim that you tried. You tried really, really hard to ignore the shirt. But the smell of Dean is so strong, the fabric so smooth unlike your clothes—and it might just be your overheated body, but it still feels warm and worn against your cheek.

The beast takes over once more, and you bury your face against the frayed neckline. 

Finally, you have your first orgasm. 

There’s barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second you’re drowning in Dean’s shirt, the next one you’re drowning in pleasure. And oh, there it is. Pleasure at last.

All the pain transforms, shifts, blooms. Your hips jerk against the blankets, the fabric bunching up between your thighs and brushing over the puffy lips of your cunt, making you hiss at the overwhelming friction. Your hands fist the shirt, pulling it closer to your face, until you can taste it on your tongue and down your throat.

The wave becomes a tsunami, washing all over you and dragging away any resemblance of suffering. It’s all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you can’t help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium. 

This time the fall isn’t as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and you’re left drained but blissed. The shirt is soaked with your spit and the blankets soaked with your arousal. The room smells like sweat and sex and madness. The beast is roaming free, your mind is empty of any shame, you’ve never felt more alive. 

Why have you been denying this to yourself for so long?

Someone calls your name from outside the door. You almost fly off the bed. “Can we come in?”

“No!” You yell before clearing your throat. “Wait—wait a second.”

“...We can come back later.”

“No, No.” 

You quickly bundle Dean’s shirt and the blankets up in a little ball, throwing them inside the closet before pulling on clean underwear and a big sweater, long enough to hit mid thigh. You chuck one of the extra comforters Dean had brought you last night “just in case you get cold,” onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.

“Come in, it’s okay.”

You brush your sweaty hair off your forehead as the door opens, finding some drool on your chin. You wipe it off before either Sam or Dean can see, still a little too high on the afterglow to care all that much.

The Winchesters stand very still by the door, an old book in Sam’s hands and some water bottles in Dean’s, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. They’re not too far off. 

“Hey, so—” Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. “Oh. Oh, wow. Uhm—”

You frown, lucidity returning, worried that you’d missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. “What?”

Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after you’d forced them to look at Eros’ warehouse. He blinks a few times before his eyes return to his book, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, like a gutted stag. 

The bliss starts to turn into tar.

“Nothing, just—wow.” Sam’s voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he can’t handle a white lie to save his life.

“What?” You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously. 

“Are you feeling better?” Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you can’t judge him. 

“Yeah. I mean, it’s still working.” You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. “But the wave’s passed.”

“Another one?” You nod at Sam’s question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. “That’s around five minutes earlier than the last one.”

“Great.” You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. “So Eros wasn’t bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.”

“It was more intense?” Sam questions as if he’s conducting an experiment, you feel like you’re under his microscope. “How come?”

You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothers’ eyes on you. “I’m–I mean–I don’t–ugh.” You hide your face against your knees, your voice muffled. You wish you could just perish right now, but you also know that if you want Sam to find a cure, you need to tell him as much as you can. “It…toppled over. Like, all the way.”

“Huh?” One second, two more, and then: “Oh.”

Dean curses under his breath, sharp and angry. You lift your head just in time to watch him storm out of the room, your heart shattering all over the carpet as he slams the door behind him. 

Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesn’t make it better. You hate his pity, you hate that everyone knows how pathetically in love you are with Dean, you hate that they all feel sorry for you. You hate that Dean will never feel the same.

Sam whispers your name, you shake your head. 

“Just do whatever you need to do,” you murmur, sinking further into the bed. “Before I get sick again.” Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s sick. 

Now you remember why you don’t let yourself have this, not in this way. Because it’s degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldn’t desire like this,  for this. Blood shouldn’t taste good and sweat shouldn’t smell good and Dean shouldn’t feel good. 

He doesn’t deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when it’s so clear it repulses him.

You allow Sam to take a closer look at the bracelet, answering all his questions with an emotionless tone and letting your mind wander far away, where neither pleasure nor pain exist and you’re free of this carnal torment.

By the time Sam shuffles out the door, you’re half asleep already. He doesn’t dare to touch you again, but you can feel him giving you one last comforting look before locking you up in your room, like the monster you were always destined to be.

Falling onto the waiting arms of Morpheus is easy when every bit of you is spent and fuzzy. The breeze comes through the window, soothing whispers of leaves and sunlight. But in the distance, you can faintly hear Eros’ cackles, haunting you.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You haven’t seen Dean in a day. 

The rest of yesterday was spent drifting in and out of sleep, your body so unaccustomed to this amount of exertion that it could barely handle being awake for more than a few hours. 

Hours that were spent with you rolling around bed, riding wave after wave. At first you only dared to hump your pillows, ignoring the call of Dean’s shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter. 

It was enough, for a while. It felt safe, instinctual, less depraved.

But then, when your thighs were sore and trembling, threatening to give up under you, you started to use your fingers. Rubbing small circles over your clit, sliding lower until your folds parted, dipping into the warmth of your entrance. You’d scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for it—you forgot how good it could be.

You had to bite down on the sheets as your digits rammed inside of you, curving up to press against that gummy spot just as your thumb found your clit. Your other hand fondled with your breasts, pulling on the perks of your nipples and making you throw your head back. 

Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.

Not too soon after that, the fantasies started. 

Dean, always Dean. Over you and under you and next to you. Between your legs or draped over your back or shoving you to the floor. Burying his face in your pussy or pushing your head down on his cock. Calling you pretty as he kissed all over you, calling you dirty as his hand wrapped around your neck, calling you both as he came so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your throat. 

You’ve wondered if you started hallucinating at some point, because his voice in your ear was so clear and real. His name was always on your tongue, whispered or stifled or bloody, canines biting down on your arm deep enough to draw blood just to keep it down. 

Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldn’t stand not jumping in the shower, sticky with sweat and spit and arousal. But your skin was too raw for the decent water pressure of the house, the tiles were too cold, the water too hot, and you couldn’t stand looking at yourself in the mirror.

But then you’d discovered the handheld shower head. 

It’d been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruised—every orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind. 

But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast. 

After a two hour “shower,” you were able to sleep through the night.

Sam had checked on you periodically, always knocking loudly on the door before coming in, leaving water and food on your bedside table before updating you on his research. Sadly, he hasn’t found much. 

He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You don’t ask, he doesn’t explain. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding mirrors—you don’t want to see what your disease has done to your body. 

You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.

You’d ask Dean, but Dean hadn’t shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devil’s traps, not to make sure you’re not dead.

You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, you’d lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.

Sleep wasn’t perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing. 

After your first orgasm of the morning, you were able to take an actual shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed up in something other than oversized cotton shirts, ready to be reintroduced into society. 

You’d learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. You’d learned that the period between waves only gets shorter after a set of three or four, and that you have about five minutes after it starts before it gets unbearable. You learned that ignoring it only makes it more painful and more abrasive, and that trying to stop it is useless.

You also learned that you weren’t made to stay in one place only.

You’re already going stir-crazy, after one day of being locked up. If the curse is going to kill you, you want to see the sunlight at least one last time.

“I’m going out.” You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. “I’ll be back in exactly—” You glance down at your watch, where you’re timing your next wave. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“You’re what?”

You almost spit out the piece of bread you’d jammed into your mouth, not expecting Dean to still be here. His voice brings back memories of phantom praises and degradation and naughty orders. You have to physically shake them off before the tide rises early.

You turn around, finding Sam sitting on the dinner table, eyebags under his eyes and a million books surrounding him. Next to him, Dean is sipping on a cup of coffee, looking tired and upset, still in his pajamas and looking like he hasn’t left the house at all. 

They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you don’t let it deter your initiative.

“There’s a corner store less than a mile down the road,” you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. “I’m just gonna go buy some ice cream and I’ll be back.”

“The fuck you are!”

That makes you pause, just a few feet away from the door. Dean gets mad at you, sometimes. He gets irritated or grumpy or annoyed, but he never talks like that to you. With that much fury, with that much scorn.

“Excuse me?”

Dean is by your side in a second, arms crossed, wearing a scowl so deep that his face might just be stuck that way forever. “Go back to your room.”

You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you. 

“Is that an order?” Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. You’re seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when you’re like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to put it back together. How dare he, fusing your souls together in an everlasting way, just to take them both with him. 

How fucking dare he.

“I’m the guy who has to deal with your mess while you’re in there—whatever.” If you were less furious, you’d notice the flush creeping down his neck. “So go back to your room, and let us work.”

“You have to deal with my mess?!” you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. “You were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!”

Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you don’t care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.

“Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out getting passed around like a blunt?”

It’s depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.

“That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“It does if you’re getting in my way!” Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. “So why don’t you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.”

“Because I’m stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.”

“Hellenistic.” Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.

“No one’s asking you to!” You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because you’re just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. “Go! You’re free, Winchester. Leave! I’m not getting in the way of your fun, so don’t get in the way of mine.”

The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second you’re almost sure that the brothers left. But then, “Is that what this is about?”

You’ve never heard Dean like this, voice bitter and broken. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, and he looks like you just shot his puppy. At your attention, his mask hardens like concrete. 

But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.

“You want to go find someone? Have some fun?”

Oh. 

You’ve thought about it—someone else’s hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until you’re all placid sweet water. You could find some poor bastard too desperate or too foolish to notice the rabid foam in the corner of your lips, someone willing to take mercy on you, someone who can give you what you need.

Nonono. That’s all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong. 

You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.

“Maybe,” you answer instead, because you’re half delirious from Eros’ magic and the cuff is warming up again. Dean grimaces, gaze dropping to the floor, and the bomb that explodes inside of you is pure wrath. “What, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you can’t handle the idea of someone fucking me?”

Now Dean looks like he’s about to hurl. 

“Guys—”

“That’s not—ugh, you can be so…” Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like he’s physically trying to swallow back his words.

“No, no. Say it.” You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still won’t look at you, so you shove him back, craving a fight almost as much as you crave his love. He stumbles, just a few inches, because he just has to be built like a freaking wall of bricks. “Say it, Dean.”

To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw shit around, doesn’t even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve. 

“You’re going back to your room, and we’re gonna keep researching. That’s the end of it.”

Dean’s tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs. 

It doesn’t help how infuriated you are. 

“You’re not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!” You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles don’t budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut. 

“I’m not letting you go outside right now,” he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Not when—when you look like that.”

A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal. 

It’s not a surprise that Dean isn’t attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.

“Fuck you, Dean.” It comes out in a half-choked sob. You attempt to push him again but your touch is weak, a barely-there brush of your hand before you take a few clumsy steps back, tears burning on your eyes and needles prickling your skin. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you, I—”

You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. It’s too late for the store, and there’s nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and it’ll last too long and it’s too cold outside to take a walk—

Dean calls your name, a desperate plea you’ve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.

But you’re burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Dean’s chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and he’s so warm and firm behind you and you can’t—

White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’re made of pure lighting. It’s better than Dean’s shirt, It’s better than the showerhead. 

It’s Dean, finally.

You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. There’s the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But it’s all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Dean’s touch brought you.

It feels like it lasts hours, maybe days. An infinite spiral of gut-wrenching climax, a rollercoaster speeding up until you touch the sky, clouds on your fingertips and dew between your legs. 

When you come back to yourself, you’re once again on the ground. Your knees are sore, your throat is dry, your underwear is soaked. Spasms still travel through your body as you try to catch your breath, gasping violently and pawing at the legs in front of you for support. 

Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere. 

“Dean.” This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you can’t help but cling to his legs. Begging, praying for forgiveness. Like a sinner bleeding on an altar, like a sacrifice watching the executioner sharpen his knife. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m—”

Tears, streaming down your face like a broken dam. Your words melt into a bundle of sobs and wails, your whole body shaking with the force of them. If Dean didn’t hate you before, he for sure hates you now. 

Now that you’ve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.

“Sweetheart…” Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you. 

You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. “No, No. Don’t touch me! I’m sick! I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sick and I’m sorry.”

With a click of his tongue, Dean fists your ankle, dragging you across the floor and right into his body with just a yank of his arm. A loud moan escapes your lips. 

His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around. 

“Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.”

You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But you’ve been locked inside your room for a whole day, dealing with the rabid beast inside you all by yourself, yearning for the tiniest bit of comfort.

Comfort like Dean’s bare arms against yours, like his voice—his real voice—murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. It’s impossible not to take. 

Because you’re selfish and ugly and starved.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. I’m sorry for clinging to you like this. I’m sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. I’m sorry for wanting you. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? “It’s the cuff, I know. I—I’m sorry.”

You can’t help but tug him closer, fingers gripping his shirt and digging onto his ribs, your nose buried on his sternum. Your legs are intertwined, his hands are rubbing up and down your back, he’s everywhere. 

“Why? I’m the one who’s fucked up.” You’re not even sure Dean can hear you, your voice so tiny and broken. A chair scraps against the floor somewhere behind you, you hide your face further into Dean’s chest. “Hell, you didn’t consent to that at all, I’m so sorry.”

A moment of silence. Sam, who you’d forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. “I’ll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.”

Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.

You’ll be okay?

Probably not. 

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. 

I’d beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.

With that, he leaves. You’re left staring at the door, wondering how this all would’ve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you should’ve never been here.

“You didn’t either.” You turn back to Dean, confused. He watches your face for a second before dropping his gaze to your hands on his shirt, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t consent to this, either.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart, I—goddamn it.” He huffs, one of his hands leaving your body to rub over his face, rough and angry. Without thinking, you pull it away from where his pretty skin was already turning red under the punishing touch. You hold his palm in yours, cradling it against your chest. “You’re cursed and in pain, and I’m just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You blink a few times, tears still wet on your cheeks and slick still sticky on your thighs, wondering if the last orgasm left you with severe brain damage. Because what the fuck is he talking about?

“Dean…” you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. “All I’ve done is drag you and Sam into my—problem, over and over again. I’m the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?”

So many things flash on Dean’s face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.

“You really have no idea what you do to me.” For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Dean’s words keeping you grounded. “I’ve got a handle on it most days, but when you’re right here, moaning so sweetly and writhing so prettily… shit, baby, even the strongest man would falter. And you have the audacity to look like that.”

It hits completely different now. 

“What are you saying, Dean?” You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white. 

He utters your name, low and husky—an imprecation, a psalm. 

“You know damn well.”

“No,” you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises that’ve haunted you for so long. “I have no idea.”

“I want you, sweetheart.” He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. “I’ve been wanting you for years. I’m the one who’s truly sick.”

A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing of your body, you’d pinch yourself to make sure it’s not just another vivid dream. 

“But you never look at me?”

“What?”

“You never look at me, Dean.” Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Dean’s hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. “I’m always there, but you just see right through me.”

“Oh, baby.” Everything goes fuzzier every time he says it. Something in your face must show it, because Dean drops his hand and tries to pull back. You whimper, tugging harder on his shirt, practically crawling onto his lap. He groans. “You think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldn’t risk—I couldn’t risk losing you. Not you.” He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. “Still, you are all I can see.”

With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Dean’s lips. 

But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony. 

“Dean.” You mutter, because that’s all that's in your mind. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”

“Stop,” he pleads, but his hands latch onto your waist. You moan again, the prickling on your skin now a lot gentler, a lot less disgusting. Almost beautiful. “I can’t. It’s the cuff, baby. You don’t really want this.”

“I do. I want you, more than anything else.”

“Stop it. Now.”

You can’t.

“I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you, Dean.”

Your name, again, imploring.

“It’s not the stupid arm cuff, it’s not Eros’ magic, it’s not anything else. It’s just me. Me, wanting you so bad I can’t breathe when you’re not with me.” After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. “I’ve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when I’m patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.”

Dean tries to look away again, but you won’t let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did. 

“Look at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.”

You’re not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Dean’s mouth is on you. 

It’s violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Dean’s tongue is so far down your throat it makes you gag a little. He tries to apologize, but you shut him up by grinding down against his crotch, a hard bulge already there to welcome you under thin fabric.

You’re basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Dean’s fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder. 

“Fuck. Fuck, baby. I’m goin’ insane.” He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. “You have no idea—lookin’ so gorgeous, like fuckin’ sex reincarnated. I’ve been losin’ my mind.”

He sounds deranged, it’s only gasoline to the wildfire inside of you. You snarl against his collarbone, scratching at his shirt like it personally offended you, lips collapsing with the high neckline. Dean chuckles, endeared.

“Calm down, baby girl.” He uses the hand on your hair to guide you away from where your teeth were abusing the space between his neck and shoulder. You pout at the loss, Dean licks it away. “You’re so desperate, darling.”

He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until he’s lying down on the tiles, climbing over him until the outline of his cock is pressed right against your ass, gnawing on the hills of his pecs and down the ridges of his ribs.

“You have no idea, Winchester.” You make your way down his body, running your tongue through the faint trail of hair under his navel and chewing on his hip bone. Dean’s hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. “I’ve been locked in that room for ages. I’m more than desperate.”

“It was less than a day.” Dean’s laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement. 

His cock springs up proudly against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precum already. He hisses as the cold air hits him, and your mouth waters so bad you have to swallow down a mouthful of it. 

“How are you pretty all over?” You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. He’s big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. “Fucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.”

You pounce on him, taking him all the way down your throat in one go. Your gag reflex is completely gone, it has to be the arm cuff. The bronze burns against your skin, almost satisfied, and you hope Eros isn’t watching from somewhere.

But deep down, you don’t really care. He can enjoy the show.

All that matters is the veins of Dean’s dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud you’re glad there aren’t any neighbors nearby, as you start bopping your head. Your throat contracts around his length, and the strain of his fingers on your locks have you humping his leg, dying for a little friction. 

“Shit, darlin’, warn a guy.” He pants, starting to thrust up into your mouth. You pin his hips down to the floor, letting the edge of your teeth brush right under the engorged head. Dean cries out the sweetest noise you’ve ever heard. “Yeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckin’ mouth, so warm and wet for me. You’re heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.”

You feel anything but angelical right now, sweat beading on your forehead as you pull back until just the tip is on your tongue, using your hand to stroke the rest of his shaft. Your tongue dips into his slit, savoring the bitter and musky taste of precum, the beast howling for more. 

“Shit, shit. Wait.” Dean tries to drag you up by the hair, but you claw at his hips and stay right where you belong, suckling on his cock while your other hand fondles his balls. “Stop, I’m gonna—Gonna cum, sweetheart. You need—”

You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at him—green irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. It’s better than the guy in Eros’ book, better than your wettest dreams. He’s perfect.

“I want you to cum.” You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. “I want to taste it, De.”

Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.

“I’m not cursed like you, you little vixen. I can’t—” He shudders as you start to leave little kitten licks all over him, lowering your head until you can suck one of his balls into your mouth. “Motherfu—I can’t come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.”

A long, dragged moan vibrates in your chest at that, your hips rutting harder against his leg. You return to the head of his cock, leaving a saccharine open-mouthed kiss there. 

“It’s okay, I can wait.” You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Dean’s fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. “Besides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.”

“When did you—Ah!” The back of your throat must be bruised, aching as Dean bumps into it again, tender flesh holding the memory of his cock. The thought brings you closer to orgasm than you’d like to admit. “When did you get so filthy?”

Always. You want to say. I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this perverse. 

Instead, you squeeze his balls in one hand and hollow your cheeks, tongue twirling around him before pushing against the pulsing vein on the underside. He growls hoarsely before going really still, spilling all over your mouth, head falling back on the floor with a thundering bang. 

The overly-familiar feeling of climax reaches you, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, no longer tearing you apart from the inside out. Your hips stutter against Dean’s thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release. 

He’s coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. He’s all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.

You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Dean’s softening cock before climbing back on top of him. 

He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glistening—absolutely drained. His hand slips from your hair, falling onto your thigh clumsily, neck and chest blooming with teeth marks and hickeys. You puff up with pride. 

“Come on.” You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isn’t gone, but it’s not wrecking you either. You’re hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but you’re not hurting. Not anymore. You’re just eager. “Let’s get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.”

Dean groans, curling into himself a little. “You’re a psycho, I should’ve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.”

“You can thank Eros for that.” Anguish flashes on Dean’s face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until he’s a puddle under you. “Stop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."

“Jesus Christ.” His hands return to your body, kneading the fat of your ass and your upper thighs, making you roll your hips faster. Still, when his eyelashes flutter open, something troubled dances in his eyes. “You’re batshit crazy. I adore you.”

That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. It’s just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside. 

“Come on, big boy.” You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. “Unless you don’t wanna fuck me?”

With an exasperated huff, Dean collects you in his arms and jumps to his feet. You yelp, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clutching his shoulders. 

“Dean! What are you—”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.”

It’s not special, you have to remind yourself. You’re not special.

You end up in your room, your sheets crumpled and still holding the shape of you, the open window barely helping the smell of sweat and sex. 

“You really made a mess in here, huh?” Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. “Left all alone, so fucking needy.”

“Yes,” you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. “It was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.”

“But you tried, hm?” He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. “Tried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?”

You nod, a little fevered under Dean’s gaze. His hands start to roam all over, brushing your legs and squeezing your waist and cupping your tits over your bra. You arch against the touch, impatient. “Off. Dean, take it off.”

“Not until you tell me what you did,” he whispers in your ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Your breath hitches, wondering if you could cum from his voice alone. Probably. Stupid Cupid magic. “Tell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.”

He’s being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead. 

All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow you’ll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, you’re allowed to indulge. 

“I—I touched myself,” you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. “I rode my pillow and fucked myself with my fingers, made myself cum over and over again until my legs stopped working. I played with my tits, like this.” You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. “And I imagined it was—”

You cut yourself off, scared that such a confession will ruin everything, but Dean keeps making his way down your body. Kissing the valley of your breasts, finally taking off your bra, sucking each nipple into his mouth until they’re stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.

“What did you think about, baby girl? Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”

“You. I thought of you.” His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Dean’s head is between your legs. He licks a long strip up your slit over the translucent cotton of your panties, a reward. You keen, thighs hooking over his shoulders. “Ngh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongue—” He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. You’re gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. “Of your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.”

“You’re so wet.” He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.

“It-it’s the cuff. I’m sorry—”

“You’re fuckin’ soaked, darling.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. “Drippin’ for me, such a good girl.” And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. “Shit. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”

That’s enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Dean’s head—who doesn’t complain in the slightliest—and you’re cumming again.

“Son of a bitch.” You’d laugh at Dean’s astonishment if you weren’t so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. “Another one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?”

“I’m not—” Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. “I’m not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But I–I kinda passed out, so.”

“Mhm.” Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. “Well, let’s find out.”

“Huh?” You’re a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isn’t for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. “More?”

“Oh, darling.” His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. “I’m not anywhere near done with you.”

With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesn’t stop for a while.

He makes you come on his tongue two more times before he lets you rest, pressing kisses all down your legs and over your bruised knees, leaving matching ones on your hips and up your sternum. He peppers little pecks across your shoulders, dips down until he can suck on your tits again, his fingers circling your entrance before entering you.

Another orgasm finds you with three of his digits massaging your insides and his mouth suckling on your breasts. It feels oddly romantic. Dean’s a little ditzy after, licking his fingers and babbling about how good you taste, slumping against you like a giant teddy bear, impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waist bearing down on you. 

His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes. 

“Dean.” He only mumbles against your skin, cock snugly pressed between your asscheeks, your legs encircling his waist. You try to tug him back by the hair, make him face you, but he refuses. He sounds sulky, almost spoiled. Pussydrunk. “Baby, c’mon. Let me see you.”

When you finally get a glimpse of his face, it leaves you breathless. Puffy lips, drool on his chin, blush making his freckles pop up. His eyes are glassy, his pupils so huge that almost no green is visible, his hair spiky and all over his forehead.

You brush it back with a gentle hand, revering. Your pretty boy, who isn’t yours at all.

“Look at you.” Deciding that you’re going to hell anyway, so might as well, you lick a long strip up his face. From chin to temple, collecting sweet spit and salty sweat on your tongue. Dean honest to god whimpers, so you repeat the action on the other side. “Such a pretty thing.”

“Not pretty.” He goes for macho, it comes out huffy. 

“No? You’re a big bad hunter?” He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up.” He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “You’re pretty.”

“Real mature, lover boy.” You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. “What’s next, you’re gonna accuse me with your mommy—?”

Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Dean’s cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful. 

“I’m gonna cum inside you. That’s what’s next.” For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. “I–I didn’t mean that. I’ll go get a condom, don’t worry—”

“No!” You claw at his shoulders when he tries to get up, yanking him down and making his dick catch on your entrance. You both moan, your legs already trembling. “I wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.”

“You sure?” His voice is tight, like he’s holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.

“Yes, yes,” you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Dean’s. “Please, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.”

Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust. 

You’re so full, you feel like you’ll tear at the seams. It’s been years since you’ve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you can’t fathom how you’ve lived this long without it.

“There you go, good girl.” His hands move to rest on each side of your head, bracing himself as he starts rolling his hips. His face is tucked against the side of your neck, and he almost sounds as destroyed as you. “Look at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.”

Oh, he has no idea.

His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind could’ve come up with. Dirty fucking mouth and sharp tongue, leaving you shaking in his arms. You tangle your body with his, arms around his shoulders and ankles crossed on his lower back, suddenly afraid that the gods will get jealous and try to take him from you.

They’ll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.

“Dean—” You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you weren’t even aware existed. It’s like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know you’ll hold the shape of him long after he’s gone. Maybe forever. “You’re–God—”

He pulls back until you can see his face, his hands circling your waist and pulling you down on his dick, the headboard banging against the wall with each rock of your bodies. He sucks on your upper lip, his voice a deep growl that rumbles through your whole body. 

“You like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?”

“Yesyesyes.” You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. It’s so different from Eros’ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. “Feels so good, De. You’re so–you’re so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.”

Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.

“You’re gonna be the end of me.” His pace picks up, rabid. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders and tugging him down until his chest is glued to yours, needing every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. “So fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy I’ve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.”

You throw your head back, tongue lolling out as Dean starts to gently pet at your clit, the bundle of nerves too sensitive for anything else. Still, it feels like you’re being engulfed by nectar. 

“I wanted to kill them.” You babble, your mind sluggish with Dean’s touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. “All those other girls, all those ‘smokin’ singles.’ I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.”

Part of you knows you’ll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Dean’s cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.

“Fuck, why is that so hot.” He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You can’t move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. “It’s only you now, baby. Just you.”

You know it’s not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe it—that you could be Dean’s best, Dean’s only one. It’s as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.

It doesn’t stop it from turning you all dopey. The room is filled with your obscene moans and the slap of skin against skin, your mouth parted wide open and eyes rolled back as Dean continues to murmur lewd nothings against your cheek.

“‘M gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.” He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. “Stupid cuff, making you look like a fuckin’ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you don’t even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.”

It’s almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Dean’s cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that you’ll press down on later.

The cuff starts to smoke. You’d almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like it’s charring your skin, burning so hot it almost goes back to cold. Dean gives you a specially deep thrust, your whole body seizing with it, and it all melts together in a rush of unbearable pleasure. 

You turn your head to the side, writhing under Dean’s unrelenting weight, but there’s nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face. 

You bite down on it, hard. 

Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering. 

“You’re bleeding,” you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”

You think you scream his name, you’re not really sure. Pleasure numbs your every other sense as your final orgasm hits, making all of the others seem like tiny ponds in comparison. This is a cyclone, and you’re in the eye of the storm. 

The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you can’t tell them apart—Dean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage. 

For a second, they’re all one and the same.

You come back down like you’re resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you can’t really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.

“...love you, love you, love you, love you.” 

You’re repeating it over and over again, like a prayer. Through blood-stained lips and tar-coated teeth, like a violent wolf offering its neck to the hunter.

“What?” Dean’s stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against his—thankfully still hard—cock. Dean holds you down, both his hands cupping your face a little more forcefully than he intended, squeezing your cheeks until your lips are pursed and you have no choice but to look into his eyes. “What did you say?”

There’s no point in lying. You’ve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here. 

“I love you, Dean. I really fucking lov—ah!”

He slams into you with refound vigor, dragging you up and down the bed until you're lightheaded, the whole world spinning as he whines like a puppy, cock twitching against your walls. 

“I love you too.” You’re sure you imagined it at first. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, crashing his lips with yours hard enough to break them, spit and blood and desperation all mixing on your mouths. “I love you so much, holy shit. I’ve loved you forever, baby girl, I can’t believe—fuck.”

He’s feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy. 

It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way he’s moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.

It’s world-shattering, it’s epoch-making, it’s eye-opening.

You grab Dean by the shoulders and push him off of you, taking advantage of his wooziness to leave him flat on his back on the mattress. In less than a second you’re straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.

“Repeat it.” 

Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesn’t know what to do with them, astonished. You suck on your teeth slowly, savoring the ambrosia of his blood before a smirk takes over your face.

Slowly, your other hand makes its way up Dean’s chest, until it rests neatly against the base of his neck. With a shiver of raw excitement washing down your spine, you squeeze, hard enough to make him wheeze. 

“Repeat it, De. Say it again.”

His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest. 

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

You impale yourself all the way down his shaft. Dean keens shamelessly when he bottoms out, hips jerking up as his hands clench on your hips. You hope they leave even more marks, little half-moons and rouge fingerprints. 

You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adam’s apple—sometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless. 

It’s like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. You’re untouchable. You’re celestial. You’re Dean’s. 

“Again,” you order, a little too pleading to be demanding. But Dean only whimpers, erratically humping up into you as he worships you, tears clinging to his long eyelashes and hands trembling. “Look at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.”

“What the fuck?” Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe. 

“Say it again, baby. Be good for me, and you’ll get a reward.”

Dean stammers before croaking out: “I love you, more than you could ever imagine.”

Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Dean’s face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open. 

“Good boy,” you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. “Now swallow.”

With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as he’s pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. It’s immaculate. 

You’re trying to catch your breath when you’re abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Dean’s chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal. 

You stay there for a couple of minutes, maybe years, maybe centuries. Your skin sticks together as you cool down, your mouth still tasting like his cum and blood, your fingers still loosely holding his neck. It’s truly out of your wildest dreams.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean eventually chokes out.

You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. “That was me off the leash.”

“Holy shit.” His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. “I might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That was—” He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.

“I love you, you fucking dork.”

Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You sigh, already expecting the post-wave exhaustion to come, but the tide is calm. Not retreating, not threatening. Just peaceful sweet water.

You slide off Dean, ignoring his little grumbling complaint. You hiss as he slips out, sore in the best way possible. Dean pounces on you, rolling onto his side so his gaze can rake down your body. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you were perfect.” 

You look down on your own body—purple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think you’re perfect as well. 

Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours. 

“Did I—?”

“Yes. When you said you loved me, the first time.” Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. “It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“More than the singles you were going to comfort today?”

Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. “There’s no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.”

You try to play grumpy, but it’s impossible with Dean’s soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.

“Besides, none of them compare to you.” He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. “The spell, it gave you this—after-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.”

You chuckle, your fingers finding the mark of your teeth on his arm, tracing the little indents. You hope it scars, so everyone who ever looks at Dean knows he’s yours. Only yours. 

“So it was the cuff? What made you want this?”

“Nah, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.” You can feel his grin against the top of your head. “Besides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.”

You snort, bumping his chin softly. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

But then, it dawns on you. 

“The cuff!”

You swiftly sit up, ignoring Dean’s little wounded whine. You stare down at your arm, the cuff still resting snuggly against your flesh. But the metal is freezing, and the fairy dust is faded and dull. 

With trembling fingers, you tug the thing down, just once. It slides right off, landing on the mattress with a little bounce. Relief floods you, strong enough to annihilate any hint of frustration. There’s no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck. 

“See, I told you, you’d be okay. We survived another day.”

This time, when you lean back on him, there’s not an ounce of guilt or fear or disgust in you. The beast is gone, running free and wild, one with your soul. You might be sick, the punishing eyes of your mother forever engraved in your brain, but you’re not ashamed anymore. 

Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.

You try to look for the cuff again, but it’s gone. In its place rests a French countryside postcard, a peach-scented pink mist evanescing around it. You pick it up, holding it so both Dean and you can read the sparkly gel pen scribbles.

“I know you might not believe me, but I’m truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome would’ve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, I’ll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I can’t promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction. 

As promised, your little old town has been freed. The villa where I am right now is at least four miles away from any civilization, so please don’t come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.

Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open. 

Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and don’t forget to thank me in your prayers!”

“Fucking asshole.” Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. “Might have to go find him, blast his face off.”

“But then you’d have to get on a plane, pretty boy.”

Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.

“Maybe if you’re with me, I can do it.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I could do anything with you by my side.”

Someone knocks on the door, loudly. 

“Guys!” Sam yells through the thick wood. “I’m back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldn’t wait at the gas station any longer. Hope you—fixed things! I guess. I’ll go put my earbuds on, so don’t worry about me, just thought I’d let you know I’m here!”

Shuffling, prolonged and awkward. 

“There’s ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Or—whatever.”

Sam’s heavy steps disappear down the hallway. All it takes is one shared look for you and Dean to dissolve into laughter, limbs tangled together and souls comfortably merged into one, no longer teared apart. 

“Shower?” Dean hikes you up his body, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You give him a slow up-and-down look, licking your lips obscenely. “Don’t even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?”

You grin, because he doesn’t know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.

“Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”

“Happy Valentine’s, sweetheart.”

NOTES: okay, so. this is actually kind of special to me because tomorrow, feb 15, it'll be a year since i first started posting on this blog. And the first fic I posted was valentine's inspired (pls don't go look for it my writing was terrible) so i thought it was fitting to post a little tribute to the story that started it all.

it's been amazing to share my writing in here, and i couldn't be happier that i decided to take a chance after giving up on fanfiction so long ago. it's so heartwarming to see how much you've showered me and my silly stories with love, and i'll be forever grateful to all of you.

anyway, i don't wanna bore you out with my emo sobbing. happy valentine's day, i adore you, and see you again soon!

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @mfstargrll @stars4birdie @cccayliexx @madslxz @spaghettiwoes @crumpledroses @madyyyslovs @swanofjade @chromiumz @k4renp4ge <3

You’re not exactly sure when the game of cat and mouse started, but it definitely did.

Hiding in the middle of nowhere, a cabin down a dark trail accessible only to lost hikers gave you and Soldier Boy free rein in the forest: a vast, dark expanse of thick tree trunks, tall grass, and rocks. It was pure seclusion from society.

The job was handed to you: looking after Soldier Boy, his babysitter. It was vague, the instructions you were given: keep him out of public, and do not let him out of your fucking sight. Those were the rules applied to him, and you were the one who upheld them. 

It all started the first time you let him outside. He had been suspiciously nice that morning; not making sly comments about your ass, or questioning why he hadn’t fucked you yet despite the small cabin the two of you were forced to live in.

You were idly walking ahead of him, minding your business, kicking rocks and picking up stray flowers. He watched you from behind, his mind conjuring thoughts you’d probably slap him for: how quickly you’d have to run to escape, or the way you’d look against a pine tree, that stupid dress you always wore, hiked up.

You played into it accidentally, slightly running ahead when you spotted a patch of uneven mushrooms and curiously analyzing the fungi. Now he was a few feet back behind you, and it gave you the silliest idea to sprint ahead. And so you did.

He immediately ran right after you through the woods, listening to your loud laughs–you didn’t know he was serious, and he was that fucking eager to catch up to you. You were quick on your feet, easily hopping over the scattered debris, and it was the most adrenaline he had felt in a long time. Just the thought of chasing you down like you were a prize had him moving quicker than you, firm hands catching your waist and pulling you down onto the dirt.

It was the most adrenaline you'd ever felt, too; his hands bunching your dress, devouring you right there against the forest floor, a dark sky full of stars above you, both of you tapping into some primal sense you'd suppressed until that very moment. 

Since then, it had almost become a ritual. You’d slip out of the cabin after he’d randomly announce you had a minute head start, sometimes lucky enough to receive a minute and a half. You had zero time to change, sometimes even wandering out in bare feet when he was feeling like an asshole, which was most of the time, forcing you to run through the forest in nothing but a nightgown and bare feet. And that was the case for tonight.

“Thirty… thirty seconds?” you ask in surprise, gazing at Ben, who sits on the couch, lazily smoking a joint, the words completely out of the blue. 

You’re staring at him, blinking; he’s completely unbothered, rubbing the scruff he hasn’t shaved in a while.

“Said thirty seconds, didn’t I, doll?” he drawls casually, a plume of smoke slipping by his lips. “Twenty-two... Twenty-one…” he begins to taunt, and your eyes widen. He was already counting.

You curse quietly to yourself, trying to ignore just how truly excited you are to venture out into the forest this late at night, knowing a predator would be on your heels in just twenty seconds if you didn’t run quickly enough.

The night air is cold and sharp against your warm skin, and your cotton nightgown does little to shield you from it. Goosebumps prick your thighs and arms, and you’re already starting a light jog, bare feet running along the hard ground, soon feeling sticks and sharp gravel beneath them as you stray further and further from the cabin.

The night sky is cloudy tonight, the stars barely hanging above, leaving the forest just a bit darker than usual. You pant softly when you begin to pick up the speed, glancing over your shoulder, the porch light flicking off–that was a signal; Ben was leaving the cabin now, and you were just about twenty feet away.

You move more quickly, limbs swift, and weave through the branches, twigs catching on your cotton nightgown. You groan with each soft rip, realizing you've accidentally wandered into a dense thicket of branches and thorns.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he taunts aloud, loud enough for you to hear. “Don’t be a dumb bitch like last time, pickin’ the worst fuckin’ spots known to man,” he calls out, and you swallow hard.

You grimace, eyes narrowed, trying to navigate your way through the unfortunate area you sound yourself. Your feet are muddy, dense branches pressing into the bottom of your feet, and you look over your shoulder, the cabin completely out of sight.

Ben is wandering around slowly, his sharp eyes scanning the area for any sign of you; he can smell you, that sweet scent he smells every single day, and it smells even better when it’s mixed with the obvious fear of scent, too.

There was fear wrapped into the entirety of it–a twisted sense of it, mingling with the excitement. You knew he was a powerful man, hands big enough to snap you in half, and you’ve seen the bruises he leaves you with, how relentless a single man can be, pounding into you like it’s all he can do–it is; he’s been stuck out here for god knows how long, and this is the only piece of entertainment he gets. And it’s from you.

“Not even makin’ this fun for me anymore,” he mumbles, and you can hear his voice getting louder, and you’re on your hands and knees. “Lazy whore, just wantin’ me to fuck her without playing the actual part of the game–not how you play it,” he drawls out, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

You move on your hands and knees, feeling the twigs grasping at your nightgown, slicing the white fabric, and you whimper each time a sharp rock grounds itself into your hands and knees. You keep crawling, staying lower to the forest floor, panting, adrenaline coursing through you, actual fear filling your chest. He’s threatened to kill you more times than you want to remember. 

“Can smell you, you know,” he taunts again, and you hold your breath as you hear twigs crunch beneath his feet. “Fear, and how wet your fuckin’ panties are right now, all excited, ain’t ya?” he practically laughs, and you grimace in disgust, his words sharp.

You swallow hard and keep crawling on your hands and knees, shuffling, and you can hear his footsteps growing louder. You breathe heavier, ducking your head, much too afraid to look behind you and find that man looming over you–he’s so tall, and muscle, and taut skin against him, and you bite your lip.

“What should I do with that little body of yours, once I find you?” Ben calls out, and you freeze. “Fuckin’ your mouth this time sound fun? Maybe usin’ every hole of yours,” he clicks his tongue, and freezes too, scoping out his surroundings.

You cover your mouth and hold your breath, hearing his steps suddenly quicken as he's somehow caught your scent like a rabid dog, and he walks right by you. Your eyes widen when you see him slightly; just his large feet, the soft grunts from him, and you glance up, seeing his face; his eyes are narrowed, nostrils flared, but he’s mostly hidden. It’s too dark.

“Can’t wait to see that look on your face.” he pauses again, inhaling, trying to smell you. “All scared n’ helpless lookin’ like a deer caught in headlights–makes me wanna fuck your brains out, hope you know that,” he mocks, and you shake your head.

You inch backwards once you know he’s slightly ahead of you, somehow missing your form hidden under a few branches and twigs. You gulp, feeling a thorn catching on your dress again, and it rips. You wince, glance over, and Ben is gone; you freeze again.

Two large hands reach down and grab you by the hips, and you let out a loud squeal; Ben knocks you off balance. The minute you’re on your stomach, he doesn’t hesitate to reach down and grab your ankles instead, shamelessly dragging you by them, and you’re already whining, trying to grasp at the dirt and twigs.

“Hid in the worst fuckin’ spot, again,” he spits, pulling you out of the little spot. “Just wantin’ me to find ya’, huh? Could just ask me to fuck you, instead of bein’ a prude all god damn day,” he grumbles out, letting go of your ankles.

He doesn’t let you go, though. Instead, he kneels into the dirt, his knee pressing into your lower back, and he presses his hand on the back of your head, forcing your face into the cold dirt. You mumble something into the ground, your legs squirming, and he looks at the way you shift and squirm, and he shakes his head. 

“Watchin’ this is the best part sometimes,” Ben drawls, watching your hands try to push off the ground, but he purposely digs his knee into your back. “Just fuckin’ hopeless, squirmin’ around like an animal caught in a trap.”

You whine and shake your head, and he purposely pushes your head down again, this time knocking it forward, and it sends stars behind your eyes at the roughness of it. He watches the squirming lessen in real time, and he licks his lips, easing his knee off your lower back.

He twists his hand into your hair, pulling your face out of the dirt, and he glances at you; your cheeks covered in tears, and dirt smeared across your face, a painful throbbing at the corner of your head. He laughs, clicking his tongue in admiration.

“Lookin’ your best, too,” Ben quips, his eyes raking over your face. “Cryin’ like you’re not the slut who gets excited for this shit; it’s pathetic, actin’ like you’re not soaked right now.”

You whimper and look away from Ben, and he moves his knee completely off your back. He’s all strong and rough, and his hand slides down, lifting right beneath your stomach, scooping you off the ground and tossing you over his shoulder. This strength comes with his supe abilities, and you learned it through this.

You squirm and kick your legs, and he has a wolfish grin as he walks through the forest, hearing the soft whines and groans as you try to free yourself from his grip. 

“Keep kickin’, doll, I want you to,” he mocks your failed attempts and keeps moving through the woods, taking you further and further away from the cabin. 

You’re not speaking, just making those sounds like a wounded animal; all whines and soft whimpers, and he’s the wolf about to feast on whatever is left. You lightly hit his back, and he lands a harsh slap on your ass.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” He curses out, finding a slightly open patch, and your body is quick to hit the ground. He merely tosses you onto the ground, not bothering to lower you.

You hit the dirt with a thud, wide eyes looking up at him, and you’re panting, shuffling back until your back hits the base of a tree trunk. He smirks, tilting his head to the side.

“Stop puttin’ on this show,” he shakes his head, inching closer to you. “Crawlin’ away, actin’ like a frightened little girl,” he narrows his eyes, reaching down and grabbing you by the ankles again.

You almost scream this time—it gets caught in the back of your throat, and he drags you towards him, forcing your thighs to part and your nightgown to hitch you to your hips. He gazes down, nudging his way between your legs, and he sees the glistening slick against your underwear. The moon is coming out, and it hits it perfectly.

“Would a frightened lil’ thing be drippin’ like this?” Ben asks, glancing up at you, and he harshly slaps your core. “No, she wouldn’t—lyin’ bitch,” he mumbles, and then he spits, soothing the sting with his own saliva. 

You wail and tip your head back, and whine even louder when his strong hand rips the underwear right off you. Another reminder of his supe strength, the cotton breaking and ripping right off your body, and he’s staring down at your bare lower half.

“Just fuckin’ soaked,” he groans again, inhaling the sweet scent he could smell from miles away. “And you’re cryin’ like I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong, and your body ain’t a hole for me to rip apart.”

You whimper, and he lands another slap against your core. It stings more this time, a faint burning, and you wince, your toes curling into the dirt, and he grins. He stares into your eyes, gathering saliva in his mouth, and then he spits right down again, and you moan the minute it hits you.

Ben’s fingers slide into you with ease, zero hesitation in the movement, and you gasp out, your back arching off the cold ground. His other hand holds your thigh, forcing you open.

“Clenchin’ around me already,” he curses out, letting two fingers curl and hook, finding that soft spot immediately, all spongy and warm. “This why you act like such a stupid slut? Hidin’ in the open, makin’ it easier for me to find you?” He ticks his head.

You’re already in another world, feeling a third finger slide in and you squeeze, and he scoffs at the feeling around the digits—he finds it amusing how much you want him, yet how you flailed around and whined, acting like every instinct wasn’t for him.

“Three fingers deep, and she’s wantin’ more,” Ben shakes his head, wetting his lips. “Think she can take five, doll? My whole fist in her?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, and you’re shaking your head, whimpering.

His fourth finger slides in, but his thumb refuses. Instead, it finds your clit that still has his saliva glistening against it, and he rubs it into you, and you’re moaning louder. He watches, your face comforting, eyes rolling back, back arching. 

“Can’t believe you were runnin’ from me,” he mumbles and shakes his head, this time landing spit on your face,e and you wince. “Actin’ like you didn’t want this, and now you’re squeezin’ around my fingers, takin’ me in.”

You can feel his spit dripping down your face and you whine, shaking your head, feeling it slide onto your lips. You lap it up and Ben watches, narrowed eyes.

“Yeah… whinin’ about my spit, too,” he stares at you. “Meanwhile, got my whole fuckin’ hand inside of you.”

Ben pulls his fingers out of you, and you instantly gasp when you don’t feel it anymore, that full pressure. He lands another slap against your core, whining louder now that it’s sensitive and tender, all raw. He smirks at the look on your face, and you shift against the ground.

He lifts his hand and slides his fingers into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself, and he’s doing it on purpose, making sure you’re gagging—he’s got them halfway down your throat, and you’re choking, tasting yourself. You close your eyes and claw at the ground. 

“Taste that, sweetheart?” He taunts, pulling his fingers out to hear you choke when they finally slide out. “How fuckin’ wet you are, yet you keep kickin’ around like a scared bitch.”

You look up at Ben when he briefly pauses, and he’s carefully unbuckling his pants, slowly moving onto his zipper and pulling them down with zero hesitation.

“You miss this, doll? Miss this fuckin’ you?” He coos, taunting even more. “My fingers not enough for you? My knee not enough for how greedy you are?”

You shake your head, biting your lip, glancing down when he takes himself out of his pants; long, hard, and you can tell he’s just throbbing. You remember the first time you saw him like this, and he couldn’t stop laughing and mocking you; your eyes blown out in shock, and you kept asking if he was sure if it would fit. He didn’t reassure you.

“Lookin’ like the first time you saw my cock,” Ben drawls, his hand wrapped around the base. “Looked like you saw a fuckin’ ghost, dumbest thing I’ve seen, until you told me… a virgin,” he grins, and you look away, already feel shameful about him taking your virginity.

“Let me defile you like a bitch I’d pick off the street,” he says, leaning a bit closer to you, nudging between your thoughts. “First time meant to be slow, sweetheart… a special thing between two people n’ you let me rip you open, like you’re nothin’, a whore. And you are.”

Ben uses the soft spot for leverage, and he thrusts into you, always loving that look on your face; the wide eyes and the parted lips, the way you slowly slip into a headspace of nothingness. Just need and want, a twisted desperation for a man who is just as desperate, and doesn’t hide it. Not at all.

“Yeah… yeah, missed stuffin’ this pretty hole,” he growls, two hands finding your hips, the grip absolutely bruising, and he’s pressing over old ones. “Grips around me… like she was meant for me. Think she was meant for me, baby?”

Your head is lolled back, and your eyes are rolled back into your head as Ben trusts and thrusts, hard, quick motions that are unforgiving and relentless. Your nightgown is all hiked up, and his hand drifts down, holding beneath where your knee bends, giving him an angle that has noises you’ve never heard before leaving your mouth.

“Whatcha’ think, doll?” Ben started, groaning as his own head tips back and he licks his lip. “Should I let you cum tonight? Or should… I make you hold it, all in.”

You whine when he threatens not to let you finish, something he’s done before, and it was the most agonizing thing ever, especially when he’s so big. So, so big, and he does it all so well.

Ben’s hand slides up your thighs a little more, and you immediately whimper the second he pushes on your lower abdomen, letting his fist drive into it. 

“Gonna piss you’re so scared, yeah?” He asks, pushing hard onto your stomach, and you whimper, squirming. “Don’t be a dirty girl… nobody likes a messy bitch, you know this.”

It’s hard to think when there’s pressure everywhere; his hand on your stomach, the pressure from it, how hard he’s thrusting, the trees creaking and groaning, the smell of dirt and the water from the small creek trickling by. You’re in another world, and Ben is taking whatever it is out on you. 

“You’ll be pissin’ on me, before cummin’, get that through your head,” he hisses, briefly lifting his hand to slap the side of your cheek. “Know how thick that skull is.”

You whine at the stinging, and there it comes, the soothing of his spit against your face, and you grimace, and he loves that look; the fake disgust, like you aren’t waiting for this to be done so that you can do the whole thing again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day.

“You’re gonna let me stuff you,” Ben says, leaving you no room to protest. “Gonna make you leak everywhere, all down these thighs,” he says, slapping the side of your thigh.

He never tells you when he’s going to finish, never gives you a heads up, but you know it—he’s groaning and grunting and growling, every animalistic urge surging through Ben’s body. And then it comes, that feeling in your stomach.

You’re not sure what it is, but he cums, and cums, and cums, a never-ending stream spilling inside of you, and he basks in it. The way you’re helplessly whining and shaking your head, asking how he has so much inside of him—he’s a fucking supe, and he’ll say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the fucking world. 

Why would he not have a supply that could stuff you until you’re begging for him to stop?

Ben pauses, burying deep inside of you, his face nestled in the crook of your neck, his beard brushing and poking at your skin, all rough and hard. He lightly thrusts, letting his cum push deeper and deeper, forcing it in to fill every crevice. He knows every crevice, too. His fingertips have touched and curled against every single one.

“This fuckin’ body of yours,” he growls into your neck, his hips touching yours, his hand pressing right onto your lower stomach again. “Takes all of me, all my seed… think you were built for this, not even meant to cum, just a hole,” he breathes, licking up your neck. 

You’re absolutely blissed out, your cheek still stinging, your mouth agape. He punches your stomach instead of pressing, emphasizing just how full he’s really made you.

“If you weren’t full of my cock right now…” Ben drawls, licking at your earlobe, his tongue sliding over it. “Would be spillin’ all over… ain’t that the cutest thing? Punchin’ your stomach, and forcin’ you to leak out.”

You don’t say anything; you just pant, and he pulls back, his rough hands brushing your hair from your face. 

“A minute, this time.” he nods, licking his lips, his chest heaving. “Start runnin’.”

He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦

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