daydreaming

Homecoming weekend, one of the biggest weekends at your college. Also hosted during the same week of parents’ week, allowing parents to experience their child's college lifestyle and end it together at the big game. 

This also meant the week where you avoided being anywhere but in your shared apartment with your college roommate. 

She’s great, she’s smart, kind, giving; it’s her dad that worries you. 

You first met him on moving day when Sarah had run up to embrace you in a hug so tight you felt you might explode, introducing you to her dad, Joel. Joel Miller. 

It shocked you a bit; you expected him to be much older, but Sarah informed you he had her at a young age. 

The issue as well was that he was handsome. Wore some flannel with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows to reveal his burly forearms, some white top that showed the top of his chest hair, jeans, boots. Greying hair pushed out of his tanned, freckled face, where his eyes hard set on you, seeking something you still can’t decipher. 

“H-hi, mister um, mister miller,” You fumbled over your words, your tongue too fat in your mouth as your face reddened with embarrassment, grateful that Sarah didn’t notice, already headed to the truck reading ‘Miller Brother Construction’

He didn’t say much, only raised a brow, then with a small twitch of a smile as you could feel his gaze set in on your blushing cheeks, “Call me Joel, darlin’.” 

Deep southern twang in his throat only weakened your knees a little more as you clutched the moving box in your hand, grateful for your perky mother who appeared behind you immediately introducing herself and jumping into conversation with Joel, allowing you to flee the scene. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t aware of how the moving process worked, and neither was your mother, as Joel rolled in with a hand truck, finishing dropping off Sarah’s things upstairs as you barely made a dent in carrying your own boxes up, one by one. 

“Need s’me help?” Is offered by a gravely Texan voice in passing as you stack another box onto the living room floor, completely exhausted, sweat gathering at your forehead as you shake your head, ready to decline his services, refusing to embarrass yourself more. 

“That would be sooo great, Joel! Thank you.” Your mother speaks instead, in pristine condition, having opted not to help you carry anything, insisting she’d be more useful watching over the items so they don’t get stolen. 

“We just don’t have anyone to help us- her dad left us when she was five…” She follows him out, her voice disappearing down the hallway. Mortified that she’s giving your life story to some man met about an hour ago. 

“Think your mom likes my dad,” Sarah jokes, beginning to unpack a box. 

“She likes any man that moves,” You shrug, used to her maneater antics, causing Sarah to laugh a bit. 

“How funny would it be if our parents dated?” Sarah continues, picking up a box to take it down the hall to your shared bedroom. 

“Be hilarious.” 

Once unpacked, your mother insisted that you all get a drink to celebrate being roommates. Thankfully, Joel declined, saying he’d take a nap before the drive home, which left just the three girls. 

“Fuck, forgot my ID,” You mumbled as soon as you got to the lobby. 

“Go on, we’ll wait for ya,” Sarah mentioned, before jumping back into conversation with your mother about something. 

It was then, after heading up in the elevator, that you opened the door, expecting to see Joel sleeping on your couch, sprawled and sleeping. Instead, once you made your way down the hall, you saw him standing there, back turned, hands in your dresser drawer. 

“Joel?” You questioned, a sliver of anxiety up your spine. He could've thought it was Sarah's stuff, an honest mistake. 

“Hm?” Is all he offers in return, slipping something out of your drawer, into his front jean pocket before turning over to you. 

That similar expression worn when he first saw you is enhanced in a more sinister way, your eyes looking down where a piece of the stolen item hangs out of his pocket. Lace. 

Your eyes snap back up as a gulp forms in your throat, avoiding eye contact as you spot your wallet there on your desk, reaching and grabbing for it, murmuring about how you forgot it before turning around and leaving as quickly as you arrived, opting to take the stairs down instead of the elevator, needing to be away from him and fast. 

Luckily, the two women don’t notice your facial expression and easily continue their own conversation. 

The door was loud when it slammed behind you when you entered. You wondered why he didn’t scatter, hold any shame for what he was doing. Or did he even feel shame? Maybe he wanted to get caught. 

You pushed those thoughts, insisting you didn’t want to know, refusing to ever know.  

. 

.

.

Gratefully, Sarah is organized, noting the days her dad would be here during parents' week on your shared calendar in the kitchen. It also helped to stalk her location to make sure there would be limited interaction between the two of you. 

The thought of seeing Joel again makes your stomach swirl with nausea and a hint of desire. Throughout the past month, you’ve found yourself struggling with the basic thought of him. 

His voice, his scent, his mighty presence… his hands in your underwear drawer. 

You shove him into the creep category; it’s only logical. Despite how your heart beats like a rabbit's in your chest when you think of him, it’s easier to reduce him down to that. 

You stayed out of Sarah’s way Thursday & Friday, knowing Joel would be here, busying yourself at the library or bar, happy that you’d be cheering at the Saturday game, the day he’d be leaving. 

Luckily, you made it through Thursday & Friday without interaction, despite Sarah insisting that Joel wanted to take you both out since your mom couldn’t make it. You declined, politely, mentioning that you had studies to attend to, which seemed to do the trick. 

Saturday consisted of you getting ready at a fellow cheerleader's apartment, nerves wracking around excitement to perform, that’s soon met with disappointment, a deja-vu-like manner, realizing you don’t have your student ID. What can get you into the building. 

You check Sarah's location, grateful to see she’s already at the stadium, rushing home to grab it. 

You push the door open hurriedly, shutting it behind you to see the man you’ve almost successfully avoided this whole trip. 

Jean covered legs spread, glass beer bottle perched on his lap in some dark T-shirt with his hair styled in the same manner from when you first spotted him. 

Joel. 

You can feel the air punched from your lungs as his eyes catch on you in confusion before a soft smile appears on half his lips, “Long time no see.” 

His voice drips with honey, like he’s tempting you. Beckoning you in with a siren song in the form of a southern accent, “Nice get up y’got on.”

You forgot you were even in uniform, a faltering smile worn on your face as you awkwardly grab at your arm, self-soothingly rubbing there as his eyes brazenly observe you, moving over your chest, stomach, legs, checking you out. 

“Thought… thought you’d be at the game with Sarah…” you laugh, nervously, avoiding his gaze as your knees knock a bit. 

“Headin’in later, she wanted to meet up with some friends,” He takes a swig from his beer, still openly checking you out, his head tilting to the side as he does. 

You take that as your sign to leave, get what you came from as you turn on your heel towards the bedroom, “Just um, just forgot my student ID.” 

You hear him then, hear him stand once raised off the couch, your pulse quickening as you try to search for your ID, remembering you had it in one of your jacket pockets as you pull it out, only to turn and see Joel in the doorway, blocking your exit. 

“Look mighty pretty in that,” He gestures to your outfit, his eyes having darkened from where they were light earlier, his lip slipping between his teeth as he folds his arms over his chest, torn between something.

“Mister Miller-” You start, wanting to know what this is, what’s going on. It can’t be what you think it is. Sarah is the purest person you’ve ever met… He….He is not. 

“Joel.” He corrects, a little harshly, as his eyes snap to meet yours, seemingly annoyed as his annoyance melts into a soft smile, features relaxing on something undetectable. “Or you can call me dad, don’t mind it.” 

Before your mind can turn on any clarity, he continues, “Y’ain’t got one of those I heard, don’t mind bein that for you. Could be a lot for you.” 

You open your mouth to speak once more, desperate to know if this is just a sick dad joke, desiring to question his intentions before he starts again. 

“Go on… show me somethin’.” His hand scratches at his beard, casually, as if he hasn’t just said some of the most abhorrent things you’ve ever heard.

“W-what?” You blink back your confusion, feeling slightly dumb throughout this conversation, finding it difficult to keep up with the man before you. 

“Show me a move. Didn’t get the college experience, wanna see what the fuss with cheerleadin’s all about.” His shoulders rise and drop, still blocking any form of exit you have. 

“Joel. What are you doing…” You finally get the nerve to clarify, despite your voice coming out cracked and hoarse, confusion wracking your brain as he looks to you as if you should know. 

He laughs, sweetly. You don’t quite understand how something that sounds so lovely comes from someone so barbarous. 

“You that innocent, darlin’? Ain’t a virgin is you?” It's manipulative; you can sense it. You’re a big girl, you know when someone's doing it, but you can’t help but lean into it. 

“No…” You cross your arms over your chest, like a frustrated child, irritated that you even granted an answer to that crude question, not knowing why you feel you have something to prove to him. 

“Well, to answer yer question, kinda always had a dream to fuck a cheerleader… had Sarah pretty young n’ didn’t get the college experience.” His eyes finally find yours and set deep, looking, reading your reaction that you don’t know how to return. 

You don’t know how to say or what to say, if you should reject him, call him disgusting, it’s above you. A piece of you even empathizes with him, knowing he gave a part of his life up to give to Sarah. 

“Whatdya say? Make an old man's dreams come true?” His deep voice cuts in through your internal battle as he’s stepping in, past the threshold, closing the door behind him, as if your silence is answer enough, inching closer to you as you take steps back until your body meets your bed.

Your eyes dart around the room, wondering if you should grab a weapon. Would he hurt you? He’s just a dad… a dad approaching you as if you’re a startled horse, taking soft, calculated, measured steps. 

“This isn’t right…I- I have a boyfriend,” Your head shakes to the side, finally being able to form a rational thought in his presence. 

You’re aware you’re both adults, but something about it isn’t okay. It’s not good. Your own mother has a crush on him, and his daughter- you’re the same age as Sarah. Plus, you’d been seeing a boy for about three weeks now, and finally made it official - wouldn’t be fair to him. 

“Don’t go talkin’ yourself out of this- saw that look on your face day I met ya, you want this.” He shakes his head, mimicking your nods in a teasing manner before a smile breaks out over his face once he’s over you, trapping you between his body and the bed. 

His hands cup around your face, warm & dry, tugging you up to look at him, where one tear slides out of your eye and down your face, his features soften despite his intentions, “I got you, baby girl, just gotta trust me.” 

Your mouth parts open as he leans down, expecting to feel his lips, but instead, his lips find the tear, kissing gently before his tongue comes out to swipe at it, tasting you there. 

“Gon’ have some fun, baby,” He murmurs against your cheek, beard brushing the soft skin there before his lips find yours in a hungry, aggressive kiss that has your faces crushing against one another. 

You whimper at the force of it, his hands holding your face tightly to him as you taste the beer in his mouth, legs locking as you allow yourself this, hands going up to grasp at his forearms for support. 

You feel him inhale, take in your breath as your mouth gasps open, not having expected this. You should say no, you think. Stop, tell him to stop, but his beer-stained lips have yours as his tongue slips into your mouth, opening you wide to receive him as he tastes the remnants of the gum you’d been chewing earlier. 

You feel his hands release your jaw, moving down to explore your body as they grip at your neck, urging a soft, whiny whimper before they land at your waist, your stomach, sliding down your body to your thighs. 

You’re aware you could break away now, push him off now that he doesn’t have you in a mighty hold, but you decide against it. 

His hand moves from the outer part of your thigh, drifting inward as his thick fingers force their way between your legs, feeling up and up until they connect with your covered pussy, urging a unique sound to fly out of your mouth.

“Joel!” you scream in return, attempting to cover it up, feeling a mortified shame knowing your current lover couldn’t make you feel the way Joel is as he maps your cunt, running his fingers over the folds and swirling at your nub that has you grasping onto his shoulders for support. 

It’s unexpected, his attention there. Boys your age often opted for their own pleasure and focused on that… the last thing you’d expected was to be touched by someone other than yourself. 

“Can feel it, darlin’, feel you soakin’ up my fingers through these shorts,” He chuckles, a deep rumble above you that dives you deeper into your own shame & humiliation, knowing he’s probably done this with Sarah’s friends before, this isn’t new, and you should stop it. 

You shouldn’t be one of his playthings…but the way his fingers feel rubbing deep circles on your clit only causes moans to leave your throat as your eyes flutter in ecstasy. 

You can hardly form a thought in this state, not realizing that your shorts are tugged, effortlessly as they slide down your legs and pool around your ankles, the air catching on your dripping cunt as Joel hums above you in realization, the only thing grounding you being the press of Joel and the cool air below you. 

“No panties, baby? Thought you’d wear those lacey ones…” He teases as you want to react, want to tell him how perverted he is for stealing those, for making a mess of you, but his fingers find your folds, earning a deep groan from you as your head tips back at the contrast of his rough fingers against your petal-like pussy. 

Without warning, his fingers move from your nub down and push into your entrance, two thick, hefty fingers forcing their way into your tightness as you clench down on them in mortification, earning a loud cry as you grip him tighter. 

“Oh my god,” you whine as he pumps them there, spreading them a bit to spread you below as you blink back tears, your head loling to the side.

“So damn tight. This all for me, baby?” He continues, panting above you, your toes curling as his fingers find a different angle. “Yeah, yeah, it is.” 

His fingers pop out of you and up in one motion before pressing to your lips, pushing past them as you gag, confused, still stuck in that high of being finger fucked. 

“C’mon, be a good girl for daddy, suck.” He coos softly, his deep voice now delicate. 

You aren’t sure what switches in you, what light is flicked on that makes you want to be a good girl for him, his good girl. But it’s turned on as your tongue wraps around his fingers, sucking eagerly, tasting yourself there, hungry and turned on by your pleasure. 

You have never tasted yourself, but you can’t help but do it now, licking his fingers clean as he pops them out of your mouth and into his, your brows scrunching on something you can’t decipher as he gets some of your spit on his beard as he does. 

“Turn ‘round, face down, ass up,” He instructs, unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans. 

You can’t help but remain still, not knowing if this is actually going to happen, if you’re actually about to fuck your roommate's father, makes you let out a strange, silly laugh, feeling properly out of your mind. 

“Hey-” He grabs your face with one hand, fingers gripping into your cheeks, peering down into your soul as his eyes search yours, brows going up irritably, not wanting a challenge, “Do it.” 

You do. You turn and crawl onto the bed, revealing yourself totally as you bend over, your skirt displaying your full backside without your shorts underneath, as you rest your head on your forearms, arching your back to give him the best angle of you. 

“That’s it, that’s daddy’s baby girl,” He coos from behind you as you hear his jeans drop to the floor, knowing that if anyone were to speak about themselves like this, you’d be disgusted, but something about him, about Joel, makes you want to please him. Makes you want to hear his praises. 

You hear him, hear the tug of his cock and the sound of the watch on his wrist every time he pumps himself, “Hell of a pussy you got, baby doll, fuckin’ purdy.” 

It’s vulgar, it’s gross, but you can’t help but roll your hips, your feet flexing behind you as you know he’s looking right at your presented holes, all his, all for him. 

You feel him then, that poke, that poke that jolts and sends you forward a bit, rethinking this whole interaction as his hand meets your hips, pulling you back to him as his tip nudges your entrance. 

“C-condom?” You whisper, realizing you would never fuck a college boy without one. You don’t know about Joel, though. 

“Don’t need that princess, need to feel my girl.” He hums as his tip catches on your silk wet entrance, pushing in there as your teeth sink into your hand, feeling your hole expand with the press of his hearty cock. 

It’s a miserable type of pleasure, being expanded slowly but surely by Joel, feeling his mass bully and create space against your gummy soft walls that hug and squeeze around him, clenching as he pushes and pushes until you both meet your limit, feeling his thighs on you and the curl of hair at the base of his cock. 

His pace is ruthless once he’s started, hips rocking back and forth on precise thrusts, his hands digging into the meat of your hips as he pulls you back to meet the slam of his thrusts, baffled screams sounding out into the mattress as you cry. 

Truthfully, you’d never been fucked in such a manner. To fuck boys your age meant to mostly be in control and finish after a minute, but Joel, Joel is a wild man as he finds his fill in your burrowed heat, coated in your slickness made just for him. 

“Wha’s wrong, baby?” He starts teasing after you begin wailing uncontrollably, hoping neighbors don’t hear and complain, his cock staying pressed deep in you as he offers two more deep thrusts. 

“College boys ain’t fuckin you like this? Boyfriend ain’t fuckin you like this?” He mentions softly above you, still taunting you as if he genuinely means it, like he’s asking a real question. 

The lewd sounds of your ass slapping against him make you feel shy as you bury your face where he can’t see, not ever experiencing yourself in this state, unaware of how you look. 

A harsh slap of your ass alerts you then, your head shooting up as you gasp, feeling his palm print buried into the skin, “Asked you a question, now.”

“No-I-oh god-,” He picks up the pace a bit, almost nuzzling that sweet spot no mans ever made it to as you try to find your words, “Joel, no, no, no one has.” 

“Poor baby,” He continues, a deep groan settling into his chest, as his arms reach under you in between your thighs, feeling at your swollen nub there as your legs begin to shake, “Let daddy do it. 

It’s unbearable, the press and fill of his magnificent manhood that spreads and fills you like no other, the way pressure is released with the soft maneuvering of his fingers below you, you feel yourself begin to drift out of your mind, wanting to be his, wanting you to make him yours, drooling a bit onto your bed.  

It’s not you, it’s whatever's happening to you that has you pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts, moaning into the pillow as your eyes roll back in your skull, needing him to know you want him, you want this, that you’re all his and he can do whatever he wants. 

“Just a lil doll for me, ain't you? Lil fuck doll? This what you always wanted, huh?” You can hear him smile from above you as your pushes and his thrusts meet each other on a beautiful rhythm that has him matching the flow with his fingers below you, a symphony in the bedroom. 

“Just needed a daddy to make it all better for you, ain’t that right, sweetheart?” He continues as his hips jolt a bit, his precision getting looser with each thrust, as you can feel something building within you, your thighs clattering as you lick at your hand. 

“Need daddy to handle it? Make it better?” His pace is relentless as his grip tightens on your hips so tight you think it might bruise, his balls plapping against your skin as they swell with desire. 

“Uh-huhhh….” You garble in slow blinks, ready to finish it off. 

“Use your words.” He demands, spitting it from above you, not taking your response as valid as you blink back your desire blindness. 

“Need daddy to handle it.” You whimper, feeling it then, feeling truly what he is to you and how he makes you feel, like no other, as you clench around him unforgivingly, a cry sounding out between your lips as you grasp blindly for something, feeling Joel's hands come out from behind you as he takes both of yours in his, palm pressed to the back of your hands, interlocking the fingers as he keeps his momentum. 

He presses his full body to your backside, feeling him get in as deep as possible, hitting that sweet gooey spot that has you unraveling as his strong, warm hands ground you, your pumping orgasm feeding through every nerve of your body as the sounds escape from you, your body shaking with desire. 

He doesn’t speak, going into his stoic disposition as you feel him then coat your cunt with his orgasm, flushing your core with his seed as he groans from above you, pressed as deep as possible, hands gripping yours with strength that has you faltering below him as he collapses over you. 

His warm body weight is placed somewhat over you as you find the last of your shared orgasms, crying softly into the bed as he finishes his own in deep, bellowed moans. 

You think the world stops, maybe time stands still in some corny way you’ve seen in romcoms. If someone were to ask you your name, you wouldn’t know the answer. All you know is Joel, his deep breaths behind you, the press of his warm skin… just Joel. 

Soon, you think, time has escaped you, he’s off of you, murmuring some mentions of praise as your shorts are slid up around your ankles and over your ass, straightening out your skirt to the best of his ability, maybe attempting to make you like new. 

You feel him press two kisses to your temple, then, a softness contrasting the brutal fuck from before, humming there how good you’ve been to him… it only makes you want him to use you again.  

“Thank you for taking care of this old man- made all my dreams come true.” He murmurs from behind you, his beard scratching on your face as you want to tell him he did the same for you, that he could do it again. 

Words fail you when he says he’s late to meet Sarah, asking if you’ll be alright, which you return with a soft nod, your heart breaking on the disconnection between each other.

You can’t say much, finding it hard to speak. You only find the strength to murmur, “Bye-bye, dad.” 

Luckily, you have just enough time to fix your makeup and get to the stadium, your mind eventually coming back to you about fifteen minutes after having the daylight fucked out of you. 

You ignore the questioning of your fellow cheerers once you arrive, still not totally in your true self. With every cheer on the field, you can feel yourself leak more of Joel from you, unsure if it’s disgusting or rewarding. 

Eventually, the team wins, allowing you to make your way to the locker room to see a text from Sarah. 

celebration dinner @ Gino’s Dining! 

on my dad lol #brokecollegegirls

 hurry up were waiting!

“I almost lost you,” he mutters.

Stops.

Rubs a hand over his mouth.

“Tonight. I almost—”

“Yeah.” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I know.”

He crosses the room in two strides, hands sliding to your face like he’s going to kiss you breathless and fuck you into forgetting. That’s his move. Always has been. Bury the fear, bury the feelings, bury everything under sweat and skin and the illusion that he’s still in control.

You catch his wrists before his mouth can reach yours.

“No.”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“Not tonight.”

You stand, slow, keeping his wrists locked in your grip. He’s stronger. You both know it. But he doesn’t pull away. Not yet.

“You don’t get to run this one, Dean.”

His laugh is short, nervous. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’re shaking. Let me—”

You shove him backward. The backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sits hard, eyes wide. Green gone dark, surprised.

“I said no.”

You climb over him before he can argue, knees bracketing his hips, pinning his hands to the bed above his head with one of yours. Your free hand yanks his flannel open—buttons pop, scatter. His chest heaves under you.

“Baby—” The nickname cracks. “I don’t— I’m not—”

“Yes you are.” You lean down, lips brushing his ear. “Tonight you’re mine. Not the hunter. Not the big brother. Not the guy who has to hold everything together. Just Dean. And you’re gonna let me take care of you.”

He swallows so hard you feel it against your throat. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“I know.” You kiss the corner of his mouth, soft. Then bite his lower lip hard enough to make him gasp. “That’s why we’re doing it anyway.”

You work his belt open one-handed, shove jeans and boxers down just far enough. He’s already hard—traitor body giving him away before his mouth can lie again. When you wrap your fingers around him he jerks, hips bucking up.

“Fuck—wait—”

You squeeze. Not painful. Just enough. “Hands stay up there. You move them, I stop. Understand?”

His eyes flicker—panic, want, that stubborn Winchester pride all crashing together. “This isn’t—”

You stroke him once, slow, thumb dragging over the head where he’s already leaking. The sound he makes is small. Broken.

“Say it, Dean.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “I… yeah. Okay. Fuck. Okay.”

You reward him by sliding down his body, taking him in your mouth without warning. Deep. Wet. No teasing. His back arches clean off the bed.

“Jesus Christ—”

You pull off with a pop. “Eyes on me.”

He forces them open. They’re glassy already.

You take him again, slower this time, letting him feel every inch of your tongue, every hollow of your cheeks. His thighs tremble under your palms. You pin them wider with your elbows, holding him open while you work him right to the edge—then stop. He whines. Actual whine.

“No—please—don’t—”

The word slips out like it hurts him. You sit up, strip your own shirt and jeans fast, climb back over him naked. His cock twitches against your thigh.

You line him up but don’t sink down. Just rub the head against your slick folds, letting him feel how wet you are from watching him fall apart.

“Beg.”

Dean’s chest is heaving. Sweat beads at his temples. “I don’t— I can’t—”

You circle your hips, teasing. “You can. You want inside me so bad you’re shaking. So beg.”

His head tips back. Throat exposed. Voice cracks. “Please. Fuck—please let me in. I need— I need you. Please.”

You sink down in one slow glide.

The noise he makes is inhuman.

You don’t move at first. Just sit there, full of him, feeling him pulse inside you. His hands are still above his head—white-knuckled fists in the sheets like he’s fighting every instinct to grab you.

You lean forward, breasts brushing his chest, and start to ride him. Slow. Deep. Grinding on every downstroke so your clit catches just right.

“Look at me.”

He does. And the first tear slips out—hot, fast, sliding down his temple into his hair. You don’t stop. You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing the wetness away even as more falls.

“That’s it,” you whisper. “Let it go. I’ve got you.”

He sobs—quiet, wrecked. “I can’t— I don’t know how to— fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” you order, clenching around him. “Come for me, Dean. Right now.”

He breaks.

His whole body seizes, hips jerking up hard as he spills inside you, crying out your name between broken gasps and tears. You ride him through it, drawing it out until he’s whimpering, oversensitive, still hard because you won’t let him go soft.

Only when he’s shaking so hard the bedframe rattles do you finally slow. You stay on him, still joined, and lean down to kiss the tears off his cheeks.

He’s crying openly now—ugly, honest sobs that rip out of his chest like they’ve been waiting years.

“I’ve got you,” you say again, softer. “I’ve got you.”

His arms finally drop. They wrap around your back like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Face buried in your neck. Wet. Hot. Breath hitching.

You hold him while the shaking eases. While the motel AC clicks on and the neon sign outside buzzes pink through the curtains.

After a long minute he mumbles something against your skin. Too quiet. You tilt your head.

“What?”

He swallows. Voice hoarse, raw. “Don’t… don’t make me say it again tomorrow.”

You press your lips to his damp temple. Feel the salt.

The ache in your chest sharpens—sweet and terrible at once. Because you know he’ll try to shove the walls back up by morning. Because you’ll let him, a little. Because some things you can only crack open in the dark.

You don’t answer.

You just tighten your arms around the man who spent years saving everyone else and finally—finally—let someone save him.

Even if it’s only for tonight.

That’s when he stood up, tossed a few bills on the bar, and reached for your hand.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, smirking. “Let’s go find out.”

If only you’d known then.

“Holy fuckin’ hell.”

Now, Ben’s voice is shot—ragged and stunned, like he just stepped into a wet dream he didn’t think was real. He’s on his knees between your thighs, hair a mess, jeans shoved down just enough to free his cock as he spreads you open on the bed like he’s about to devour you.

“Look at this fuckin’ mess,” he groans, dragging two fingers through your soaked folds, then holding them up, dripping, gleaming in the low light. “This is from me? Just talkin’ to you?”

“Yes…?” Your voice ticks up at the end, clearly confused. He almost sounds shocked.

He looks at you then—really looks. You’re all blown pupils and parted lips, because you want him.

“Fuck,” he mutters again. “I forgot this is what young pussy does.”

You whimper, but you still don’t close your legs. In fact, you tilt your hips a little higher, thighs trembling, one hand sneaking down to run your fingers over yourself.

And Ben nearly stops breathing.

“Ohh, fuck yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist and holding it there like he wants to frame the image in his memory. “Hold it open for me, baby—just like that. Let me see that sweet little pussy drippin’ for me.”

You shudder as he leans in, nose brushing your inner thigh, breath hot and wrecked.

He lets out a breath, thumbing lazily across your clit just to watch you jolt, and the slick sound it makes punches a groan out of him.

“Fuck, hear that?” he says, stunned. “That’s all you, baby. Music to my fucking ears.”

You gasp, clutching his arm as he moves, rocking up to meet him without being told, chasing the pressure like it’s instinct.

“I love when you touch me,” you say, breathless. “Feels really good.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, clearly amused, rubbing over your clit so slowly it shouldn’t even feel good but god does it ever. “I can fuckin’ tell. You’re a damn natural, sweetheart.”

“You have any idea how many chicks I’ve fucked?” he mutters, almost annoyed, like it’s your fault he’s so floored. “Decades of fucking. Hundreds of women. Thousands. Models, porn stars, you name it. The women my age, they needed convincing. Time. Half of ‘em wouldn’t even get this wet with help.” His fingers press just right and you cry out. “Had t’fuckin’ spit on my hand just to fake what you’re doin’ all by yourself.

He looks up at you, dark eyes wild, voice low and reverent.

“And here you are, soakin’ through the fuckin’ sheets before I’ve even fucked you proper. How the hell’s that fair?”

Your eyes flutter, lips parting, a high whine slipping free as your hips buck up toward him.

“Then fuck me,” you breathe. “Please, Ben—just… I need it. Need you.”

That breaks him.

He doesn’t answer—just grabs your thighs, yanks you closer, and really get to work, his fingers plunging in as deep as they can go with a wet squelch that makes you both moan.

“Goddamn, baby, listen to that,” he grits out. “So fuckin’ wet. So tight. You’re suckin’ me in like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

You whine, rocking against his hand now, chasing every curl of his fingers like you’re desperate for more. “Faster,” you beg. “Please, Ben, faster.”

“Greedy little thing,” he grunts, but he does it—fucks you with his fingers until your slick is dripping down his wrist, obscene and sloppy. “I bet you’d let me bend you over right now and fuck you stupid with half the block watchin’, wouldn’t you?”

You moan, nodding, mindless, grinding down into his hand.

“Yeah,” he breathes, twisting his fingers just right, thumbing your clit until you squeal. “That’s what I thought. You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You’re trembling, your whole body pulsing around his fingers, and when he pulls out, you whine at the loss—until you see what he’s doing.

“Look at this,” he groans, dragging his soaked hand across your stomach. “This cunt’s been waitin’ for me since the day you were born.”

“Ben, please,” you sob, desperate.

He grabs himself, thick and hard and already leaking, and presses the head of his cock against your entrance. His eyes stay locked on yours, hungry and unhinged.

He growls—actually growls—and not a second later, he’s pressing in, slow and deep, hips flexing, his jaw clenched tight as your heat swallows him whole.

“Christ on the cross, sweetheart,” he snarls. “You’re better than I ever could’ve fuckin’ imagined. Tightest, wettest little thing I’ve ever been inside.”

You both groan when he bottoms out, and then he’s moving—hard and deep, the wet slap of skin and the obscene squelch of your slick echoing like music in the room.

“M’fuckin’ spoiled now,” he pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounce with every thrust, hands gripping your thighs like he’s holding on for dear life. “I’m not pullin’ out. Not ever. You hear me, sweetheart? I’m stayin’ in this pussy ‘til I die. It’s mine.”

You nod, breathless, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him even deeper. “Yours,” you gasp. “All yours.”

And Ben just grins, cocky and ruined all at once.

“Damn right it is.”

He’s fucking you hard now—deep and relentless, hips slapping against yours in messy, soaked rhythm. The room smells like sweat and sex and heat, the bedframe groaning with every brutal thrust, and you can’t even form words anymore. Just whimpers. Gasps. Breathless, broken sounds as you cling to his back, your nails biting into his skin like you’re afraid you’ll slip under.

“Shit, baby,” he pants, jaw tight, voice wrecked. “You feel that? How you’re milkin’ my cock?”

You nod—barely. You don’t even know if you’re saying yes or just trying to stay conscious at this point.

His hand slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit like it’s second nature, and the moment he presses down, you’re gone.

You come with a strangled moan, your whole body seizing beneath him. Back arching. Vision white-hot. It hits you like a punch—shaking, pulsing, wet and overwhelming—and Ben feels it.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he snarls. “Keep squeezin’ me, sweetheart. Just like that—fuck, I’m—”

He drives in one last time, deep and brutal, and grinds his hips down into you as he comes. He curses—loud, raw, guttural—as he spills inside you, hands gripping you firmly, every muscle in his body pulled tight as he rides it out.

It’s messy. Loud.

He stays buried inside you, both of you panting against each other’s mouths, too stunned to speak for a long moment. Your legs twitch around his waist, and his body’s still shaking a little above you.

Then, slowly, he lowers himself down until he’s resting fully on top of you, helping move your legs back down onto the bed.

Your fingers find their way into his hair, and he lets you hold him there.

You feel him smile against your neck.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until Ben leans over and presses his mouth to your cheek—rough and warm and still catching his breath—and feels the damp there.

“Aw, fuck,” he all but groans, voice sounding more resigned. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head fast, but the tears keep coming. You’re not sobbing, not panicking—just raw. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Wrung out in every way a person can be.

“No,” you suck in a deep breath. “No, you didn’t. I’m okay. Just…”

You trail off, and he waits. Doesn’t push. Just keeps breathing against you, thumb rubbing circles over your hip like it’s the only thing he knows to do.

“I feel like I just got hit by a truck,” you laugh a little at the absurdity of the entire night.

He huffs a low laugh in return. “Yeah? You and me both.”

You blink up at him, lips parted, dazed. He’s still inside you—softening, twitching, warm—and you don’t want him to move.

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks, quieter now. Still gruff, still him, but the edges are sanded down.

“Uh-huh,” you nod slowly. “I just can’t feel my legs.”

That gets a real grin out of him, crooked and proud. “Hell yeah,” he mutters. “Still got it.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, but his eyes are softer than you expect—dark, but not wild anymore.

He leans back down and kisses your neck. Slow. Lingering. Then the curve of your shoulder. Then your chest, right between your breasts. His stubble drags across your skin with every lazy shift of his mouth, warm and heavy.

“I don’t think that performance can be outdone.” he mumbles against your skin. “You have absolutely ruined me for anybody else.”

You hum quietly, eyes heavy and dazed. “Wasn’t trying to.”

“That makes it even worse,” he huffs a laugh, mouth still moving—lower now. Lazier. “You don’t even know what you’ve got goin’ for you. Just layin’ there all sweet and soaked and lookin’ up at me like I hung the fuckin’ moon. It strokes a guy's ego, sweetheart.”

You shiver under him, overstimulated and spent, but there’s a flutter low in your belly.

“Damn near lost it the second I got inside you.” He drags his nose across your collarbone.

You hum quietly, nails scratching gently at his scalp and he moves. “You did good.”

“Fuckin’ right I did.”

His hand slips back between your thighs to feel just how messy you still are. “Yeah,” he mutters, grinning against your skin. “That’s what I thought.”

You twitch when his fingers brush your oversensitive clit, and he pulls back just enough to look down your body at the wet shine still dripping down your thighs, now mixing with his own release spilling out of you.

“You’re still fuckin’ soaked.”

“Ben…”

“Relax,” he drawls, voice going low again, predatory and reverent all at once. “I’m not gonna fuck you again.“

His mouth drags down your stomach, his hands warm on your hips.

“I’m just gonna clean you up a little.”

And when he settles between your thighs again, mouth hot and open, he doesn’t say another word.

read more of my work here

GEN TAGLIST @spxideyver @tendertulip @n-o-p-e-never @fandomchik @tinas111 @0ccvltism @cupidzbunny @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @thatg8rl @angelically-yours @dina-winchester @ilikw @lupinslibraries @kyleighsstuff @sadpods @mochminnie @spookyysinsanity @mindfulmesses @paristheonewhoreads @prettywhenipanic @mostlymarvelgirl @shortcyclicalstoner @dead-sirens @boba-is-a-soup @l3tholog1ca @allthingswickedpodcast @musesfromashes @mollymal @sh1a10

it was stupid. like, really stupid. you weren’t even trying. you’d laugh at his dumb jokes. real laughter, like you hadn’t just heard the same crap a hundred times, and you’d tilt your head and smile at him like he wasn’t forgetting how to breathe.

“morning,” you said one day, walking into the motel kitchen like you weren’t single-handedly ruining his life.

dean stared at you. big eyes. soft smile. hair messy from sleep. you had two pop-tarts in your hand and offered him one like it was no big deal. like you didn’t just rock his whole world on a tuesday morning.

“i saved the strawberry one for you,” you said, biting into the other one.

“you, uh... saved it?” he asked, heart doing parkour.

“yeah,” you said casually, like it wasn’t the most romantic gesture anyone had ever made. “i know you like the pink ones.”

he took it from you slowly, reverently, like you’d just handed him your heart or a wedding ring or the keys to your apartment in heaven.

he could hear sam snorting behind him.

“don’t,” dean muttered as he sat down, carefully unwrapping the pop-tart like it was fragile glass.

“you’re embarrassing,” sam whispered from the other side of the table.

dean kicked him under it.

you were just… nice. that’s what killed him the most. you were a hunter, sure, you’d seen the worst shit out there, but you still had this goodness to you. you said “bless you” when he sneezed. you brought him water when he had a headache. one time, you tied his hair back when he had engine grease in his eyes, and he swore he saw the gates of heaven for a second.

but the worst part? you thought he was just being friendly.

dean “i’ve been flirting with you since missouri” winchester was being interpreted as “just a pal.”

he helped you salt your room every night. gave you his shotgun when yours jammed. carried you to the car like a damn hero when you twisted your ankle. and what did you say?

“you’re such a good friend, dean.”

he was so fucking sick from it.

you never thought twice about it, you were just like that. but dean? he was one look away from falling to his knees every time you smiled at him for too long. it wasn’t cute anymore. it was actually getting kinda dangerous.

like, last night? you had the audacity to reach over during a movie and fix the collar of his flannel. just tugged on it real gently and said, “there. lookin’ good, winchester.” oh, as if you weren’t sending him into full cardiac arrest.

he blinked at you, totally dazed. “you, uh… wanna do that again?”

“what, fix your collar?”

“no. just… yeah. that.”

you giggled and went back to your popcorn like it was nothing. he genuinely had to pause the movie and walk out to the car to scream into his hands for a full thirty seconds.

dean decided right then, enough was enough.

he was gonna make a move. no more fake-flirty shit. he was gonna say something. do something. shake it up. see if maybe you felt any of this too.

so he did. he started getting bold. subtle, sure, but still. he stopped pulling away when your hands brushed, let his fingers linger. he’d bump your hip when you were standing next to him, catch your eye during long drives and hold the stare for too long.

and then one night, as you both sat outside the motel after a long-ass hunt, him with a beer and you with a root beer bottle sweating in your palm, he leaned in just a little too close. close enough that you could feel his breath on your jaw. you didn’t flinch, just smiled, eyes on the stars.

“y’know,” he said, voice low. “i like this. you and me. nights like this.”

you grinned. “yeah, me too. feels like we’re in a movie or somethin’.”

dean turned toward you, full body, arm draped across the back of the bench so it looked casual, but he was literally using it to inch closer to you.

he dropped his voice even lower. “if this was a movie, i’d probably kiss you right now.”

you snorted. snorted.

“you’re such a dork,” you laughed, sipping your soda. “you always say the corniest stuff.”

dean just blinked at you. you weren’t even joking, were you? you thought he was playing around. he wasn’t even sure what expression was on his face anymore. but he smiled through it. “yeah. guess I do.”

he wanted to crash the car into the nearest ditch. just a light crash. nothing fatal. just enough to knock some sense into you.

little did he know it would all start with a fight.

not a big one. just one of those dumb, hot motel arguments that always happened when you two were tired and hungry and road-tripping for way too long. he snapped at you over directions. of course his stupid ass decided it would be romantic to let you drive. you rolled your eyes. then he got real quiet. you knew something was bubbling under the surface.

“you gonna stay mad all night?” you asked eventually, dropping your bag on the motel bed and kicking off your boots. “it’s not like i crashed baby or something.”

dean didn’t answer. just stood there, jaw tight, hands on his hips, staring at the wall like it had personally offended him.

you huffed. “jesus, dean. chill out.”

that did it.

he turned around so fast you flinched, not because you were scared, dean didn’t scare you, but because his face looked wild. raw and flushed and just done with everything. “chill out?” he repeated, voice sharp. “chill out? you think this is me being mad about directions?”

you blinked. “uh. yeah? it kinda felt like-”

“i’m in love with you!”

the words dropped like a bomb. cut through the air so cleanly you honestly thought you misheard him.

you froze. “what?”

“i said I’m in love with you, you fucking idiot,” he snapped, and this time his voice cracked, not from anger, but from the weight of it. the years, the months, the fucking hours he’d spent holding it in. “do you even get what it’s been like for me? watching you walk around every damn day like we’re just buddies, like i don’t wanna rip my own heart out every time you look at me like that?”

you stared at him, stunned.

“like what?” you whispered.

“like you don’t know,” he growled, stepping closer. his hands were fists now, not angry ones, just ones that didn’t know what to do with themselves. “like you don’t feel it too. you laugh when I flirt with you, like it’s a joke. you wear my damn shirts, sleep on my shoulder, hold my hand when you’re tired, and I’m supposed to just… what, pretend it’s casual? just friendly?”

you opened your mouth. nothing came out.

dean shook his head, laughing bitterly. “i’ve been trying, okay? i’ve been trying to keep it cool. to let you come to me. but you’re either the most oblivious person I’ve ever met or you’re just cruel.”

“dean-”

“no,” he cut in, voice breaking again. “i can’t do it anymore. i’m in love with you. real, scary, punch-me-in-the-face love. and i swear to god if you don’t feel the same, i’m gonna lose my damn mind.”

and then you did the absolute worst thing imaginable.

you laughed.

dean’s face fell. he looked completely shattered. “are you kidding me?”

but you were already crossing the room, already putting your hand on his chest and shaking your head, grinning like an idiot.

“i know,” you said, breathless with laughter. “i know, dean. of course i know. you’re the most obvious man on planet earth.” he stared at you, completely stunned. you smiled. “i just didn’t think you meant it. i thought that was just… you. being dean.”

he blinked. “i was being me. me is fucking in love with you.”

you laughed again, soft this time, and your fingers curled into the collar of his shirt.

“im in love with you too, dumbass.”

his mouth opened like he was about to say something, probably some sarcastic little remark, but you kissed him before he could. pulled him down by the shirt and smashed your mouth against his, and it wasn’t gentle or careful or slow. It was sloppy, overdue, and desperate.

dean groaned, hands flying to your waist like instinct, pulling you in so tightly you could feel his heartbeat through his shirt. “you have no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that,” he muttered against your lips.

you kissed him again.

and again.

and again.

when you finally pulled back, dazed and smiling, his hands still on you like he was scared you’d vanish, he just stared at you. like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“so,” you said, a little breathless. “still mad about the directions?”

dean leaned in again, forehead resting on yours, his voice hoarse with relief. “you could drive us into a lake right now and i’d thank you.”

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @tendertulip @tinas111 @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @lunaleah @anxiety-prime-max @amsliajskxkxkx @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @kimxwinchester @cherrysgf @cupidzbunny @ninii-winchester @suckitands33 @candytoothed @unstable-cucumber @americanvenom13 @mindfulmesses @spookyysinsanity @incubusimmolation @kcundercover4 @southernimpala @deansbbyx @bowbowrry @freds-chocolate-starfish @defnot-svnshine @zyra-7 @stvrligghtt ⊹ ࣪ ˖

۶ৎ wanna be tagged too?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

Three hours post-concert, he was still riding high on the night. The thrill of the stage, the crowd's adulation- it was all pulsing through him like a drug he never wanted to wean off of.

Y/N took a deep breath and then a swig from the bottle. Jensen eyed her throat as she swallowed and he felt his focus shift. He popped up on his left arm and smiled.

“That was so fun,” he said. His voice was deep and hoarse, crackling around the edges.

“It was.” Y/N laughed. They’d been over it a thousand times since the curtain closed, stating the obvious again and again. It was fun. The band was on fire. He was perfect. She sang like an angel. He looked too good. She was too drunk. Way too drunk.

Y/N cleared her throat. “So, I’m gonna go. Thanks again for the- well, everything.”

She turned to leave and Jensen sprang up, teetering on the edge of the bed.

“Don’t-”

She looked back at him and Jensen’s breath fell away. He didn’t know what to say, or how to ask her to stay, he just knew he wasn’t ready to let her go.

“I really should get to bed,” she said softly. “My room is like ten floors down and halfway across the hotel. I gotta get out of the penthouse before they catch me.” She winked and Jensen shook his head.

“Don’t go yet.” Gently, he patted the bed beside him and looked up with a prayer in his green eyes.

Y/N balked, starting and then stopping on the plush carpet. Her mind sternly told her to leave, but her body and heart had other plans.

She sank down beside him and they lay on their backs staring at the dark ceiling.

It wasn’t the first time they’d found themselves in such a position. Over the last few months, the pair had become good friends. Meeting through a mutual friend, Jensen found himself smitten by Y/N’s voice and easy-going songwriting, and Y/N quickly fell into rhythm beside him and Steve, eventually working on their latest album. She sang backup and played the tambourine like a hippie chick from the seventies and Jensen loved every second of it. She added a lightness to the new songs that he couldn’t find by himself.

Y/N enjoyed his company and his amazing sense of storytelling. Conversation flowed easily over black coffee and the occasional cocktail; inside jokes were soon created, and their chemistry onstage was obvious. Didn’t hurt that he was gorgeous and his voice made her thighs clench.

Still, they were just friends.

It was a line they couldn’t cross, shouldn’t cross, wouldn’t cross.

“That afterparty was nuts, huh?” he laughed, settling down with a hand on his stomach.

Y/N nodded in the dark. “Yeah. I haven’t drunk this much in a while.” As if on cue, a hiccup rocked her body. “I really shouldn’t do shots. Like, ever.”

Jensen’s laugh shook the bed. “I don’t know, you didn’t need much pushing.”

“I said I shouldn’t do shots,” she laughed. “Not that I don’t want to.”

He turned to look at her and sighed. “You’re amazing, you know that?”

“I-” Her cheeks burned under his gaze. “Nah. You’re just drunk.”

“Maybe.” Again, he rolled onto his side and crooked his elbow beneath his head. “But you are.”

Embarrassed but floating on the excitement of the night and the tone in his voice, she rolled to face him, tucking her hands under her cheek. She looked up with innocent eyes. “Yeah?”

The flash of a soft smile, a peek at his pink tongue while sweeping across his bottom lip, wetting the cracked skin.

“Absolutely.”

Y/N felt her breath catch deep in her chest. It swirled around her heart as it struggled to beat. “Well,” she whispered, barely able to move her drunken tongue, “if I am, you are… more so… or something better, even.”

Jensen laughed and the bed shook with his shoulders. “You’re pretty drunk, too.”

She bit her lip and shrugged. “Twins!”

He calmed and dropped his head, mirroring her pose. “Twins.”

If she stared any deeper into his emerald eyes, Y/N knew she’d never get out of there. She swallowed hard and worked up the will to push herself up.

It was better to go before anything happened; better to leave and dream forever about ‘what if’ than to stay and regret it.

He felt it, too. That draw, that pull, the internal tug that inched him ever closer to her. It had always been there, always hanging overhead like some invisible net about to drop and trap them together. Maybe the shots were a bad idea, but looking at her now, so soft, so beautiful, with lips waiting to be kissed and curves begging to be held, every idea seemed like a good one.

Jensen’s long exhale passed over her lips and any thought of decency or morals left her head.

He broke the stillness, words snaking from his lips to wind around her body like electrified tendrils.

“What would you do if I asked you to kiss me?”

Shock froze her brain and Y/N blinked at him, confused but absolutely certain.

“I would.”

His cheeks glowed like a rose.

Y/N dipped her chin and then looked up, coy but desperate. “Are you asking me?”

Another lick of his lips, a swift inhale.

“I am.”

Y/N kept her eyes open the whole time, holding her breath as she leaned in and pushed her lips gently against his. His eyes fell closed, long lashes brushing hers as he tipped his head to the side and parted his lips. Their tongues met and Jensen let out a moan that finally shut her eyes. She licked deep into his mouth and exhaled, breathing into him, giving everything she had.

His left hand hovered over her shoulder. Her fingers tentatively danced over the thick muscle of his throat. She shifted closer, scooting into him without thinking about it. When he broke the kiss to roll over her, she let out a whisper that broke his mind.

“Jensen…”

His hand slid down her body and locked around her knee, dragging it up as he slit his thick leg against her sex. She clenched down on the meat of his thigh and whimpered at the heat of him, the weight he let fall over her. She cupped his cheek and licked at his lips; clawed a hand through his hair when he sucked at her hungry mouth.

“Fuck.”

His moan made her shiver and Jensen rocked his entire body up into her, moving like a wave against a silken shore. When his palm fit over her breast, she arched her back, pressing harder against him.

His fingers closed around her budding nipple and Y/N dropped her hand to his jeans, spreading her fingers around his quickly growing erection.

He growled.

She moaned.

They froze.

Jensen pulled back, easing air back into the space between them. He shook his head gently to clear his salacious thoughts. “We… we shouldn’t.”

Y/N nodded, quickly agreeing. “I know.” She dropped her leg from his side and pushed herself back, sliding up on the mattress. “I um…”

“Yeah.” Jensen sighed and ran a hand down his face, symbolically brushing away the lust that refused to ease inside of him.

“I know we shouldn’t,” she confessed, staring at the wetness on his plump lips. “But… I’m not ready to go.”

Jensen sighed. In relief of frustration, he didn’t know. All he knew was that he wanted to rip her clothes off with his teeth and kiss every inch that he could reach. He wanted to drink her down like the bourbon they’d shared and seer the memory into his soul.

“Maybe…” He fell forward onto his hands and knees and crawled closer. “What if…” He caged her in with strong arms set beside her head and bowed legs hugging her hips. “Just one night,” he said, “just one kiss...”

Her heart raced; her pussy throbbed. “I don’t know.”

She was trembling and he could feel the fight inside of her.

“OK.” He smiled gently and rolled away, resuming his place by her side, looking up at the ceiling. “Then we can just lie here.” Gently, he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I won’t do anything that you don’t ask me to do. Deal?”

Her breathing calmed. “Deal.”

A sweet kiss upon her knuckles; a gentle sigh.

“Good.”

He tried to drop her hand, but she held on, pushing her fingers through his until their palms were locked together and hanging between them. That was the space they couldn’t fill, the air they couldn’t share.

Y/N let out a heavy breath and clutched his hand tight.

Jensen swallowed hard and caressed her hand with his thumb.

“It really was a great show,” she said, clearing her throat and trying to move on.

He nodded. “Sure was. Well, there were a few spots I fucked up but-”

“No one noticed. Trust me.”

“You think?”

She laughed and rolled onto her side, dropping his hand to face him. “Jen- you could get up on that stage, singing off-key and farting into a bucket for an hour and they’d all still love you.”

“You saying I suck?”

“What?”

Jensen turned and curled his arm under his head. “If they love me no matter what, how do you know I’m any good?”

His question was real, but there was a hint of a tease in his eye. He was shy, but his confidence was eternally growing.

“I know,” she explained, leaning closer, “because I have ears.” He licked his lips and her breath caught. “...And eyes…” His lips parted gently and the green she so loved glazed over with renewed lust. “And…” Her heart was pounding. The smell of him, the heat, the taste of him still on her lips- it was too much.

“And?”

Her head was reeling. She closed her eyes.

“Kiss me.”

Jensen pulled in a deep breath. “What?”

“Kiss me,” she said again, whispering her plea into that forbidden space between them. “Please.”

He hesitated; fingers pulsing against his thigh. “Are you asking me?”

Beautiful eyes opened and Jensen sank into them. She smiled gently and nodded.

“I’m asking you- Jensen. Ross. Ackles- to kiss me.”

A wave of calmness washed over him and he cocked his head to the side. He cupped her cheek with tender adoration as he licked deep into her mouth. Y/N melted once more, feeling his fingers burn her skin and his tongue infect her with unrelenting desire. She leaned into him, pressing her body flat against his, and accepted each kiss like it would be the last.

“God, I love kissing you,” he whispered. His eyes were fluttering, his thoughts churning, trapping him somewhere between love and rigid lust.

She could only hum in response and let her lips run across his shadowed jaw. She licked at his ear, nibbled at his throat, sucked a hint of a mark on his collarbone. Jensen rolled his hips unconsciously, already aching and half-hard.

“Touch me,” she moaned, reaching for his empty hand. “Please…”

Another line was crossed; more permission was granted. Jensen obliged without hesitation. He set his hand on her hip and teased his fingers beneath her shirt, snaking his touch across her bare skin. She shivered and grabbed his wrist, dragging his palm up to her breast. He turned the cup of her bra down and plucked at her nipple, earning a heavy moan as a reward.

“Your hands are so warm…”

He smirked and buried his face in the crook of her neck, kissing the soft skin on her shoulder. “Because you got me all worked up.”

“I did nothing,” she teased, slipping a hand down his firm chest.

Before he could retort, she had popped the button on his jeans and tugged the zipper down. She struggled against the belt but decided to leave it alone, instead pushing her hand into the denim. She lay her hand flat against his cock and his entire body jolted with pleasure.

“You’re warm here too…”

Jensen bit his lip. “Yeah…”

She traced his length and hummed. “And… big.”

He stiffed instantly against her palm and Jensen returned to her mouth, kissing her deeper with each swipe of her palm over his erection.

“Want you so bad,” he mumbled, curling himself over to lift her shirt with his teeth. He licked a hot line across her chest, teasing the crest of each mountain before falling into the valley. Kisses marked his path and Y/N gasped in pure pleasure when he locked his mouth around her nipple.

“God…”

His tongue swirled and she melted.

Her fingers curled and he moaned.

“Fuck, Y/N…”

She moaned in response, obsessed with the way her name poured from his slick lips. She stroked him harder, awkwardly trapped by his belt and the tight denim. “Take… take this off,” she begged.

He lingered for a moment before tearing himself away and rolling onto his back to shed his jeans.

Y/N took the break to do the same, yanking her clothes away until she was down to her bra and panties.

Jensen whistled when he saw her, barely able to pull his shirt over his head, afraid to lose a minute of her body. “Damn…”

Her cheeks burned. She shied away, wrapping her arms around her soft belly, but Jensen wouldn’t let her hide. He fell back to kissing her, gently lifting her hands off so he could adore every curve.

“Fucking beautiful,” he whispered, crawling down her body to peel the thin cotton from her hips.

He kissed her belly, nibbled on her hip, exhaled slowly against her aching pussy.

“I…” She twitched as his lips grazed her inner thigh. “Jensen…” He ran his tongue softly along the ridge of her sensitive lips. “Please…”

Green eyes lifted as he listened for his cue. “Yes?”

She trembled. “Lick me.”

A moan rumbled in the back of his throat and Jensen gave in to his hunger. He pressed his two fingers into her and set his thumb and pinky on either side of her clit, gently spreading her open. She whimpered at the feeling, gasped when his tongue flickered over her and clawed at his shoulders when he sucked.

Her hips jerked with every thrust of his thick wrist and the pleasure was overwhelming. She clenched down on his fingers, throbbing harder than she thought possible, and then shoved him away. She squirmed from his grasp and sat up, panting against the pillows.

Jensen watched her go with a glistening face and perfect, swollen lips. He crawled to her, hands and knees dipping into the mattress.

Y/N bit her lip and grabbed his shoulders, forcing him to take her place on the pillows. She licked at his lips and wrapped her small hand around his cock, marveling at the thickness. She stroked him a few times and watched his eyes roll back. His freckled face was washed in frustrated bliss and he dug his teeth into his lip, holding back a pathetic whimper.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes and took her in. “Need you.” His voice crackled and she shivered. “Please.”

Her mouth flooded with desire and Y/N dropped down to let it seep out over the tip of his cock. She wet her fist and stroked him slowly, guided by the tight-lipped moans he let slip. When she pushed her tongue flat against his vein, his entire body quaked and she hummed in awe.

“So hot, Jensen-”

His thighs trembled and she sealed her lips tight around him.

“Fuck!”

Her hot mouth pushed down his shaft; her tongue flicked against the sensitive patch of nerves beneath the tip. She swallowed hard and took him down her throat, gagging in the most beautiful way.

Jensen bucked his hips into her and slid a hand up her arm to tangle in her hair. She let him lead, keeping her mouth locked around him while he pulled her face up and down over his cock. Saliva poured from her mouth and she moaned against the wetness, slurping his delicious erection.

About to burst, Jensen released his hold and Y/N pulled back, crouching on her knees and squeezing a circle around the base of his cock.

“Jensen…”

Panting, he lifted his head, blinking at her. “Yes?”

Her entire body was throbbing; her blood screaming for him. She swallowed softly and whispered, “fuck me.”

There was no need to clarify this time; no checking to make sure she was serious.

Jensen was up and on her in a second, turning her onto her back with a thick kiss that made her body drop limply beneath him.

He lifted her right leg high, set it to rest on his muscular shoulder, and lightly held her hips. He stared into her eyes while he penetrated her sex; basking in the glow as her jaw dropped in a silent cry.

Every thrust was like magic that weaved golden fire through her system, sparking every nerve to stand on end, waiting for the inevitable. She held tight, digging her nails into his forearms; held her breath while he rolled his hips, clenched around him as she started to fall.

“That’s it,” he whispered, heart pounding away in his chest. “I can feel it…”

Y/N vibrated below him and let out a gasping cry as she came.

“There,” he grit, thrusting faster. “That’s it, baby. So. Fucking. Good.” Every word was struck through with a snap of his hips as he worked her through it, keeping the flame ablaze until she couldn’t take it any longer.

Out of breath and pulsing with bliss, Y/N lay a gentle hand over his heart and let his name slip from her lips.

“Jensen…”

His body curled inwards as he came; emptying into her with another brisk thrust. His grunt was deep and echoed through the silent room, filling their heads with guilt once the afterglow faded.

They lay tangled together, her hand on his heart, his arms tight around her. She kept her head on his shoulder, listening to his breath as it slowed. He smelled like whiskey and sex, sweat and faded cologne. She took a deep breath and sealed the essence of him away, tucking the memory behind her heart.

There was no discussion, no congratulatory pillow talk. Anything they could say would only make things worse.

“That was incredible.”

“I’ve wanted you for so fucking long.”

“I might be falling in love with you.”

Once more, they lay there staring at the ceiling. Twice, Jensen cleared his throat, desperate to break the silence, but there was nothing he could say that would come out right. No way to take back what they’d done, and the truth was- he didn’t want to. Damn the consequences, there was nowhere he’d rather be, no way he would ever regret what they’d done.

Y/N felt an old familiar pang in her chest and her eyes started to burn with tears. Before they fell, she sucked in a calming breath and pushed herself up.

“I gotta get going,” she said sadly. “It’s late.”

The look on her face nearly broke him. Jensen sat up on his elbows and shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Jensen-”

Desperate, he took her hand and placed it back over his heart. She could feel his ache. It was the same as hers, and she sighed.

Closing his eyes, he nodded solemnly. “I know I just- I’m not ready to let you go.”

A tear fell but he kissed it away.

His heart ached but she soothed him.

Another hour would do no harm.

Another night.

Another day.

Another secret to keep.

The color drains from your face so fast you feel light-headed. Your heart slams against your ribs like it’s trying to escape. Instinct takes over: you yank the sleeves down hard, folding your arms tight across your chest, curling in on yourself.

“I—I’m sorry,” you stammer, the words catching in your throat, barely audible. Your voice sounds small, foreign. Heat floods your cheeks—shame, panic, the old familiar dread. You can’t look at him. You stare at the coffee mug instead, waiting for the silence, the disgust, the slow retreat.

You’ve seen this before. The way people’s faces change. The questions they don’t ask but still judge you for. The way they suddenly need to be somewhere else.

Jensen doesn’t move.

He sets his mug down slowly on the coffee table. Then he lowers himself onto the couch beside you—not too close, not crowding, but close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“Hey,” he says, soft and steady. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You can’t. Your eyes burn. You shake your head a fraction.

He waits.

After a long, quiet moment, his hand settles gently on your knee—no demand, just presence.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice low. “And you don’t owe me an apology. Not for this. Not ever.”

Your breath shakes on the exhale. You risk a glance at him.

There’s no disgust. No pity. Just quiet, steady concern. And something fiercer underneath—like he’s angry on your behalf, not at you.

He reaches out slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, and takes the hand you’re using to clutch the sleeve. He doesn’t try to push the fabric back up. He just turns your palm over and traces small, soothing circles across your skin with his thumb.

“These?” He lifts your hand in his, brushing a soft kiss onto your open palm. “They’re proof you’re strong. That you fought through something dark and came out the other side. They’re part of you,” he says quietly. “And I love you. All of you. That doesn’t change because I saw some lines on your arms.”

A tear slips free before you can stop it. You swallow hard.

“I thought—” Your voice cracks. “Every time someone’s seen them before… they looked at me like I was… broken. Or insane. Or both.”

Jensen’s jaw tightens, but his touch stays gentle. “They were wrong,” he says, firm but soft. “You’re not broken. You’re the strongest person I know. And you’re safe here. With me.”

He leans in slowly and presses the lightest kiss to your temple, then the corner of your eye where the tear track is.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Whenever you’re ready to talk about it, if you ever are, I’ll listen. But right now, you don’t have to say anything. Just breathe.”

You do—shaky at first, then deeper. The panic ebbs, slow and reluctant, replaced by the warmth of his hand in yours.

After a minute, you uncurl just a little. You don’t push the sleeves up again, but you don’t hide quite so fiercely either.

Jensen notices. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze and reaches for his coffee with the other, like nothing earth-shattering just happened.

“Still warm,” he says casually, nodding at your mug. “Drink before it gets cold.”

You huff the tiniest surprised laugh, and pick it up with both hands.

The sun keeps pouring in. The day keeps moving forward.

You sit there for a long moment, the coffee mug warm between your palms, your heart still racing but no longer from fear. Jensen’s thumb keeps tracing those gentle circles on the back of your hand, patient and steady, like he has all the time in the world.

The panic has ebbed into something quieter—relief, maybe, or the first real breath you’ve taken in minutes. You look at him, really look: the soft concern in his green eyes, the way his brow is slightly furrowed not in judgment but in quiet protectiveness.

Something inside you unclenches.

You set the mug down carefully on the table, the small clink loud in the stillness. Then you shift closer, slow enough that he can feel it coming. His hand tightens just a fraction around yours—not holding you back, just anchoring.

Your free hand, the one he isn’t holding, moves without overthinking it. You lay it gently on his chest, right over his heart. The soft cotton of his T-shirt is warm beneath your palm, and you feel the steady thump-thump beneath it, strong and even. It grounds you more than anything else could.

He stills for a breath, like he’s feeling the weight of the gesture, then covers your hand with his free one, pressing it closer to his heartbeat.

You lean in.

The kiss is soft, barely more than a brush of lips at first, tentative and trembling. You pour everything you can’t say into it: thank you for not leaving, thank you for seeing me, thank you for staying.

He lets you lead. His lips part just slightly, warm and gentle, answering without demanding.

The hand holding yours stays feather-light, thumb tracing circles across your skin as if to say I’ve got you.

The kiss stays tender. No heat, no rush. Just gratitude and safety and the quiet wonder of being truly seen and still wanted.

When you pull back a fraction, your forehead rests against his, eyes closed, breathing the same air. Your hand stays on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart under your palm—steady, reassuring, real.

“Thank you,” you whisper, the words finally unstuck.

He presses one more feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your temple.

“Anytime,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You stay like that—foreheads touching, one hand linked with his, the other over his heart—and for the first time, you really believe that the scars don’t have to be the end of the story.

They can just be part of it.

Your chest tightens immediately. Of course he remembered. Of course he said it like that—low and sincere, like the words matter.

You smile into the pillow. “You’re awake already?”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then another. “Been awake a while. Tryin’ not to move ‘cause you looked peaceful.” A pause. “Also tryin’ not to spill coffee on you.”

You turn just enough to see the mug on the nightstand—and the ridiculously proud look on his face.

“You made me coffee?”

“Damn right I did.” He grins. “Extra cream. One sugar. Don’t argue—I know what you like.”

Your eyes sting a little, and you blame the year. The long one. The kind that leaves marks even when you’re still standing.

Dean must feel the shift, because his teasing melts into something softer. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing slow and grounding.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “This year didn’t beat you. You hear me?”

You swallow. “Some days it felt like it tried.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “But look at you. Still here. Still kickin’. Still the strongest person I know.”

You scoff quietly. “That’s a stretch.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours. “Nope. That’s the truth. And I don’t lie on birthdays.”

He helps you sit up, hands steady, then passes you the mug like it’s sacred. The first sip is warm and perfect and makes your shoulders drop for the first time in what feels like forever.

“There’s more,” he says.

You raise a brow. “Dean—”

“Relax.” He smirks. “No explosions. No cursed objects. Scout’s honor.”

He reaches under the bed and pulls out a small, neatly wrapped box. The paper’s a little wrinkled. The bow is crooked. It’s perfect.

You take it slowly, like you’re afraid the moment might break.

Inside is something simple—something personal. Thoughtful. Something that says I see you without needing to say it out loud.

You blink. Hard.

Dean shifts closer. “I know it’s not flashy. But I saw it and—” He shrugs. “It felt like you.”

Your voice wobbles. “You’re unfairly good at this.”

He chuckles softly. “Yeah, well. You’re unfairly easy to love.”

That’s it. That’s the line that gets you.

Dean doesn’t let you spiral. He pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you like a promise. He holds you while you breathe through it, while the year loosens its grip just enough to let you rest.

“I’m really glad you were born,” he says quietly. “World’s better with you in it. Mine sure as hell is.”

You laugh, tearful and warm. “You always say the right thing.”

“Only ‘cause I mean it.”

Later, there’s breakfast—Dean burns the toast, obviously. There’s laughter. There’s music playing low from his phone. There’s the sense that today doesn’t have to be big or perfect to be meaningful.

Before the day really begins, he cups your face and kisses you slow—sweet, unhurried, full of everything he doesn’t always say.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs again. “And hey… this next year? We’ll take it one day at a time. Together.”

If you’re reading before bed, he’ll lay next to you, face pressed into your side and arms around your waist. Faking sleep while you brush your fingers through his hair, and he pretend not to be making a deep, satisfied sound in his chest that’s dangerously close to a purr. If he’s watching TV, he holds you in his lap, a large hand splayed on your stomach, thumb absentmindedly rubbing little circles while he rests his chin on your shoulder. 

You murmur that you have to use the bathroom. He nods, and grunts me too, even though you know he went right before you got in bed. He holds your hand the whole way, and fidgets restlessly in the few seconds he can’t hold onto you on the toilet. The second you stand, he’s on you. Herding you back to your room, eyes hooded and mouth pressed on the crook of your neck. 

Not even kissing. He’s holding your hips, but there’s nothing behind it. 

Just touch, for the sake of touch. 

“I thought you had to go pee.” You tease, and he shrugs.

“Lost it.”

You just laugh, and let him pull you  He might just have had nothing for so long, and now that he has something he doesn’t want to let go of it. You don’t question it. You think you know the answer.

And you know the ending, too. That you’ll never escape his hold, because you have no reason or desire to struggle against it. But you also know Dean doesn’t fully believe you when you say it, so you show him in a way he understands. 

With actions. 

When the light goes off, you slide up next to him, and press your face into his chest. An open invitation, as your body goes loose and easy. 

Dean sighs, and sometimes he just kisses the top of your head and rubs your hips, keeping you right there until the dawn. 

But often, he moves you. Rolls you onto your side, his own body following, and tangles his legs between yours with his breath hot and steady on your neck. Laces your fingers together and rolls onto his side, holding you around him and letting out a long breath as you kiss his back and curl against him. Sometimes he rolls to face you, and you end up tucked into his arms like a teddy bear, his heartbeat slow near your ear. Other times, you’re carefully dragged on top of him, his chest a pillow and hand trailing up and down your spine. 

You always fall asleep, wherever he decides he needs you. And you’re more than happy to be needed by him. 

And there are bad nights, that are quieter, and made of a need you know he doesn’t know how to say, and you never mind giving. 

But there are also worse nights. 

Dean doesn’t fall asleep, and if he does, nightmares come. They wake you up, no matter how—even in his sleep—he tries to keep them from disturbing you. When that happens, you don’t ask what happened. You ignore his muffled, weak apologies, and pull him on top of you. 

He rests his face between your breasts, your fingers running through his short, soft hair and rubbing his shoulders. He doesn’t talk about it. You don’t ask him to. It’s not what he needs, to confront the dark when it’s already leaking out of him and pulling him under. You’re just there to help him stay afloat. 

Eventually, he falls back asleep. You kiss his head, and doze off with his arms still holding you like a frightened child. 

It breaks your heart, clean in half. 

But for every worse night, there are also the better ones. 

The good ones. The ones that, on paper, he’s had with countless other women. But it’s different when it’s you. 

Because it’s hot and sticky and leaves you staring, dazed and cockdrunk at the ceiling.

But it’s also domestic, in a way that’s only yours. 

Sometimes it starts with Dean teasing you. I like your shirt, baby, show me what’s underneath, and fingers dancing up your thigh. Other times he just starts kissing you in the middle of a movie, or the walk from the bathroom ends with a rough kiss and your knees hitting the mattress. 

Or just wandering hand. Up your shirt to cup your boob—stress ball, he calls them, and you’d whack him if he did start making out with your neck the next second—or lower and lower on your stomach, until his just resting over you. 

The man always has the audacity to mock you. To mutter ‘m not doin’ anything, when you whine his name. To slide his fingers into your underwear, and toy with your clit, while telling you to quit squirming, and that he’s tryin’ to go to bed. 

His game usually ends, when you reach behind you and grab his cock through his sweatpants. From there, it’s just about the night. You riding him, him folding your knees into your chest and making your eyes roll back, your face pressed into the mattress and your ass high in the air as he drills into you. 

And it doesn’t always end there. 

The comfort means you’ve talked about things. And he knows that, if he just wants sit in you after, he can. He always adjusts you to be comfortable, kissing your collarbone and cheeks, and you pass out still fluttering around him. 

He’ll wake you up, fucking into you slowly, eyes hooded from lust and sleep. Other mornings his head is between your legs, or his fingers are playing with your still sore folds, until you shake and sob from pleasure in his arms. 

And it’s a nice way, to find the morning. 

But your favorite is when you’re up first. 

When you get to just look at him. His handsome face relaxed, mouth parted, eyes fluttering softly. His chest rising and falling in even time, his whole body relaxed against yours. 

You reach up, to brush a stray eyelash off his cheek. He leans into your touch, and you smile. 

He’s beautiful. 

And neither of you are ever going to be cold and lonely again.