mel

He would say thank you and tack on a pretty. Give you a kiss on the cheek and one on the lips, too, if you smiled soft and flowery and he couldn't resist wanting to keep it stuck there.

A very real knock on the half-open bathroom door brings him back, but you're there still. Standing beside the doorframe now and watching him a little mussed, having just woken from a nap on another knotted mattress. He wanted to lay beneath you. He's softer and warmer.

"Hi," you murmur. "You look different."

He holds up the razor in silent show and shrugs.

"You look out of it," he retorts, not unkindly. He sounds too gentle for his own ears. "Nap was good?"

"It was satisfactory," you say.

He smiles. Satisfactory. Flicks on the water and rinses the blade and feels lighter, better, less burdened now that you're here. He can look away without worrying that the image of you will fade. Can smell your subtle vanilla and rain.

"I was gonna head down to the diner in a few. Get a coke. Wanna come?" he asks.

You nod and shuffle closer, leaning against the counter. You're pretty even beneath garish, flickering light. Shirt slipping off a shoulder and beckoning him to kiss your exposed skin.

"Can we drive for a while after?"

Of course, absolutely, whatever you want, I'll run the gas out and push the car myself after, if you want to keep going.

"Yeah, sweetheart."

Deja vu, as you smile small and wipe a smear of shaving cream from above his lip. Your thumb is delicate. How could it send such a wave through him? It groans and crashes and laps at his ribs and heart and stomach.

He leans into touch that is here.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ ❤︎⁠ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

you insisted on driving, since dean had been doing all the driving for the two of you the entirety of the hunt. he’s been acting a little needy since you both finished up. both of you decided to go back to the bunker tonight since your own bed in your own… somewhat house couldn’t compare to anything a motel had to offer.

as he’s gotten older, you’ve noticed, dean has somehow gotten simultaneously more shamless and more reserved. he’s still horny as fuck a lot—he’ll basically hump you like a dog in public sometimes with no reservations, or he’ll blush like a schoolgirl when you squeeze his bicep at a bar before sitting down next to him. it’s a tightrope that dean balances on daily, how much he can get away with, but also how much he can take.

dean’s been keeping his hands to himself so far—but before you’d both gotten in the car, he begged for a quickie before you left. almost got down on his knees in the motel room, too. you hadn’t had a chance to have sex this entire hunt, which is rare, but it comes with the job.

so dean’s needy.

for you.

you’d coaxed him enough, you’d thought, to last until you both got home. but even though you’re focusing on the road, you can still feel him. looking at you, shifting on the impala’s bench every so often. he’s already closer to you, because that’s just who dean is—always wanting to be as close as possible to you. he’s much further away from the passenger side window than he was before when you initially started driving, and you can feel the heat eminatng off his body. 

you want to say something, but the truth is, you want dean to be close to you, too. maybe just as much as he does with you.

you haven’t been talking much. dean’s dozed off a couple times since you started driving, but he doesn’t sleep for long. you steal glances at him when you hear his breathing get deeper, more slow. sleep breathing. most of the times you look over, his lips are parted just a little.

he looks younger like this, with all his lines on his face smoothed out, his brows only a little furrowed instead of being deeply set like they seem to be permanently stationed at when he’s awake. you imagine a younger dean when you see him, imagine what he looked like when it was just him and his brother back in the day. you wonder if he preferred being young over the life he’s living now. it was probably easier, you think. maybe not easier, but less of a toll. 

you’ll never know the answer.

dean’s chin rests on your shoulder, at some point. he relaxes into you, slumping into your side. you take your right hand off the wheel and wrap your arm around him, which causes him to further nuzzle himself into you, too. he sighs softly, but he’s not annoyed. he’s just safe. he dozes off again, the rain hitting the top of the car lulling him under. he snores, but just a little—it sounds more like a cat purring on you than anything else. you sometimes call him your ‘little personal lawn mower’.

he stirs once more, and his hand rests on your thigh after a little bit of him being awake. it’s not too high up on your jeans that you’re raising a brow, but you know he’s getting ansty from being so close to you. he lets his mind wander, especially when you’re alone together, or just when he’s alone. you assume he’s doing that right now.

and he is.

dean fantasizes often about you, sometimes and most of the time when you’re literally right in front of him. it’s a little humiliating for him, though, because you’d coaxed the information out of him a while ago, and he was so embarrassed telling you that he daydreams about you when you’re right next to him he almost ran out into traffic. now, he’s still aware he’s pathetic for it, but he just doesn’t really care all that much. 

the most recent daydream he’s been fixating on lately is you in a dress. the dress changes color and fabric type often, since you look good in anything, but what doesn’t change is you sitting on his car, waiting for him. sometimes he takes you right on the hood of the impala, right out in the open. sometimes it’s in the backseat, sometimes it’s in the front—but it always starts the same. the sun’s behind you, and you look like a dream, looking back at him. well, obviously, it is a dream—but dean knows one day, it’ll be real: just you, him, baby, and an open road.

kind of like now, actually. 

minus the dress. 

he’s mostly wanting to kiss you, currently, he thinks. just a few pecks. and maybe a little tounge. okay, maybe some over-the-clothes action, too. okay, maybe he just wants you to pull the car over and ride him into next week. whatever. he shifts his legs, trying to ignore what his thoughts are doing to his body, but it’s not really working. he nuzzles his face further into your neck, breathing you in. his hand on your thigh moves up a little higher, and he lifts his head off your shoulder just enough so his nose brushes your neck.

dean doesn’t say anything. you freeze up when his nose grazes on a sensitive spot, shivering a little as his hand simultaneously gets closer to the inside seam of your jeans. you almost say something to him, but you don’t. you just tighten your grip on the steering wheel, trying not to melt in a puddle. dean notices, of course. he nudges his nose against your neck a little more, inhaling deeply. it sends another, more heated shiver down your spine.

he murmurs your name into your neck, while his hand reaches the seam of your waistband, tugging on it gently. you shiver again, leaning into dean subconsciously—and he takes advantage of it, the bastard, mouthing at the sensitive spot behind your ear he knows makes you dizzy. 

“baby,” he almost moans into your neck, shifting against the leather of the seat. “…need ya.”

“dean, we—”

“please.”

and dean winchester doesn’t say please. not to anyone.

except you.

so after an embarrassingly short amount of time contemplating, you glance in the rearview mirror before pulling off the main road, taking the dirt road running parallel to it until you reach a more secluded spot. you don’t think twice after you put the car in park, the windshield wipers pausing halfway through the motion—because you know he’s really going through it to be this needy. 

dean’s on you before you can turn to face him, making it his personal mission to kiss your breath away, it seems. his lips mold over yours immediately, your hands going to his face and the back of his head as he pulls you into his lap. you let him deepen the kiss, straddling him. he’s getting squeamish already, you can tell—because he’s fumbling for your waistband.

dean makes quick work of your clothes—probably the quickest he’s ever been, and that’s saying something—and soon enough, your bra is the last to go. he mouths at your left breast, then shoves his face in your chest, kissing whatever skin his lips reach first. his rough, warm hands trail up your waist, sending tingles throughout your skin. he nuzzles his face further in between your boobs before kissing up your chest and neck, finally finding your lips again briefly before pulling you closer to him.

“can’t believe y’re mine,” dean murmurs quietly. he says it just for you. he looks up at you—and you can’t see him very well due to the rain and it being pitch-black outside the impala, but you can see the way his eyes shine at you, even now. 

and you know what he means by that. 

you know it means dean doesn’t believe he actually deserves you. you know it means he feels like he has to prove himself to you, over and over again, in order to be worthy of your love and attention. it’s just how he’s wired. how he compartmentalizes things, how he deals with everything. and it won’t change.

but you won’t stop trying to make it change.

you take dean’s face in your hands, and he immediately softens more, sighing and melting between your palms like you’re a warm pan. your thumbs brush his cheeks, and you press a quick kiss to his lips before tugging at his shirt. dean buffers for a second, still caught up in the kiss before realizing you want his flannel off. he pauses after you remove his flannel, almost hesitating before putting his arms up for his shirt underneath. 

you know why. the past few years, dean had been… more filled out, recently, in his torso. nothing crazy, but you noticed. some punk-ass kid said something stupid to him on a case a few weeks ago, nothing worth repeating. and you know despite his gruff, uncaring exterior, he takes those things to heart. you know he’s been spiraling over it, over the fear of losing you not because of something out of his control—but because he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t fit enough to make you stay. 

after tugging his shirt off, you don’t let dean shy away from you, even though you know that’s where his instinct goes. he looks down almost immediately, but your hands return to his face, keeping him steady. keeping him looking at you.

“m’yours,” you assure dean. and you know he needed to hear it, based on the way his entire body shakes when he closes his eyes.

you know it’s not an ownership thing, at least not completely. you know dean just needs to hear that something, someone is just his to keep for his own, and no one else’s. he nods once, then buries his face in bewteen your boobs again, inhales like he needs you to breathe. he sighs, pulling you flush against him, and your hands leave his face to wrap around his shoulders. you stay like that in his lap, holding each other for what feels like a century. 

eventually, dean pulls away—just enough to look up at you again. his hands brush their way down to your hips, and you know where they’re going: to get you ready. your own hands find his wrists, stop them in their tracks. he tilts his head back up to you, confused. 

“not tonight,” you murmur to him, releasing your grip as you shake your head. your hands go to his jeans that are unfortunately still on and start to undo his belt. 

dean wants to protest. usually, he always gets you ready. it almost feels weird to not eat you out, or at least finger you. not do something. he really wants to say something—jesus, he needs to get you ready before he can be inside you—but you’re already tugging down his jeans enough so that his dick springs out, so all his attention is immediately focused on the throbbing in his lower region. he almost forgot how hard he was. up until now. 

it is then that it dawns on him that you’re doing this for him. he was so needy for you all this time, and you’re not teasing him about it, or making him suffer. not that you ever did, but dean willingly suffers in silence with pretty much everything else. he always expects you to do the same, but you never do. you almost always give him what you want. 

he thought you might give him a handjob. but you don’t—you just stroke him a few times, and notch him to where he’s been dying to go for the past two weeks. no teasing, no witholding. dean could cry, from how it feels to just be inside you. and he has cried, more than once, while buried deep inside you.

he can’t belive that you just let him have you like this. he would’ve been proud to get you ready, get you soaking, dripping wet for him like you always are after he’s through with you. but you don’t let him, this time. he didn’t have to really do much to get you, even though that’s how he’s lived his life all this time. he’s always had to sacrifice something, always had to give something up in order to get what he wants. and more than half the time, it’s not even what he wants at all. but he’s never done that with you—or never had to, that is. you always just… give him what he wants when it comes to you. sometimes it’s sex, but it’s really just you he wants. just to be near you, to see you, to hold you. 

just like he’s doing now.

you found out dean was a whimperer on beleive it or not, the first sexual encounter you both had together. he’d been eating you out, humping the mattress like a dog in heat, and whimpering right into your pussy. his eyes were all glazed over, and he looked a little drunk—but most importantly, he looked at peace. like this was what he was meant to do his whole life: lick and suck on your folds and clit for the rest of his days.

he spends so much time down there, worshipping you, night after night, day after day—and you know that while it comes from a place of devotion, it also stems from needing to provide you with something so you’ll have a reason to stay. you also know that while you are unable to rewire dean’s brain, it won’t stop you from keeping him close to your heart. it won’t stop you from loving him right back, the way you know he craves to be loved. 

dean’s face is buried in your chest as you start to slowly grind down on him, and he lets out his first whimper. it’s gotten a little deeper, rougher over the years you’ve been together, but it still sounds natural. it sounds like dean. his big arms tighten around your waist, then unloosen again so he can look up at you. he gets like this sometimes—like he’s unsure where to look or put his hands when you’re in control like this. he settles on your hips, not guiding, just holding as you move them. you take the oppurtunity to lean down just a little as you grind again, kissing a few freckles dusting on his cheeks. they’re starting to show more, with the sun being out longer. a broken, beautiful sound leaves him, and you know he’s already close, just from a few passes of your hips. 

he feels like a young man again sometimes, already so close to blowing his load this early, but his age is also daunting on him, looming in the darkness like a bunch of clothes over a chair. he’s nearing his father’s age when he died—and in a few years, he’ll be older than his father ever was. older than most hunters ever came to be. it’s a terrifying thought—but knowing that you’ll be there beside him is a comfort no one else can satiate. nothing could come close.

because dean feels safest with you. it’s a known fact—it’s like his body can relax a little. like he can hang up whatever he’s dealing with at the door, and dive into the warmth and comfort that is you, and actually feel like the weight’s off him, just for a brief moment. even in sex, he’s safest with you.

it’s indescribable, how he’s able to just let go when he’s with you. he doesn’t have to put on a show, even though he usually does—and he doesn’t have to worry about sounding ‘manly’ when you’re milking him for all he’s worth. he can let himself be as loud as he wants, as shameless as he wants, and he knows you won’t judge him. he knows you’ll just hold him like he’s always wanted to be held. like he’s one of a kind. like he actually matters.

like he’s actually loved by someone.

it’s astonishing, really, how dean has given up on love so many times, yet continues to have hope in it. he had his reservations, when first getting with you. the usual: that you’ll finally peek behind the curtian and see the real dean, then leave once you figure out who he truly is inside. or maybe that you’ll realize he’s too much work. yet, he still wanted to know. what if this thing with you worked out? so once more, he decided to try and love again. he decided to stay instead of go, and it seemed like it worked in his favor. you’re still here beside him. he has those doubts, of course, and the fear that one day, you’ll be taken from him by something that’s out of his control—but the love, finally, finally outweighs the pain. it’s worth being with you now, than have never been with you at all.

dean’s holding off on coming. he wants this heavenly feeling to last as long as possible, but it’s starting to hurt now. he’s holding you in spurts—your hips, then your waist, then the curve of your back. you notice, obviously, that he’s holding back.

your hands find his face once more, leaning down to kiss his freckles on the bridge of his nose this time, clenching around him as you do so. dean whines, nuzzling his face into yours as you continue to press kisses to wherever your lips land. your hands remain on his face, keeping up your rythym as dean slowly starts to unravel below you.

he finally comes, loudly—but the sound is buried in your skin as you ride him over the edge. his arms had found their way around you again, holding on for dear life, whimpering and panting and groaning into your damp skin as he spills into you. 

he blinks hard a few times, still breathing heavy as he moves his head to look up at you, eyes hazy and half-lidded from his orgasm. usually, he’d stay close, face nuzzled into you—but he needs to look at you right now. the impala’s windows are all fogged up from your activities, but dean can still make out your face in the dark. not that he needs to really see your face—he’s memorized it, by this point. he knows every dip and curve of your face and your entire body. he can name every scar, every divot.

he knows his home.

he knows every part of you he can hide away in, just for a little while. just enough to keep his head above water.

you look down at dean, too, and you want to be somehow closer to him, even though it’s not possible. you’re as close as can be—he’s literally inside you. so you settle for nudging his nose with yours, then wrapping your arms around his shoulders. 

wrapping your arms around your home. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.

“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”

you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”

“yep.”

“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”

“probably.”

“great. very rural.”

dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”

you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.

“no,” you say.

“i didn’t say anything.”

“your face did.”

“my face is handsome and innocent.”

“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”

he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”

you stare at him.

he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”

“i’m not calling you honey.”

“baby?”

“absolutely not.”

“snookums?”

you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”

“hot. committed to the role already.”

the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”

dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.

“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”

you blink. anniversary.

right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.

“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”

dean’s eyes flick down to yours.

the mechanic clears his throat.

you win.

by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.

his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.

“you’re quiet,” you comment.

he hums, “thinking.”

“dangerous.”

“about us.”

your heart trips.

then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”

you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”

“and yet, you married me.”

“fake married.”

“vows are vows.”

the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.

his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”

he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.

“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”

he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.

the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.

dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.

“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”

you elbow him. “dean.”

“what? communication is important.”

then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.

“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.

“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.

“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”

the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.

you burn the scarecrow together.

flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.

the town is quiet now.

you look down at your joined hands. so does he.

“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.

dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”

you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.

you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.

⊹ his wired earbuds are old and knotted and discolored in weathered blots. but you let him share them with you, because he always offers and plays your most favorite songs. he tips his cheek onto your head and breathes calm, fingers twined with yours. if you fall asleep on his shoulder, he's keeping you very safe and secure, tucked to his side.

⊹ sam sketches you. quick, simple drawings with a dull pencil, whenever he gets the chance. your profile, your eyes or smile. a full portrait, only slightly smudged across the paper. sometimes, he'll have you pose for him.

"turn just a little- yeah, baby. perfect."

"so pretty, angel. your nose is really beautiful."

・・・・・