The Noble Secrets of Art and Love

Author's Note

This is meant to a true, genuine, average length mini-series, so it won't be as long and detailed as my other works, but that's by design. It's a personal challenge, and also just something nice and fun. I hope you enjoy!

His feet plant him half a step away, his front facing your side. “Thank you,” he says, your name lingering in the air.

You’ll flick your head towards him with that warm smile, your cheeks full and eyes crinkling, that sends soft waves over his chest. “I didn’t do anything, Dean,” your face and eyes shift back to the table, scanning for any other plates to grab, “Not really.”

He’ll be quick with his response, not allowing the air from your self-effacing to settle, “You did everything, sweetheart.” And you’ll tilt your head, your face in a dubious scrunch. He won’t let you challenge him – not right now, at least. “You are everything,” he counters, low and firm.

That makes you pause, your breath hitching, left arm hanging mid-air.

Your voice is slightly hoarse when you speak again, big soft eyes with a glint, as you turn your head to look up at him, “Dean...”

He’ll take the final half-step towards you, and the tip of his shoe will bump the side of your own. He’s looking down at you and he can see the complete change in your breathing. Just how he likes it. Your mouth has parted, chest rising and falling in weighted movements.

You blink twice – not breaking eye contact with him – swallow, and then put the four plates nestled in your right arm back on a small cleared space on the table in front of you. They’ll clatter a little. Then you turn fully to him. Tilt your chin up.

There’s a little bit more space between your shoes and bodies now – maybe a finger apart – because of the shuffle of your feet to make sure you’re giving him your full attention.

Dean needs to close it.

And he doesn’t need The Mark to tell him.

But Dean’s right hand will flex in anticipation first, then he’ll raise it from his side to cup your face, the pad of his thumb resting on the top of your cheekbone while his folded index finger sits just behind the hinge of your jaw, near your ear. He starts to rub his thumb back and forth, impressing the skin, yet still soft with the touch. Measured. Tender.

A little sound escapes your mouth, and it’s almost a whimper.

Oh, darlin’, the sounds I’m gonna pull from you.

You lean lightly into the side of his palm, and he’ll take a deep inhale in return. Because you didn’t flinch or look disgusted. You didn’t pull away from him. You lent further into him. You want him to touch you.

He’s always wanted to feel your head tilt into his hand.

Despite the bunker’s usual prickling coldness, your cheek feels so warm – lush and beautiful and everything that Dean isn’t against his rough and battered hands. Although filtered by the yellow hue of the lamp-lit room, the rosy haze across the tops of your cheeks is blooming again.

The eye contact connecting you both is heavy. Your eyes are big. Puppy-like. Long electrical currents pulse between your bodies, and there’s a soft golden gleam in your eyes from that very same lighting that makes Dean’s stomach flip. Like he’s riding the downhill dip of a rollercoaster.

Your right arm moves to touch Dean – and he can’t wait for this part. Your fingers start at his left rib set, slowly sliding up his chest over his dark checkered flannel, and he can feel the fabric run against his heated skin as your hand glides upwards, before finally stopping over the spot where his heart is beating. Fast. So fast he thinks his sternum will crack open.

But his body is relaxed. Not tensed. He knows he’s about to be yours, and you be his. At last.

His eyes will drop to your lips. But instead of moving between each of your own eyes – calculatedly pausing just like he had earlier in the night – his gaze will run up to the dip of your cupid’s bow, then to your nose, and finally lock back onto both your eyes.

A ragged breath falls from you, your right fingers bunching his shirt, and then you pull him down slightly as you lean up. To kiss him. Dean’s never sure if his mouth will dry or pool with saliva in anticipation of this touch.

In most of his fantasies, Dean likes to think you’ll be the first one to close your eyes when you first kiss – because you’ve been waiting for this just as long as he has, and needed it just as badly. And he needs to see that look on you.

Not tonight, though.

No, he’ll be the first to close them. Because this clawing precipice of longing is killing him and he needs it to happen now.

So he goes to close his eyes to make the moment real and now. But when your lips don’t meet his within two heavy breaths, he opens them just a little. Confused. And when he looks down at you, searching, your eyes are watching him, half-lidded. A soft grin twitches over your lips, your nostrils expanding as a small satisfied huff of air ghosts Dean’s lips.

Are you teasing him?

Cheeky.

He smirks back. The touch from his thumb and index finger shifting to just the slightest grip. Christ, you make him hard.

And then you both close that final distance in an insisting motion that makes Dean’s heart lurch as his lips meet the softness and wetness of yours.

This, Dean thinks, is the good moment.

It’s not a quick kiss.

It’s slow, so slow. And warm. Deep. Open-mouthed but no tongue.

And it’s not tentative. It’s charged. A reclaiming. Like you’ve done this together a million times before. Because he’s yours. And you're his.

He can taste the last wisps of alcohol you were drinking earlier, and he wishes he could just drink in every single inch and strand of you.

The Mark buzzes. Euphoric vibrations travelling across his right forearm. A white-hot tingle washes through the muscles and tendons of his back, down each vertebrae of his spine. The tip of your nose is brushing the dip between his own nose and cheek, and he can feel your slowed exhale fanning his face. There’s an unmistakable relieved tension dissipating between you both with each heartbeat and languid movement of lips against one another’s, the mortar binding together Dean’s withholding, self-loathing, and unworthiness crumbling to let himself have you.

A quiet, warm hum sounds in your throat, and it redirects all the blood coursing through his veins to his head and heart in a thick, sweet rush; a smooth burn like a slow savouring sip of scotch whiskey, running from his tongue down his throat to his chest, with a mingling malted edge. The warmth doesn’t finish when it pools in his stomach – it flutters down the back of his thighs, down his calves, and through to his toes to make him feel like his entire body has dissolved into the air.

He can’t help but groan lowly into you – you’re too divine to not touch. Taste. Feel.

Dean brings you in closer. His fingers slide across the underside of your jaw to the line of your neck, fingertips just reaching your nape while his thumb rests hungrily on the hinge of your jaw. He can feel your pulse thrumming. It’s just as quick as his.

Rising from his side, his left arm snakes around your waist, bypassing the curve (that he reminds himself to come back to later) to splay and push his big hand into the dip of your lower back so that you’re pressed firm against him. The swell of your breasts is soft against his chest, making a full-body shudder run through Dean at the sensation.

You gently break the kiss, panting hot little breaths, but Dean immediately chases the warmth and softness of your lips and pulls you back in. Because finally. Finally he’s getting to kiss you. To know and savour you.

And he doesn’t want to stop.

He’ll feel you smile against him when his lips meet yours again, and you moan, dark but sweet, and he’ll swallow it like it’ll be his last meal. This time, he starts lightly biting your bottom lip. And with each kiss, the way you move against each other quickens and heats. Moulding to each other. Devotion and desire beginning to blur.

A huff of air leaves you with a whine, and your right hand unbunches from the middle of his shirt to slide up to the hollow of his neck before moving to grip his hair at his nape, your forearm against his clavicle. Your left hand runs purposely up the side of Dean’s waist – goosebumps rising with each clothed touch – reaching out to feel the taut muscles and curving of his back as your arm hooks under his upper arm to grip tightly onto his shoulder.

Fucking yes.

He feels like he’s going to pass out. You’re hungry for him. He doesn’t know when his dick became rock-hard (again, or did it ever stop being hard?), but the throbbing between his thigh and jeans is now achingly undeniable.

“Dean...”, you mumble heatedly, intoxicatingly into his mouth, wet lips gliding heavily against his. Your right hand is raking through his short hair, teasing his scalp with each curling of your fingers and scratch of your nails. It’s almost torture. “Take me to my room.”

And when he stops, not wanting to pull back – because he needs to keep kissing you, but doing so because he has to make sure that he can somehow protect what little bit he has left of his pathetic self after three decades of perpetual loss, death, and pain, and tell you that he can’t just do this for one night, be something that doesn’t really mean anything to you because you are everything to him – he’ll see a look in your eyes.

The look.

The one with a consuming heat that seeps into every pore and crevice of him to draw him into you impossibly further, and he couldn’t tear away from it even if he tried. You’re asking him to touch you. Need him to touch you. And you’re not asking for just one night. You’re asking him for all of them.

All that stupid, backbreaking, and soul crushing fear that ropes constrictingly around his neck and fuses his bones tightly together, that stops him from hoping he might be good enough for you and you might love him the way he loves you, dissolves into nothing.

And this might be the only time you let yourself ask something of Dean. He sure as hell won’t say no.

He’ll grab your right forearm pressing just above his heaving chest, give one last kiss to your lips – this one a little sweeter but just as deep – then down to the skin of your wrist where your veins catch the light, and drag you down the hallway to exactly where you both want to be.

The grey brick and cement bunker walls blur as he pulls you along, arms outstretched, hands clasped tightly together. The biggest smiles on your faces. Panting. Glowing. You giggling. He can’t stop looking at you. But that’s okay. He could run to your room with his eyes closed.

The only thing outside of you that he notices is the corner you pass together, the one that he’d waited for Sam to turn before he hungrily sought you out. 

Maybe you’ll want to take control, though.

Mmm, he likes that idea.

So he backtracks his daydream a little; you’ll stop him halfway down the hallway, overcome by the need to have his lips, have him, on you.

With both hands (and a slightly impressive strength), you shove him against the wall, the echo of his back thudding into the brick mixed with the sudden loss of air from his lungs, and the impact force against his muscles sending a wave of sickening arousal through him.

The way you’re looking at him – like you’re simultaneously about to worship and devour him – makes his cock twitch violently, and a wrecked sound Dean tries so suck in reverberates off the walls of the empty hallway.

Jesus Christ.

You’re panting, chest rising rapidly and weighted. The tip of your tongue is running along the back and top of your bottom teeth. He can’t wait to feel it in his mouth and suck it.

You almost pounce on him, hands flying to possessively grip each of his shoulders, forearms pressed into his heaving chest. Then your mouth crashes into him, messy and hard, followed by a roll of your hips and chest into his, making his eyes close with a sinful flutter. The coiling wrapping around and pulling his stomach sharpens so tight that he thinks he might go blind with lust. His hands shoot up to your waist, his hold on you only to be described as desperate.

Your left hand pulls the collar of his shirt across his shoulder to expose his skin, your face moving to press a hot open-mouthed kiss to the dip of his left collar bone, and you lick up his neck to his jaw. This time, Dean’s hips jerk uncontrollably forward into you, and he knows you can feel just how badly his taut dick is straining against his jeans.

It’d be impossible not to.

“Dean,” you purr, breathy in his ear, nipping at the lobe. Your right hand's moved from his shoulder to grip his neck with just a hint of pressure, “why’d you make me wait so long?”

It makes him groan into your ear, brows pulling together in searing pleasure and agony, his big hands with a bruising clutch now firm on both your hips, his fingers digging into the plush to centre himself.  I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.

The left side of his stubble will scrape deliciously along your jaw as he leans down to return your heated kisses on your neck, lightly biting and sucking spots before he licks them.

His hold on you suddenly disappears as you fall to your knees in front of him, a sexy giggle leaving you and your eyes staring lazily up at him, pupils blown wide and black with need. Your hands slip down his chest to his waist, a wave of heat trailing from your clothed touch as you slowly inch towards his thick muscled thighs before your hands glide behind them, splayed. Dean’s nostrils flare with each pant, and he feels himself salivating. He can hear how loudly the sound of his harsh breathing fills the watching hallway.

There’s no embarrassment or shame to feel about how needy (and maybe a little pathetic) he is. But there is a thrill that rushes through his veins and makes a possessive spark ache in his lungs and bones – a thrill that somebody could see you touching him like this because you just have to. His balls pull tight.

You’ll grab at his flannel, lifting it up a little to touch his bare stomach and rake your nails down his flexing muscles. He really likes the whisper of pain it leaves.

You trail wet kisses across his navel, looking beautifully up at him through your eyelashes. Dean’s hands press against the cold bricks of the hallway, pushing his hips off the wall so he can watch you better, and he sees the sides of your mouth turn in a proud, knowing smile, pricking up at the sides. Each calculated kiss feels like you’re branding him with your mouth. He loves it.

Then you begin downwards, following his snail trail with a suck and a lick, and Dean’s breath stutters when your mouth and hands pause as you reach the waistband of his jeans. Your index and middle fingers run along the top of the denim fabric, nails skimming the dip between his hips. The muscles there twitch as your hot breath fans the flushing skin, and your low-hung eyes drink in how his body is helplessly reacting to your touch.

Your thumbs press into his leather belt, and then your fingers slip in between him and his jeans.

Fuck.

Your fingertips slide along the inside band of his jeans, Dean helplessly bucking his hips in drowning desire, and on your way back to the middle just below his belly button, your fingers dip further down so that your knuckles dig a little into his brief-covered groin.

Your head bobs down slightly, eye-contact breaking only to press a deep kiss into Dean’s prominent bulge. You both moan at the sensation – Dean’s stifled by him biting sharply into his bottom lip while yours is muffled by his jeans.

Your face moves back to be an inch away from his dick, tilting your chin up to look at him. Lust-blown eyes return to his with an erotic smile, and your fingers slip out and begin slowly unbuckling his belt. The metal clink and leather slapping as you draw out the belt from the denim loops makes Dean dig his fingernails into his palms at the sweet torture of your teasing.

“Goddamnit, sweetheart,” he rasps. Over the almost deafening thumping of his heart, he can just hear an echoing clunk down the hallway walls as you drop his belt to the floor.

“You okay, Dean?” you respond, your brows pulling up as you pout, voice laced with fake-concern, hands moving to unbutton his jeans with a pop, “you seem a little...”, your right thumb and index finger pull down the zipper, “tense.”

All he can do is release a gruff, breathy huff in amazement.

In contrast to your earlier movements, you waste no time yanking his jeans down his hips, leaving them to hang just above his knees. His boxers are obscenely tented, and your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip, both of your hands gripping the muscle of his warm, bared thighs, thumbs pressing into the inner sides. Then you wink up at him.

Oh baby, I can’t wait to fuck you.

You rub the left side of your face up and down against his cock straining in his briefs like a cat, your cheek running firm along his length, nose pressing at his tip where there’s most definitely a wet patch you can see and feel. His eyes almost roll to the back of his head, your nose dipping in a half-circle near his balls to press the right side of your face against him, but he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes open and locked on you kneeling in front of him – for him – to make sure he doesn’t miss a second of you.

Your right cheek rubs along him again, and your name falls from his lips in both a trembling and reverent plea and praise. Your head turns up to meet his gaze as you begin placing filthy kisses and mouthing at his aching cock.

He might just come undone from you doing just that.

Then you flutter your lashes with big eyes and take him into your mouth through his briefs. Just the head. You’ll moan vulgarly at the feel of him heavy on your tongue. The taste. And the view Dean has of you is nothing short of holy – plush lips wrapped tightly around the blackened outline of his ridge; fingers kneading deeply into the muscle of his thighs; wide eyes with almost no ring of colour staring up at him through your lashes like he’s something to worship – and his head thuds against the wall, a hot sting flooding his brain that makes him feel fuzzy like he’s drunk.

He can feel how hot and wet your mouth is as you start sucking obscenely on his tip, rolling your tongue flat along the bottom side of his throbbing cock head, and the noise that spills from his own mouth sounds like he’s been sucker punched.

Dean curses, his left hand unclenching from his side to tangle in the crown of your hair. Not forceful, but devotional. To know and feel that you’re real.

Your right hand will move to cup and fondle his balls, your left hand sliding up his thigh to where his briefs finish and back down to his burning bare skin. You start bobbing your head, lips only ever going just past his sensitive ridge each time you take him in deeper, and Dean’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding.

The fingers of his left hand are laced with the soft locks of your hair. Every time your lips run over that bump, he can feel the precum drip from his throbbing slit, his hand squeezing. You hum around him in response, licking at him, and it vibrates up his length, making his groin and stomach coil with an intense, heavy heat.

Both your hands are still on him as you pull your mouth away from his thick cockhead, a filthy line of spit still connecting you both. Dean makes something between a grunt and a whine at the sudden loss of your heat and touch as the cold bunker air replaces you around the now fully soaked outline of him. There’s a smug grin on your face, and with a final, slow lick along his twitching length, your right hand grabbing at the belt by his feet, you begin rising from your knees.

Dean bends to immediately grab your face with both of his hands and pull you up into a messy, teeth-clashing kiss. It’s sloppy, and you grind your hips into him with each sharp heavy inhale, moaning.

He brings your bottom lip in between his teeth to bite as both your own hands reach down to grab the waistband of his jeans. You drag them up to sit back around his hips, but let them hang open, his bulge poking through the gap, your hands gripping at his hipbones. Tongues start licking into each others’ mouths, and he can feel the kiss thickening with saliva and lust and urgency. The warm and wet taste of your mouth is sweet, and Dean thinks he might drown in it. Happily.

Your feet move away from him first, then your hips. Your mouths are still slick and frantic against each other as you hook your right middle finger into one of Dean’s front belt loops and tug him towards you off the wall, his grunt swallowed by your mouth as he walks along with your back stepping. And he follows you like the good dog that he is.

Instead of turning left at the split of the hallway – like he would to go to his room – you pull him right, and he lets out a rough and broken breath. He’s going to your room. Your bed.

Your mouths meet again in short, brutal bursts as you reach your door. You’ll fumble for the metal handle behind you with your left hand, but it’s not quick enough for Dean, so his right hand drops from your jaw to twist the handle and shove the door open. It bangs loudly against the wooden chest of drawers to the right in your room, rattling, as you fall into the room together. He uses the momentum to calculatedly guide and turn your body around with his hips and his right hand on your waist, pushing your frame to slam the door close. His shadow casts possessively over you, drawn by a bedside lamp, and he deliberately ruts his soaked clothed cock into your heat, making you arch into him, whine at him.

Yeah, pretty girl, let me know how badly you need me.

You’re both headily breathless now. The shared air between your bodies losing oxygen with each kiss, your mouth searing against his. Hungry. Filthy. Dean opens his eyes, closes them, then opens them again – he can’t decide if he wants to watch you or be totally consumed by you. He can feel your jaw flexing in the palm and fingers of his left hand in rhythm with the devouring shifting of your lips and tongue. Skin hot and alive.

Your hands are everywhere in his hair, tangled, pulling, scraping, and he knows if he saw himself in the mirror at this very moment, he’d look like the happiest man in the history of every universe who’d just grabbed a live wire from an electric fence. 

Dean’s right hand is sliding up and down the clothed side of your waist, dragging and measured squeezes with a lasting burn, the fabric of your top bunching in between his curling fingers. Your top is riding up unevenly at the hem from his touching, and on one particular glide of his hand, his rough fingers meet the soft flesh of your waist and disappear underneath the black material on the slide back up. You make a beautiful high, needy sound.

Both of your hands move to the back of his head, right hand gripping his nape, left palm over the shell of his left ear and fingers reaching to the back of his head, pulling him in impossibly closer. You kiss him hard and long.

Dean’s trying to take in the actual feel of you. Your skin. Your heat. His touch is reverent attention – learning the warmth and shape and movements so uniquely you. Steady yet urgent.

The fingers of his right hand are featherlight as he grazes over your navel, deliberately pausing in the middle to test how little pressure from his touch it takes to make you react, then dragging them slowly down like he’s tracing a river on a map. Down over the start of your skirt – your breath hitching, a shiver, the muscles of your lower stomach twitching – down the middle of the burgundy fabric, over the mound of your core – he doesn’t press, just graces the fabric with his calloused fingertips, making you buck into his touch in desperate want and need. He keeps going to the hem – feeling the heat radiating from in between your thighs – and then his fingers fall briefly to empty space between your legs, before he pushes forward to claim flesh and warmth, slowly lifting the skirt up with the twist of his wrist as his fingers slip behind fabric and move upwards.

When he finally touches the skin of your bare thigh, Dean can’t help the ungodly and low groan that rolls into your mouth, pulling your bottom lip in between his teeth to suck it. Your chest rises and falls with a stuttering heavy weight, breathing sharp and ragged.

He shifts his left knee to sit in between your legs to keep them apart, pressing against the inner side of your right thigh. He’ll let you use your thighs to squeeze him later when you ride him.

The sides of his fingertips and fingernails stroke up the flesh of your inner left thigh, and you’re just so soft and warm.

He should just drop to his knees and absolutely ruin you with his tongue and mouth.

Ruin you for anybody else.

Only his.

As Dean’s hand continues up, he feels something wet and sticky against his touch. Realisation that it’s your slick dripping down from your cunt sends a hot bolt of pure and unforgiving need straight to his stomach and groin.

Fucking fuck.

Against your lips, eyes shut in dark delirium and rapture, he says your name in awe, “sweetheart, already this wet just from–”

“You can’t talk, Winchester,” you interject with a smug huff. There’s that witty bite of yours that he loves.

And you’re 100% fucking right.

Your words are like oxygen to the fires blazing in his body. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across Dean’s face – his heart surging – and then his mouth is back on yours, kissing you in raw hunger. Almost animalistic.

His long fingers will slip higher, and when he reaches the soft crease between your thigh and pussy, he’ll discover you are, in fact, not wearing any underwear. His face pulls away from yours, just a few inches, and his gaze snaps to where his hand is hidden, a brief impasse of shock, before his eyes return to your glinting ones. Dean will quirk his eyebrows, a dark and predatory smirk breaking.

So he wasn’t imagining it.

Awesome.

His index and middle fingers drift across your heat, and he can feel how puffy and soaked your slit is as your smeared arousal coats his fingertips. Dean’s mouth is watering.

He won’t dip in between your slit – not yet – instead running his calloused fingertips along the outside curves, circling up to where your clit is – but still not touching where he knows you want him most – and sliding along to the other side of your swollen lips. Your fingernails dig sharply into his scalp and the skin and muscle of his neck. Your hips jerking. For his touch.

Oh you’re so beautifully desperate for him. And Dean, even with The Mark, isn’t mean (he is, just not to you) – so he hums with deep indulgence as he slips over your folds – but still with a little teasingly slow shift to really draw you into him – burning fingers sitting right where your dripping entrance is, before he dips in between your puffy lips to collect more of your slick and drag his fingers up to your clit.

Your breath cracks loudly. You stop kissing him; hot, laboured panting replacing the movements of your mouth, fanning Dean’s lips and nose. Your lashes flutter twice, then your black eyes almost snap back up to his. Locked. He can feel your legs twitch, a whole-body shudder, fingers lingering on your pulsing clit.

Dean wears a lazy grin, his forehead dropping to yours with his eyelids hanging low as he watches you, devours your reaction.

The hold his left hand has on your jaw is looser, now. Tender but still with a firm possessive touch.

He circles your clit once, twice, kissing you on the high of your right cheek, chaste but lovingly, then kisses your left one with the same affection. Dean’s gaze returns to yours, burning electricity sparking, and he’ll slide his index and middle fingers back down to your soaked entrance. Then he pushes in.

And the sound that spills from your mouth into Dean’s is a sin.

He begins to pump, slowly, into your heat, just to his mid knuckles, and the wet squelching of his thick fingers sliding against your walls each time he moves in and out of you is already lewd.

“Oh my god...” you moan, your voice failing on the last syllable. Your head lulls back to hit the wooden door. Your hips buck, warm thighs tensing and pushing Dean’s right hand against his knee still pinning you open.

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he hums, his mouth moving down to your neck, sucking and licking at your skin like greedy worship, “Makin’ you feel good, aren’t I?”

And he could almost cum just from the way you nod, frantic, brows in the most beautiful scrunch, “My fingers never feel this good, Dean.”

His hips roll hungrily into yours and stay firmly pressed against you. His face moves back up to kiss you hard, lips meeting with a bruising force, and he thrusts his fingers deeper, to the base knuckles of his hand, into you to reach that deliciously hot and gooey spot deep inside you that makes your knees falter. He chuckles low against your lips at the whorish moan you push into his mouth.

Dean detaches his mouth from yours again, shifting back just enough so that he can look down at you and watch the pleasure building on your face.

He wants to hear how you make yourself feel good, what spots make you moan the loudest, how many times you can make yourself cum.

“You touch yourself, baby?”, he drawls. Your top front teeth are just visible as they bite hard into your bottom lip.

A wrecked mmmhhm is all you can muster.

Dean’ll go to ask what you think about, fantasise about, because whilst he wants to – needs to make sure he makes you feel fucking amazing and blows your mind, he’s also secretly hoping that he already has a special spot in your thoughts – like he’s a photo framed and hung on the wall of your mind you fondly pass every day. He’d certainly carved out a space for you – a big one.

But you’re already a step ahead of him.

“But I always imagine it’s you touching me...your fingers inside me,” you simper, eyelids hung low but staring up at him with that sexy grin again. The sound that leaves Dean’s chest is fucking feral.

Dean’s mouth latches back onto yours, carnal and sloppy. His long fingers are pumping and curling with utter precision and devoted desire, the palm of his hand grinding into your clit with each thrust into your cunt. He can feel you clench around and suck them in as he rubs against your soft, wet walls. Still buried in his hair, your left hand is tightly gripping him, flexing almost in tandem with every thrust of Dean’s fingers. You’re struggling to kiss him back, trying so hard to match his lips and tongue, but you’re too caught up in ecstasy.

Choked gasps swim through the air of your bedroom. Thick with desire. Your hot and frantic panting heats Dean’s mouth, and he swallows every single one of them with pride. A deeply smug and satisfied curve definitely on his lips pressed against yours.  

Your right hand drops from its place on his neck to grope at your right breast, squeezing and kneading it, and Dean and The Mark could scream; you’re enjoying this. Really enjoying this. He’s making you feel so good that you have to touch yourself.

Dean knows the pressure must be building in your stomach, that you’re close to cumming, because your pussy is pulsing and gripping him tighter and tighter. He can feel your warm and sticky slick running down his long fingers, pooling in his soaked palm with growing obscenity in sound and sensation every time he pumps into you.

“Good girl, baby,” he purrs, his big left hand sliding down from your jaw to layer and grip your smaller hand squeezing your breast, his face shifting so that his lips sit next to your right ear. His stubble will scratch against the soft, flushed skin of your jaw and cheek, making you whine.

Dean’s still pressed hard against your body, and when you start wantonly rolling into him to meet his hand, he realises he had somehow forgotten about his cock, swollen and stiffly erect, and prodding incessantly at your hip through his ruined briefs, jeans still wide open.

He licks your ear, possessive, keeping his mouth open as he breathes heavy and sultry into you, “Look how responsive you are to me.” Your choked gasps are growing quieter as you keep sucking in air, not breathing out, and Dean thinks you’re about to cum.

And you do.

As the first wave hits you, your whole body tenses. Dean makes sure to immediately pull his head back to watch you, his lips ghosting yours and trading your air, because he cannot fucking miss this. When the peak finally washes over you, he’s awed and shamelessly gluttonous, committing to memory the way your eyes roll helplessly to the back of your head, only little bits of white visible as your jaw falls blissfully slack and a long, high-pitch moan shatters.

He needs to make you make that sound again.

And pull out all your others, too.

His own helpless groan responding to you slips from his mouth as your body arches off the door, pushing the back of your right hand and chest into Dean’s as your body starts vibrating, your walls clenching and spasming around his fingers still pumping and curling fast into your heat while his palm rubs your clit with primal need to keep you high.

The whole scene is art. And your beautiful face, with your sweet, warm noises and moving body go straight to Dean’s head, chest, fingers, and toes. And dick.

“That’s it,” he cooes sinister and low, deliberately pausing his words for a beat after he says your name, “give it all to me.”

Dean knows from the...long...list of women he’s fucked that they love to hear him say their name during sex with him – he never really understood why – but he realises at that exact finite moment why, and that he’s exactly like them; because he has to hear you moan his name.

He slows the thrusting of his middle and index fingers in and out of you to guide you gently down, delicate kisses placed on your forehead and rosy cheeks, and your soft little whimpers land like a light summer rain at twilight, making everything around you and him glow and blur at the edges with a quiet warmth.

When your eyelids drift back and fully open, Dean stills entirely – save for his slightly choppy breathing – and he can see that your eyes are a little glassy now, but the dark shade of lust and desire for you to have him is still humming.

And then, like a faint halo, there’s a ring cradling that need for him that Dean thinks (and really fucking hopes) is love.

Should I say something now?, he thinks.

His left hand finds a new place, sliding down along your arm to rest on your waist, grabbing carefully, thumb pressed to the front of your frame whilst his fingers sit measuredly behind the curve.

Your arms move to twine loosely and hang over his shoulders, and you tilt your chin up, a little to the side, to capture Dean’s lips in a tender, unhurried kiss. He can’t help but smile into it – a genuine, proper smile – and he can feel you echo him.  

Another good moment.

He’s been very lucky tonight.

Correction; he will be very lucky tonight.

Dean suddenly becomes aware of just how loud his heart is beating, still a little fast, but more steady. Full and warm. He knows it’s because of you.

He wants to hold your face with his right hand, but he’s still inside you.

“Gonna take my fingers out now, sweetheart.” He mumbles against you before leaving your mouth to kiss the tip of your nose. “That okay?”

You nod, eyes closed again and jaw shifting to chase and keep his lips on yours. When he fully slips his fingers out of you, a small whimper sounds, your mouth faltering briefly against his, brows lightly creasing.

Dean immediately misses your heat.

He can feel the way his two fingers stick together, coated in your warm, milky arousal for him, and he has to bring his right hand up to his face so that he can see it. Revel in it.

He shifts back a little, just so he can study his soaked fingers and palm, and when you try to pull him back in because you have to keep kissing him, he presses his hips firmly into yours to pin you against the door and leans back. You pout, huffing at the space Dean’s created as your arms still wrapped over and around his back extend so that your fingers are only just interlinked at his nape.

His right arm moves in between your bodies, just below his jaw so that you can both look at his fingers. And fuck.

He is glistening. Your slick clings to him as it runs slowly down to his palm. He’s fucking mesmerised, eyes wide and mouth parted, twisting his wrist to watch the light from your lamp catch your arousal. When he separates his fingers, an obscene, long, wet line of slick connects his index and middle fingers. The Mark pulses hot and violently and in primal satisfaction, building along his forearm, rippling up to his hand and bicep.

A smooth breathy chuckle rises from his chest, “Jesus,” he says with your name.

Your right hand moves up the back of his neck to thread in his hair, tugging gently, “What can I say, Dean Winchester”, your left hand slides to his jaw, sparking something low and dangerous in his heart and stomach as your soft and warm palm rubs against his stubble, your thumb running back and forth – languidly yet certain – over his bottom lip, “you get me really fucking wet.”

He’ll look down at you, a little stunned, but with the biggest, smitten grin on his face. And you’re looking up at him, chin tilted in a proud, almost challenging way because you know you got him good with that. There’s a pulse. A beat. No one blinks.

The air is humming. Heavy and pulling like just before a summer thunderstorm. Your face says it all: You’re move, Dean.

Okay, sweetheart. Let’s play.

Without breaking eye-contact, he slowly raises his right hand to his face, gliding deliberately over your thumb still grazing his swollen lips, and pushes his slick-covered fingers into his mouth.

The instant head rush nearly makes him pass out.

Rich heat consumes him entirely, heady coursing from his mouth through his nose and down his throat, saliva pooling as a taste so unequivocally you melts across and into his tongue with each swirl and suck of his fingers. It’s sweet. Fuck, you’re sweet. It’s like he’s breathing in your underwear again – but it’s so much better than that night. Stronger. Even more drunkening.

Is that a word?

Fuck it – it is now.

And he could almost blow his load right then and there. He’s sure you can probably tell that, too, by the absolute wrecked noise he makes.

But Dean manages to hold himself back – together – keeps his eyes open. Just. Because he needs to see your reaction for what he’s done and is about to say.

So he swallows you down, and his eyes refocus on you; your face, your body, your breathing, carefully tracking every single moment and shift and movement with that particular gaze he wears on a hunt – calculating, dark, unwavering, and completely patient. And you’re already watching him, especially the way his lips are wrapped around his glossy middle and index fingers, just a little transfixed.

Good.

Dean (almost reluctantly) pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a lewd smack, dragging the wetness from both you and him down your thumb, now stilled just below his lower lip. “God, sweetheart, d’you know how good you taste?”, he asks, voice rough but laced with guile.

The smart look you were holding fizzles with a catch in your throat, mouth lightly gaping. And you blush. That beautiful pink tinge across your cheeks that makes his heart swell and constrict, that he would die for because he knows it means he got you good. He can see the shift in your legs as you squirm, then try to press your thighs together despite his knee still between them, trying to find some friction. And your eyes that are unable to stay fixed, moving focus between his fingers and mouth and eyes and back? Almost entirely dilated black, again – engulfed by hunger for him – like a cat about to pounce, ready to bite and tear him apart. Exactly how he wants it. Exactly how he wants you.

You don’t let him be cocky for long, though – you never do, if you can help it – playing your next move almost straight away.

Leaving his face, your left hand grabs his right, wrapping around as much of his palm as you possibly can, and he has just enough time to blink only once before you slip the two fingers he’d just had in his mouth past your lips and into your own mouth.

Jesus fuck.

Your eyes roll back, lids deliberately fluttering with careful, sinful intent as you suck hard once, twice on his fingers – hard enough that he can feel a deep pull in his body towards yours, and a warm, sultry moan rumbles from you through his fingers, reverberating over his hand and up his arm. The Mark spasms.

But you don’t give Dean long enough to properly feel it as you pull his hand back, releasing his fingers from your wet and velvety mouth with a slippery pop. Your big eyes return to his, parted kiss-swollen lips shining from the seraphic mixture of yours and his spit, and a burning, unrepentant fervour set across your face that he knows means you know that he’s completely lost to you.

He definitely needs to put his fingers in your mouth again.

SO SORRY this has taken me so long to post. Shits and shenanigans. I think the next (and last) part is probably going to be my favourite for this mini series, so stay tuned!! <3

tag list for attiwicdiichy:

But Dean couldn’t say no to you. He never wants to. So here he was, a cold beer bottle stinging his right hand, and a dark look on his face as Sam and Garth chatted heartily on each side of him about their favourite ‘close call’ hunts – no, now they’re talking about the best way to kill a ghost. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s not listening.

He knew since the Mark had buried itself in his body – stuck its thorns in and latched onto every single atom – that you, Sam, everyone was trying to be nicer and more patient with him. You all worried about him. Pitied him. It made his skin crawl. Not with disgust, but something close to it.

Maybe last year, last birthday, he would’ve actually really enjoyed himself. Being surrounded by friends, family, everyone laughing and smiling, dancing, talking. He takes a swig of his beer, the bottle’s rim wetting his lips as the sharp sour liquor lulls his taste buds. Yeah, he thinks, old him would be over the fucking moon to see everyone he loves happy and together like this. For him. It would’ve made his heart glow.

But the Mark’s changed Dean. Changing Dean. More and more every day. It nests deep in his bones, knotting itself between even the tiniest of crevices and ligaments and tissues; courses violently through his thick, hot blood and burns his chest.

When Dean agreed to you throwing him a birthday party, he’d had one condition. No presents. You’d huffed at that, rolling your eyes with an annoyed smile.

“Come on, Dean,” you’d tilted your head to your right shoulder, “what about if we all get you a joint present?” Dean had shaken his head. Said “there’s nothing I want.”

He had lied, though. Dean did want something for his birthday. He wanted you.

You’ve been a part of the Winchester brothers’ lives for four years now. On a mission from Crowley to find an Alpha Arachne, they’d wandered upon you separating the head of the monster-of-the-week from its body with a particularly sharp blade you named ‘The Fairy Godmother’.

Why?

“Because she grants their wish for death after I’m done with them.”

Dean had rolled his eyes, smirking. Scoffed a sharp laugh at your words – undecided if you were too smart for your own good like most young hunters are, but in all honesty, a little turned on at your sureness. After you swiftly split one newborn vamp from head to chest and another from shoulder to breastbone, however, during an accidental team-up when the three of you were ambushed two weeks later in what you had all thought was an abandoned mansion with maybe five or six – not nineteen – vampires, Dean realised that you were right. He never questioned your abilities again.

You were like a stray cat back then. Surviving on nothing and anything. Smart, self-dependent, and sceptical. You still are those things, just a little more... settled, now. Like a well-loved, but still slightly feral, house cat.

They didn’t see you again after that night until one of the very few times where you’d bitten off more than you could chew a couple months later in a few states west.

It took Sam knifing a demon in the back about to perform biokinesis on you – hanging upside from the ceiling, bound by your feet – and Dean carrying your pummelled and bruised body, limp from exhaustion and bone-deep pain, back to their motel room and tending to your wounds for you to consider their friendship.

But you’d slotted so quickly and easily into their lives after that moment that the three of you didn’t know how you’d ever lived without each other.

And friendship had blossomed just as swiftly and effortlessly – a genuine buckle your knees from gut-punching laughter; look for first in a crowded room; always have your back, front, and side; and tell your deepest, darkest secrets to but maybe not the type of secret that ruins a friendship secret friendship.

And Dean’s deepest, darkest secret?

He’s fucking in love with you. Despite his damn hardest attempts at suffocating the feeling, smothering it with a pillow over the face and burying in the mud that tiniest glimmer of hope that you could like him – because he didn’t want to ruin something good with something bad like him – he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help being in love with you. In every humanly and unearthly way possible.

And he really shouldn’t be. He’s completely and utterly undeserving. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

But man, he couldn’t help trying to impress you. It made him a bit dorky, drowning in emotion rather than confidently swimming in his usual womaniser swagger.

He practically always opens Baby’s door for you (barking at Sam to get in the back when you’re under the weather and need to see the road ahead, and sometimes even when you’re not sick and he just wants to sit next to you), he’ll get you your favourite snack from every Gas-N-Sip without you ever having to ask because “you need to have your energy, gorgeous”, and he pinches you affectionately when he tries to compliment you and tell you that you’re beautiful (you’ll shoot him a suffering look, squirm, tell him “shut up, Dean”).

He always asks if you’d like the last chip to his burger meal (even if he’s still a little hungry) – but you also do the same for him, so that’s just a little thing that you do for each other that Dean thinks is just what best friends do.

He’ll puff out his chest and stand a little taller when you’re near (because maybe you’ll look his way again), make sure he’s walking your pace to keep in time with your steps just so he can maybe bump your arm or leg or hip; he has your favourite hangover drink prepped and ready for you in his bedroom the next morning after a night of always well-earnt drinking (he’s totally not Pavlov-ing you, at least not intentionally), and he lets (read: welcomes when) you lean on him while he rubs your back to help you fall asleep. He really likes doing the last one.

But he was sure you thought he was joking, just messing around with you or something. Being friendly. He didn’t know how to show you he meant everything he did. But maybe you did know he was being more than just friendly. You just simply weren’t interested. And he never wanted you to feel pressured to be with him – romantically or platonically or familial-ly. After all, he was poison. Everything he touches turns rotten or gets hurt and dies.

You’re giggling with Charlie over by the large wooden table that you’ve pulled from somewhere and set in the middle of the room. She’s closest to Dean while you stand over on the side of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign, moving this and that on the table to make room for more things, animatedly talking and bustling, smiling broadly. A mountain of bowls is filled with Dean’s favourite snacks, party ha– is that liquorice?

Dean sighs. Fuck, you really do know him.

A soft black top is fitted across you. The neck cuts just below where the line of your breasts begins, the curve of your chest contoured sensually yet delicately. He’s seen this one before, once on a hunt when you had to flirt with a local greasy cop to get much needed information on some Djinn victims after Sam and Dean had blown their FBI cover before they’d even been able to use it there.

Dean’s jaw tics at the memory of the cop’s eyes gliding over your clothed breasts at the front of the small country town station while him and Sam had sat in the car, two sets of binoculars out. You’d smiled, before slowly and calculatedly sliding your right hand across your collarbone to move your hair behind your shoulder so that the cop’s eyes would be drawn to your chest unobstructed.

It had worked.

He’d glanced down, Adam’s apple bobbing as he took a gulp, and peeked at your bare, beautiful skin and the swell of your breasts while you were asking him about any possible leads he had. Jackass. But who could blame him – Dean does it himself all the time. When his eyes had returned back to yours, you’d tilted your head in the exact same way you had when you begged to please get Dean a birthday present.

Dean couldn’t hear what the cop had said to you, but he made out the words “copy”, “file”, and “just for you”. The sleasebag had smirked and winked slyly at you, walking inside the station – a disgusting bile of venom and detest crawling up from Dean’s stomach or some other sordid, rotting dark hole from within him, an almost snarl twitching across his mouth – while you turned quickly to the car to give them a covert grin with a thumbs up – before the cop came back out with a copy of the investigation file and gave it to you. When he handed over the file, Dean had noticed a little piece of torn paper accompanying it. You’d noticed it, too, looking down at it with your mouth slightly gaping, eyebrows raising gently. Sam had chuckled, impressed, but Dean had scoffed and rolled his eyes hard; he knew without so much as even seeing what was on that shitty little piece of paper that the douchebag was telling you to call him. When you had looked back up at the cop, it was with a small shy smile as you nodded and pocketed it. It had looked like a genuine smile, too... When you got back to the car, Sam hadn’t even let you buckle your seatbelt before he jumped you from the front passenger seat and interrogated you about what was on the paper. You’d flushed bright, not meeting either of their eyes as you handed Sam the file and shuffled a little in your seat. “Nothing important”, you had muttered, but unable to hide the bashful upturn of your lips.

Dean hadn’t been able to show the same enthusiasm as his moose of a little brother had, keeping his face emotionless (or at least he had tried to) and frozen to the front as Baby’s engine roared into start. Extra loud just to piss off the jerk still standing at the landing of the station’s cement entry steps. His grip on the steering wheel was bone-breaking all the way back to the motel as Sam flicked through the file’s pages, reading out key bits of information. Dean hadn’t dared turn to look at you, he knew it would carve a cavity into his heart that would tar beyond recognition, but his eyes flicked between the road and the rearview mirror to still see you. Watch you. You just stared out the window, head forward but jaw resting on the palm of your right hand, left arm tucked across your waist, eyes almost unfocused with an odd expression on your face Dean couldn’t decipher, occasionally adding a quick hmm or a soft that’s interesting to Sam’s monologue.

Dean was in a foul mood for the rest of that day as a result – couldn’t wait to leave the shitty town and its stupid slimy cop in a blast of dust torn up from Baby’s back wheels – but the three of you managed to chop the monster’s head off with a silver knife and lamb’s blood that very night. He’d had no right to be mad – not at you, just mad in general – because after all, you’d saved the day with your breasts. And he’d never had the guts to make a genuine move on you before then. Because he didn’t deserve you.

If that had happened while Dean had the Mark, though, that wouldn’t have mattered; he would’ve flung open the car door long before that ugly piece of paper had even been passed to you or thought of – as soon as the cop’s salacious gaze had dropped to ravage your chest even though that was the whole point of what you were doing – stalked silently over to you both while you were still talking, seized the cop’s left arm and snapped it so quickly, so effortlessly – like it was a pathetic matchbox stick and the only thing that would light and torch that stupid scribble of his out of existence – that the jackass’ collar bone would tear right through his skin with a scream.

A low burning sensation on Dean’s right forearm pulls him back to the present. He absentmindedly scratches at the Mark, taking another swig of his souring beer and refocusing on you.

Dean can’t hear what you and Charlie are talking about – the music and close-by chatter blocks his ears – but whatever you say to her makes her grip her stomach and keel over laughing, hard. You lean back, hips shifting forwards in a laugh that echoes Charlie’s.

He can tell you’ve had three, maybe four drinks by the way all your movements, reactions, sounds are amplified. Eased.

Dean likes when you’re tipsy. You get this soft rosy glow on your cheeks that makes you look otherworldly, if that was even more possible; your body moves in loose rolls, hips swaying in a way that makes Dean’s head so dizzy. Your head will lean back impossibly further than usual when you laugh, just like it is now, and your eyes and nose crinkle sweetly where they meet. And man, you giggle at everything. It makes Dean’s chest go all warm and fuzzy.

You also flirt with him more.

Is flirt the right word? Dean thinks.

Hmm, maybe not.

But you’re definitely different. You touch him more, differently. You laugh at him more, differently. You look at him more, differently.

He knows he has some sort of sexual effect on you. A quiet part of him thinks you might feel the same way about him as he does for you, but the fear that maybe you’re just being nice to him, or that maybe you are attracted to him but wouldn’t want all of him ­– the dark, ugly, putrid parts that are the true him, the true Dean – keeps him sober enough from getting drunk on any thought of love. After all, life was never that good to Dean – it would give him small, flickering good, like you holding his hand with a soft smile, laughing at his crappy jokes, leaning into his chest with a sweet sigh – but never something good like you loving him. So he holds his breathe in those moments, hoping that when he does die, again, it will be during one of those good.

And maybe he does indulge just a little in the moments where he can get you... bothered.

Dean wishes you had come with him earlier in the day when Sam and Cas had forced him out the front door of the bunker for an “obligatory birthday drink”. Maybe he could’ve sat next to you, thigh-to-thigh, in the booth of the shitty little bar a town over they had driven him to and whispered in your ear about the particularly nasty and detailed dream he’d had the night before about you cumming with his face shoved in between your plush thighs just from him moaning into your sopping wet folds. He would have simpered it hotly into your ear just low enough so that Sammy and Cas wouldn’t – no, couldn’t have heard him, right? The reaction you would give Dean at the mere thought they had heard him would be worth it all if they had. Just to see you blush. Hear your breath catch in your throat. Whine. Maybe see you press your legs together to find some friction. Would your eyes have rolled back? Gone black with hunger, desperation, need for him?

But you and Charlie had needed Dean out of the bunker so that you had full range to decorate the place in all sorts of loud and obnoxious ornaments that reminded him yet another year had taken yet another piece of him with it. So, in spite of the Mark just to please you, Dean had pushed down the displeasure festering from the infliction and left.

When you pass a plate to Charlie and walk around the table to her side, he can see that you’re wearing a dark burgundy skirt. It finishes midthigh. His breath hitches, painfully.

It’s a rare look from you. You’re normally all blood and grime. Filth plastered across your full cheeks, splattered down your forearms where your sleeves are pulled up and shading all the dips and curves, staining your jeans fitted tight over your ass. If Dean’s being honest, though, seeing you like that gets him going in ways that it really shouldn’t. It wouldn’t be a problem if you didn’t end up looking like that after nearly every hunt...

Your bare legs are a new sight, however. Of course, Dean’s seen your legs before; when you’re sitting all comfy and warm in your sleep shorts just before bed on the couch next to him (you’ve got this one pair that gapes deliciously in between your thighs – and the amount of times he’s fisted his throbbing cock in the darkness of his bedroom to the idea of sliding them and your underwear to the side so he could drive his thick cock in and out of your pulsing and gushing core over the couch arm...), or first thing in the morning in the kitchen when you yawn and stretch the sleep out so hard that your bed shirt rises just a little, and he can see your stomach extend (he has this idea that you’re most sensitive on your left side and so when he does open-mouth kiss and suck and bite at it, that’s where you would moan and whimper the most and loudest), or when you’re fresh out of the shower, goosebumps rising and water still clinging to your skin here and there (he’s growled at the thought of how you would actually feel when you’re wet and covered in slick).

But the finish of your skirt showing off the gentle lines of muscles and softness of your legs is making Dean want to slowly, messily, teasingly lick all the way up the inside of your warm thighs. He wonders how many times he’d have to do it until you begged him to fill every inch of you up with him and his cock, his cum.

And then there’s your ass. What he wouldn’t do t– well, fuck. You’re bending over the table to grab, what, a camera? that you’ve left on the other side, mindlessly lifting your right leg to give yourself some extra reach, tiptoeing on your left foot, and your skirt rides up. Just a little. But it’s enough to make him question if you’re wearing any underwear. Dean has to stifle a groan. Almost chokes. His eyelids closing briefly as his eyes roll back in absolute need. An ache is building in his balls, dick already hard against his left thigh.

The Mark is telling, demanding him to just walk over to you, grab the back of your neck and turn you so that you face him, and take you right there on the table. The bowls and plates you’ve set so neatly and precisely would smash into millions of pieces on the floor as he shoved them to make room for your back, his mouth latched to yours as he kissed you hard and wet, teeth clashing and hot spit drooling. The wooden table would rattle, scratching the floor with every grind and rut of his hips into yours.

He wouldn’t tear your clothes – he knows how attached you are to them, even if the Mark wants them obliterated – but they’d be snatched from your body within seconds.

And that sweet slide of him into you? Fuck. He can feel you clenching and vibrating around his thick cock, wet squelching every time he bottoms out. The most pornographic moans spilling from your mouth shattering in the air of the war room. Your legs would fold around Dean, heels digging into the flexing muscles of his ass to spur him on and keep him close. Inside you.

Oh how scandalised everyone would be. Let them see. See how fucking badly he wants you. Needs to be buried deep within your soaked heat. How good he would be at fucking you until you were sobbing and screaming his name. Cumming hard again and again around his dick like it was the last thing you’d ever be able to do. Fucked stupid. And Dean – Dean would just keeping fucking your ruined pussy through each and every one of his own orgasms because he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to stop once he started. Your beautiful, hot collective mess dripping onto the floor.

No.

He doesn’t want anybody else to see you like that – naked, desperate, wanting – ever again. Only him.

Dean never used to allow himself to think too long about you in that way. You were one of his best friends. And you had been for years. With him and Sam through the thick and thin.

You had your own bedroom in the bunker, decorated with all these things that were just so uniquely you; brushed your teeth together with Dean every night (which Sam had aptly – but not without a teasing edge – named “your special night time routine”, which you both always rolled your eyes at); watched reruns of both yours and his favourite tv shows (no matter how many times he refuses to say he enjoys it and was actually invested in your trashy guilty-pleasure one); patched each other up carefully and tenderly after particularly bad and painful hunts; and did each other’s laundry because “that just makes your life easier that way”. Dean hates reading, but he’d listen to you read aloud a book, an encyclopedia, the back of a fucking Betty Crocker cake mix, any day.

The outlandish and the mundane. Anything and everything just to be in your presence.

And best friends don’t think about each other like that – naked and skin on skin, grinding and rolling into each other, biting and panting and licking, marking one another as theirs – right? That’s how Dean used to think.  

But sometimes, when he was deep in sleep, and his mind bypassed any sort of humanly control he had over himself, he’d dream about kissing you. It would usually be in different places; maybe the bunker’s kitchen, in the backseat of Baby, at a low-lit bar, or during an intense hunt because you just finally couldn’t keep your hands off of him for any longer – but his favourite setting was definitely in your bed. Where the soft sheets and fluffy pillows exuded your perfume, your shampoo, and simply you, and enveloped all Dean’s senses. There would be careful touching and heated grabbing, the soft and rough feeling of all over each other. His hands would be everywhere, tracing every inch and curve of your body. Yours would be tangled in his hair and clawing up his back or down his arms. The two of you moving together, pressing, pulling, grinding. And then there were the sounds you both would make when he’d hit that sweet spongey spot deep inside your clenching walls – the one where your stomach would go hot and gooey and his cock would twitch violently and desperately – everything just building, building, building until it all just...

He would wake up messy and ashamed the next morning. Whenever he saw you that day, a suffocating heat would sprout in his chest, sit heavy in his stomach, vine up his spine, prickle on his face, and grow – despite his hardest objections – in his groin.

But that was before the Mark.

Now, Dean spends most nights groaning into a pillow and cumming into his hand or on his lower stomach at least once, maybe twice before bed to all the obscene positions he could have you in. He had to move onto toilet paper to clean himself up after an off-handed comment from his brother about how quickly the three of you seemed to be going through tissue boxes despite no one being sick.

Around two months ago, while you and Dean were doing your laundry together, you’d cursed and bent over the washing machine to reach down its side to pick up a fallen sock. He’d already been watching you from behind your back, fantasising about you on your knees and desperately gagging on his thick cock and clawing at his thighs while the washing machine rattled, begging desperately Dean Dean please cum down my throat, when he spotted a dirty pair of your underwear on top of your laundry basket by your feet. They were black, with a little flower pattern and lace trim, also black. He hadn’t even thought twice or blinked before moving silently like he was hunting a monster to grab and stuff them in the back pocket of his jeans. Poor, sweet you hadn’t noticed – too busy groping blindly and huffing after your runaway clothing – then returning the heels of your feet to solid ground and turning to Dean with a huff, your brows pulled and eyes soft, a little pout as you asked if he could reach it. He’d given you a casual smile, with a sure, princess, before he’d effortlessly fished out your sock and thrown it in the machine.

Later that day, after you had brushed your teeth together and gone to bed, Dean had walked very quickly to his room – his dick already straining against his jeans and leaking with pre-cum – and locked the door with sacrilegious precision. He didn’t think anyone would be coming in, but he wanted to make sure that he would definitely not be interrupted. He’d practically jumped onto the bed, lust and impatience discarding all his clothing in a path of destruction and hunger to the mattress, and reached into the bedside table to take out your dirty underwear that it’d been safeguarding since that morning. His erect cock taut against his lower abdomen had jerked at the mere sight of them again. The soft lacing an almost unbearable texture as he rubbed them in between his index finger and thumb, making a low tension blossom in his stomach.

Fucking hell.

His right hand had tentatively gripped his cock, stilling for a second. Something in the back of his horny-filled brain had banged on the door to his self-control and respectability centre and screamed at him hey, this is weird. This is really fucking wrong. That shame he knew all too well had started to prickle the nape of his neck, seeping down each vertebrae of his spine.

But then another voice spoke, from somewhere inside his mind’s control room.

I don’t care. I want it, the voice had hummed. It was one much lower, sinister, indiscernible – like it was floating in the air, infecting anything and everything inside that room. He knew it was the Mark.

With a shaky breath, Dean’s left hand had pushed the inner gusset into his face, specifically his nose and mouth, so that he could breathe you in in every possible way. They’d smelt so good; a heady euphoric mixture of your lotion, a little bit of sweat, and the light musky but sweet warm scent of your cunt – and the kick it gave him? Went straight to his fucking head and balls.

A deep groan shattered in the darkness of the bedroom, his mouth watering, brows scrunching, and his right hand began slowly jerking and twisting his slickening cock.

And with the first uncontrolled thrust of his hips into his hand, Dean forgot that dying voice of reason and sensibility.

He’d pictured you. Above him. Sitting on his face; the inner part of warm, lush thighs pressing firm against the sides of his face and scratching along his stubble with every grind down and roll of your hips, knees spread wide apart. His large, rough hands were looped around your thighs, holding you secure to his hot and pooling tongue and mouth, his solid nose and jaw. His fingers gripping into the soft fat, moving muscles. Whines and huffs of air spilling from your lungs, eyes rolling back not in the cute way you do when you scold him or he tells a particularly bad (but charming) joke, but in utter pleasure. Ethereal in every aspect.

Man, it had been the best orgasm of his life. The Mark had made his blood burn in ecstasy, pumping the drug-like sensation through every nerve running from his toes to his fingertips to his head. His hot spendings splattering across his hand and heavily heaving stomach and chest – a bit even reaching the hollow of his neck – ruining the bedsheets below him as his hips had bucked uncontrollably and he’d moaned your name repeatedly, unashamedly loud, and a little pathetically into the crotch of your underwear. A burning rush coursing his lungs that felt not like he was weightless and flying, but backflipping off a cliff into open ocean. Only when he had finally resurfaced, gasps subsiding into full breaths, and turned to grab some toilet paper to clean himself of his mess, did he realise he’d been so eager to cum that he’d forgotten to get a new roll.

He’d paused. Right hand and arm hung mid-air. Then he looked down at your soft used black underwear, still in his left hand. The voice that used to be in charge of his self-control and respectability centre was nowhere to be seen or heard as he’d slowly moved your clothing across his stomach and chest to wipe away the drying white liquid. It had sent a new hot wave of arousal straight to his stomach and balls, his dick already hardening again and a groan clawing from his throat as he savoured the view of his cum mixing with your dirty underwear. You and him. Together.

He’d been chasing that feeling again every night since. But no pornographic fantasy could match or even come close to it. He knew then it would only happen again when you finally let him inside you.

Maybe Dean’s not changing. Maybe he’s always been this perverted for you. He just needed the Mark to show him who he really was.

Dean raises his right hand to neck the remainder of his beer as you, camera in-hand, start towards where he, Sam, and Garth are standing together by the wall. You’ve got an off-kilter bounce, swaying a little side to side with each step, and a big rich smile on your face. A quiet grin tugs on Dean’s face and he can feel a warm glow dancing across his heart and lungs and ribcage. The Mark also tingles. That’s one thing that neither the hunter lifestyle nor the Mark has taken away from him – you. Yet. He hopes it never will. He’ll have to wait until his next birthday to find out, though.

The conversation between Sam and Garth peters off as they both notice you approaching. When you reach them, Dean realises you’re holding something behind your back with your left hand, but he can’t see it.

“Hi, boys,” you chime, your eyes darting to all of their faces in greeting. Garth happily nods his head in an upwards motion as an acknowledgment. Sam returns your smile and says your name.

“Hey there, gorgeous.” Dean replies gravelly, tilting his head a little to the left. Your eyes dip to the floor. There’s that beautiful blush.

From the corner of his left eye, Dean can see his younger brother give him a weird, almost inquisitive look – eyes narrowing, brows creasing a little, mouth slightly parting as if he’s about to say something but decides against it.

Sammy had once – maybe two and a bit years ago – tried to ask Dean (key word: tried) if he had feelings for you. Dean had almost punched him in the jaw for even suggesting such a thing, the glare alone warning the younger brother he’d done something he probably shouldn’t have.

Dean was glad Sam was a university-educated man and knew not to ask him about it again. And he never did.

But in all honest truth, he did actually have feelings for you then. Dean just hadn’t known himself that he did, or maybe he was just figuring it out and didn’t want to put a name to it. He’s never been very good with letting people in. Or allow himself to feel anything beyond self-disgust.

So that night, in true Dean-fashion, he’d gone to a local dive bar and made out with some chick in the disabled bathroom to forget about the whole situation – Sammy asking, and the whole idea that he maybe liked, or even wanted, you in more than just a best friend way. It just so happened, a total coincidence, that the girl Dean had chosen looked like you.

But he doesn’t like to think about that night. Dean knows now that nobody could compare to you.

And now, he wants everyone – especially you – to know how much he wants you. Needs you. He can thank the Mark for that possessive flare.

“I, uh,” you stutter, pulling your left arm from behind your back, “forgot to give you guys these earlier.” Three party hats stacked like a matryoshka doll appear in front of you.

With a cheeky smile, you move your hand in front of Garth for him to take a purple one, then to Sam for the blue one, “and a sparkly green one for the special birthday boy”. As you hand the final one to Dean, he deliberately glides his left hand over your own. He can feel the softness and warmth of your backhand with his calloused fingertips as he runs them smoothly from underneath your hand to the tips of your fingers along the bones, before slowly grabbing the angular hat from you. Your eyes meet Dean’s green ones, holding his gaze. He notices you’re not as flushed now, but a rosy air still floats on your cheeks.

God, he thinks, if only you knew what I’d do to have you.

Not just in the biblical sense. Not a hot one night tangle of legs and grinding of bodies where you wake up the next morning filled with embarrassment or regret or that was fun, but I don’t want anything serious with you. He knows that would cauterise him so severely he’d never able to feel anything ever again.

He needs to be more than a body that could comfort you for a few hours during the dark of night. He needs you for the whole night. And for the next morning, the day, and evening, too.

He would do anything you asked him to, if he hadn’t already made that abundantly clear.

He’d fight – no, slaughter every demon, angel, monster, and human to have you be his and he be yours. Tear not just every limb from limb, but snap every single bone as easily as a rotten branch in the middle of winter.

Dean stares so intensely into your eyes like he’s trying to communicate that through some hoodoo or something. The way you’re looking back at him, as if you’re also trying to tell him that – that you would do all that for him – makes him feel like a summer wind is sweeping through his chest to feed the bushfire sparking there, his veins carrying the embers across and throughout his body to ignite and be entirely engulfed by you.

He’s sure you can feel it, too. Or maybe it's the Mark’s doing.

Garth is already sporting the purple decoration – visibly excited – and Sam is just pulling back the elastic of his own blue one under his chin and sliding the hat over his forehead when your eyes leave Dean’s, and he’s so sure that your pupils are a little bit bigger, eating at the colour of your irises. You take a big inhale through your nose before your mouth parts and you suck in air. Your chest moves with the breath, and Dean watches your clothed breasts also rise.

Oh, sweetheart.

He shifts a little in his jeans, his dick throbbing between the soft cotton of his briefs and his muscular thigh. He can’t help that he likes seeing the ways something he says or does affects you. It makes him feel high. Indomitable. Yours.

“Dean, don’t grumble,” you start as if you’re approaching a wild animal that could rip your throat out in a blink, your right hand holding the camera and raising it to your chest with a repeated twist of your wrist, “but I’m going to be taking some photos now.” Sam chuckles, giving his brother a knowing side glance before turning around and taking a few steps to his left to bend down and put his beer bottle on the floor away from their feet. Garth does the same to the right of Dean.

But Dean’s still looking at you.

Impossible to look away, turn away. Not that he wants to.  

It’s just you and him in that moment.

No noise. No smell or taste. No background and no foreground. Simple.

And then, there’s that tilt again to your right shoulder, a sweet smile flowering.

Anything for you, he thinks.

With a fake exasperated huff and roll of his eyes – a quiet smirk threatening to give away his irritated and tough guy persona – Dean turns his back to you briefly and follows Sam and Garth’s movements, his empty beer bottle clinking twice on the cement, before returning to face you and shuffling back in between the other two to pose.

Dean places his right arm around Garth’s shoulder while his left settles across Sam’s back. He pulls them both in tight so that they sit in the pit of his shoulder and arm joints, and for a second, he feels Sam freeze, then relax and return the gesture by placing his right arm along Dean’s shoulders and neck. Sam’s right hand just reaches Garth, whose left arm pulls Dean into a firm side hug. Dean notices the tension still vaguely emanating from Sam, his back muscles stiff against Dean’s forearm and bicep, breath stilled almost completely like he’s worried he’ll scare off Dean if he so much as thinks too loudly. Sam attempts to regain his composure with a small exhale he tries to shelter.

But Dean doesn’t react. He’s sure that Sam is probably taken aback by the unexpected show of brotherly love and something he hopes might mean the Mark’s dark hold is dwindling and Dean is finally coming back to himself.

How wrong poor Sammy is.

You grin at the scene of your friends together, then take a few steps back, closing one eye and squinting with the other as you raise the camera to your face. You take a step forward, then half a step back. “Ah! There we go.” You hum, clearly happy and satisfied with the framing of the scene in front of you.

The two boys on either side of Dean smile broadly, genuinely. And it’s not that Dean’s faking it – his smile is just as big – but he’s definitely putting some of it on for you.

“Okay, guys. Here we go. 3...2...1...aaaand...”

The camera makes an electronic beep as your index finger pushes down on the button.

You exhale quick. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna also take one with the flash – ‘s that alright?”. Your face stays covered behind the viewfinder as you flip the camera between landscape and portrait to figure out the best angle.

You’re so cute when you’re focused.

The three boys all respond with a variation of yes, and you count down again. The electronic beep sounds, and then there’s a flash.

“Ohhh perfect!” you gush, bouncing on your toes as you pull the camera down to flick between the two photos. You’re so giddy with excitement. Pure elation. “Really perfect, guys. You all look great.” Your eyes shift up to look at the three of them, and a warmth glides across Dean’s chest again and melts into his lungs to dissolve any air that keeps him upright.

The Mark makes it all finally clear at that moment. Dean knows then that he has to do something. Tonight. No more questioning. No more holding back.

He’s allowed to have you.

An idea – simple, easy to execute – pops into his mind. “Can we see it, sweetheart?” Dean calls, voice dripping in honey. Sure, he wants to see a photo of the people he cares about smiling and happy, but in honest reality? He’s really plotting to get you close to him.

Your mouth opens in an ahh as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that the boys would want to see the photo.

You shuffle over with a happy wiggle, hair swaying side to side behind your back with each quick step, and stop right in front of Dean so that the three boys can all see the camera. Your back is but a few centimetres away from his chest.

Perfect.

Sam and Garth both lean in over each one of your shoulders, a small section of muscle or bone or maybe a piece of clothing touching you in a reasonable, close friendship way. A rush of searing jealously and anger surges through Dean’s veins, an acrid tang to his mouth, his right arm stiffening and hand flexing suddenly and painfully, and he knows it’s the Mark. A violent scene of brown beer bottles smashing, jaggered glass piercing pink skin, and thick, red blood trickling down Dean’s hands and fingers onto the bunker’s harsh grey cement floor flashes in front of his eyes.

Pure corruption of even the most innocuous.

But Dean inhales, steady and quietly. Closes his eyes for just a second and focuses on you. He will not let himself be consumed by the Mark. For you, he can’t afford to. But he will listen to it when it tells him he’s allowed to want, love, have you. He’s forbidden himself from you for far too long.

Dean can feel the warmth rippling from your body, and it calls to him like he’s a ship lost at sea; dark, crashing waves tearing him apart piece by piece and swallowing him into the cold unknown abyss, and you – a lighthouse, his lighthouse – are a glowing, warm light, the only thing that could guide him to safety. Come to me, Dean, you call. Come home.

It’s like the Mark wants you to save him.

Dean opens his eyes, then closes the tiny space between you and him by calculatedly pressing his solid frame firm to your softer body. Your heat is heavenly. Intoxicating. It makes the blood flowing to the Mark thrum loud with each heartbeat.

The new lack of space between you both means Dean’s chin is now angled at the crown of your head. He’s never been quite this close to you in this way before and his head starts to swim. He shifts his face a little, tilting his jaw to brush the left side of your own face so that it rests just above your ear. His stubble makes a scratching sound against your hair, and a tingle runs over his nose, spreading across his cheeks and running down his neck before flowing out to his fingertips through his arms. His nostrils flare at the scent of your shampoo as it hits his lungs like smoke. Or maybe it’s your conditioner. Whatever it is, it smells good. He needs more.

Dean’s right hand has relaxed now, and he moves it from his side to place it on the clothed curve of your waist, the triangle hollow between his index finger and thumb shaping to the dip. The pad of his thumb nestles against a lower bone of your rib set, his other fingers splaying across your front. He fits like he belongs there. Because he does.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s touched or grabbed your waist, but those times have never been quite this intimate. This good.

You lean back into him, your lower back arching a little to shape to him, mindlessly. You try to hold the camera still for the boys behind you to look at the first photo, but it shakes a little in your grip.

From this new angle where you’re resting against each other, Dean can see the way your eyelashes dust your rosy cheeks as you pulse and breathe. A wave of tenderness he’s still learning to feel, to understand, floods his brain and heart, and he wants to feel them against his fingertips when he touches your face, or watch them flutter with each claiming thrust of his cock gliding in and out of your dripping and tightening cunt, burying himself so deeply inside you before pulling out almost all the way, just to the swollen ridge of his cock head, before driving himself into your heat again and watching your pretty eyes roll back with your pretty eyelashes.

The fabric of your shirt is soft against Dean’s rough fingers. He begins to rub your side with his thumb. Slow. Certain. Claiming.

A small, sharp sound escapes you. It’s the type of deep inhale you take to fill in your lungs when you’ve forgotten to take a proper breath in a while. Automatic. Natural.

After all, you’ve been running around like a headless chicken for the last four hours, setting up decorations, preparing food and booze, and doing everything else in your quiet devoted way for the party. Never demanding or even expecting Dean’s attention, but always receiving it. Never wanting anything from him like everybody else did. But even if you did, he’d give you anything and everything you ever wanted.

That would make sense in Sam and Garth’s brains, Dean rationalises – your breathing being wonky after making sure that everyone, especially Dean, was having a good time.

But Dean knows that isn’t what made you reset your nervous system.

It was him.

A deep heat pools lowly in Dean’s groin at this divine knowledge, his dick stiffening impossibly harder between his left jean leg and thigh, and he suddenly realises he’s started leaking as his briefs wet with pre-cum. His hand petting your waist flexes and he bites back a groan that almost chokes him.

“Alrighty”, you hum with a rising inflection at the end, “here’s the first photo”, and your head lulls back onto Dean’s right shoulder as you turn to look from Sam to Garth to see their faces and gauge their reactions. Dean almost breaks his spine fighting the urge to grind his hips into your ass.

“...aaand here’s the second one.” Your head tilts forward to look back at the camera, and it guts Dean to feel your warmth and weight leave his chest. He almost follows you forward, chasing your body. But then you return as quickly as you left, and there’s this proud smile on your face as you look at the photo that makes any pain Dean could ever battle wash away.

Your head turns quickly from left to right again to look at Sam and Garth, but then you glide your head to the edge of Dean’s right shoulder and look up at him.

“What do you think, Birthday Boy?” Your left cheek rests into Dean’s chest, the question vibrating through your body, and Dean can feel it ripple in his chest and fingers, and he knows he’s meant to be looking at the camera, but you’re so beautiful like this. He should just lean down and kiss you there. He will kiss you there.

He goes to move, but stops himself almost immediately. A sharp sting cracks across his right forearm, and his lungs constrict.

The Mark is screaming at him. Do it. Take her here. Take her now.

But Dean knows he won’t be able to stop himself once his mouth is on your skin. He wants to worship every single part of you and draw out all your holy sounds in every way possible. And he needs a bed for that.

So instead, he tightens his grip on your right side and drops his voice, gravel smothered in honey, “Perfect.” Dean’s green eyes lock onto your soft lips, pausing for a breath before moving to your left eye – a pause again, slightly shorter, though – then across to your right, and he’s not talking about the photos.

You blink up at him, a little dumbly, mouth parting slightly, and now your breathing is really wonky.

A satisfied smirk curves on his face at your reaction. Good.

Someone’s calling your name, but you don’t respond. You’re still staring up at him, dropping your gaze to Dean’s plush lips as he wets the bottom part with the tip of his tongue. He applies more pressure to your waist as his thumb begins to rub deeper, and he can see a dark, needy look growing in your eyes. The air between you two feels like it’s disappearing, pulling your bodies together as if the other was the only source of oxygen to fill your collapsing lungs.

Sam clears his throat, a dry cough climbing from his chest, and Dean knows without looking that his brother is pressing his lips to a thin line, eyes flickering awkwardly around the room and rubbing the skin between his left cheek and nose bridge with his left thumb nail. Neither of you seem to actually notice him – well, Dean consciously chooses to ignore him.

Your name echoes through the war room again, and your eyes leave Dean’s to find the source of sound. Dean follows your gaze, not before he takes in a maybe not-so-subtle glance at the exposed flesh of your clavicle and the top of your breasts, and he sees Charlie beckoning you with her left hand in rapid movements to come over to the other group where she’s handing out more party hats.

You take in a breath, nodding. “Coming, I’m coming!” you shout over the music, waving quickly in acknowledgement. You pull your head away from Dean’s shoulder – the Mark clawing at the bones and muscles in Dean’s chest to make you stay – and turn your head upwards, smiling warmly at the three boys to show your gratitude at letting you capture the memory.

Dean doesn’t immediately remove his hand from your waist, instead letting the palm of his hand and splayed fingers drag slowly down your hip, past your thighbone, to reach the end of your skirt. He considers slipping his index finger under the hem to graze your bare thigh, oh how warm and soft you’ll be...what sweet little sound will you make when my fingers touch you there?

His palm starts to prickle. Sweat. Just like the Mark is. And now his breath wavers. Goes wonky.

But before Dean acts on the thought, you start walking over to the other group, along with all the air that was just in his lungs.

And Dean’s not quite sure, but there might just be a sway in your hips that’s just for him.

Maybe you do know the affect you have on him. Maybe you do want him the way he wants you.

And man, Dean feels as though he’s run a marathon. Not that he’s ever done that, but still.

His eyes track you as his hand returns to the side of his jean-cladded thigh, and the growing wet patch in his briefs where the swollen tip of his dick is pulsing is ruining.

Dean can feel Sam’s stare singeing the hair and burning the skin on the left side of his face – did Sam see the way he was watching you? Maybe his fingers skirting the flesh of your bare thigh? Or was it his breathing? – before the younger brother turns around to grab both his own and Garth’s unfinished beer bottles on the ground.

Dean doesn’t answer the look, though. You’re far too captivating.

Your body is bopping unrhythmically to Blondie’s Rapture playing on the speakers as you cross the bunker’s floor. Dean chuckles lowly at the sight, his eyebrows scrunching and heart imploding, and the feeling seems to cool the burn of the Mark like a balm. If you turned back and saw him laughing at you ‘dancing’, you’d blame it on the alcohol in your system, but Dean knows better – you just move like that when you’re happy. You pass the wooden table, grabbing a handful of chips and stuffing them into your mouth, before continuing over to a congregated group of Charlie, Cas, Sonny, Jody, Rudy, and Donna, who are all laughing at something Cas has said. Probably his new (attempt at a) joke about a box of antique coins that were so worn out he couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Funny.

As you reach the other group, there’s a sudden movement in front of Dean’s chest, fracturing his fixation on you. He looks down slightly, and Garth is holding out a cold and freshly opened beer bottle for him. Dean’s eyes meet Garth’s, who gives him a closed but warm smile, tilting the bottle towards Dean. He takes it with a quick nod and a thanks.

The bottle is wet and icy against Dean’s heated palm and fingers. He can feel his pulse, each long thrum, against the numbing cool. He raises the bottle’s finish to his lips and takes a long swig, rolling his shoulders back with a relaxing shudder as he swallows the cold liquid and briefly closes his eyes.

Sam and Garth have resumed their chatting and positions on each of Dean’s sides when his eyes reopen. Dean looks towards the other group in search of you, but can’t find any inch. His brows crease.

“Think we’ll be summoned for a group photo?”, and Dean’s hunting gaze is broken, turning to look questioningly at his brother, who motions to the left of him with a jolt of his head.

Dean follows the movement and spots a tripod set up on the other side of the room, facing the wall of the ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAN <3’ sign.

Garth does a full body rock on his toes, nodding his head several times in quick succession, “Yes. Yes, that’s very smart of you, Sam.”

Dean and Sam look back towards Garth, brows raised.

“Garth, are you drunk?” Sam interrogates with an astounded tone and smile.

The string bean rolls his eyes, shrugging his shoulders, “Dudes, I’ve drunk two whole beers. Of course I’m drunk.”

And Dean, old Dean, without the grip of the Mark Dean, would have let out a hearty laugh.

He did laugh after the first time Garth got drunk. Remembers it well.

But it won’t feed the Mark, so Dean forces a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, shakes his head in a ‘disbelief’ manner, and pulls his jaw to his chest so that neither Sam nor Garth can actually read his face.

When Dean lifts his head back up, he sees Rudy, Donna, and Jody walking over. Donna has her classic broad grin, dragging an eye-rolling but smiling Jody along with her, while Rudy follows, playing with the white elastic of his red party hat.

“Hiya, boys!” Donna bubbles, coming to a stop in front of Dean with Jody on her left and Rudy to her right, “thought we’d come over and see what you rascals were up to.” She wiggles her eyebrows at the three of them in front of her.

This is good.

Dean slides his arm to half hug, half clap Sam’s back, and looks at him with a sly, promising smile. “Sammy here was just telling Garth about the time we kicked ass at a Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie in good ol’ Kansas.”

Sam’s head snaps towards Dean in confusion, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Donna gasps in excitement, “Oh geez, that sounds scary!”

It definitely was for Sam.

“Go on, then!”

Yes, Sammy, do go on.

Everyone’s eyes are completely locked on Sam. Dean can tell he’s still clearly confused, but because he’s Sam, he’ll play it off. He knows his brother too well. And Sam does, with a somewhat composed exhale and a squint of his eyes back at Dean, before starting the story.

Dean’s left arm returns to his own body as he takes another sip of his warming but still refreshing beer and smirks in triumph. He can finally plan tonight, now. With no interruptions.

oh guys i SOOO hope you like this one!! feedback and thoughts are ALWAYS welcome so please let me know <333333 can't wait for yall to read the next part - she is juicy juicy, genuinely just pure smut for like 10k of it.

She wailed in your arms as you paced the bedroom, bouncing her desperately. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, exhaustion and worry etched into his face. He hated not being able to help her, hated feeling useless.

"I don’t know what to do. She won’t stop screaming. I don’t know how to help her," you said, voice breaking as tears of frustration pricked your eyes. Rosie burrowed into your neck, still crying.

Dean stood and gently took her from you. "Hey, come on. We’ll figure it out, okay?" he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"How? She’s been crying for two hours. We’ve tried everything."

A soft knock pulled both your attention to the door. A bleary-eyed Sam peeked in, hair sticking up every which way. You immediately felt guilty for waking him.

"Sorry, Sammy. She’s teething and we can’t get her to stop," you said, wiping your cheeks.

"No, it’s fine. You can’t help it," he replied, stifling a yawn.

"We’ve tried everything, dude," Dean muttered, still bouncing Rosie.

"What about going for a drive? Didn’t you tell me Dad used to do that when I was a baby and wouldn’t stop crying?"

Dean blinked, then smirked faintly. "Oh yeah. Had to carry both of us out to the car." He looked over at you.

"I’ll try anything," you said, desperate. You grabbed your boots and one of Dean’s hoodies to throw over your pyjamas. Taking Rosie so Dean could pull on some jeans and boots, you called over your shoulder, "Thanks, Sammy! You’re a lifesaver!"

"Don’t thank me yet," he mumbled, already heading back to bed.

By the time Dean joined you in the garage, you had Rosie buckled in. The Impala wasn’t quite the same car these days—her backseat permanently claimed by a rear-facing car seat with a little mirror, the glove box now home to baby wipes, pacifiers, and a couple of rattles.

You weren’t sure if the drive would work; the Impala’s rumble wasn’t exactly subtle.

Ten minutes in, Rosie was still crying. You sat sideways in your seat, back against the window, feet in Dean’s lap, eyes fixed on your daughter. Dean’s hand rested on your calf, thumb tracing slow circles. Trying to distract you, he said, "Remember when you told me you were pregnant?"

You blinked, pulling your gaze to him. "Huh?"

"When you told me," he repeated with a glance, "you were pregnant."

A tired smile tugged at your lips. "Yeah. I was terrified to tell you."

"You were?"

"We’d only been together two years. I didn’t know how you’d react."

Dean gave a short laugh. "Really?"

"You told me you weren’t built for the normal white-picket-fence life. Having a kid, becoming a family… that’s about as normal as it gets."

"Guess it is," he admitted, smirking.

“I got over it quick, though. I was excited. Came up with so many ways to tell you.”

"I still have that baby flannel shirt," he said.

"You do?" you laughed. Hours after taking the test, you’d gone to a baby shop and found a tiny plaid shirt that matched Dean’s style perfectly. "Remember what you said when I showed it to you?"

Dean chuckled. "Yeah. I thought you’d shrunk one of my shirts in the wash."

You were still laughing when your gaze flicked to the back seat. "Dean…” you whispered. “She’s asleep."

He glanced in the mirror, a grin spreading across his face at the sight of Rosie snuggled in her car seat, finally quiet. "Props to Sammy."

With a gentle tug on your calf, he slid you closer along the bench seat until you were tucked against his side. You rested your head on his shoulder, his arm curling around you. He pressed a kiss to your hair. "You know you two are the best thing to ever happen to me, right?"

You looked up at him. "I believe you mentioned that when you proposed."

"Maybe I should say it more often."

"You show it enough," you murmured, smiling. "You’re my forever too, Dean." You kissed his stubbled cheek, drawing a soft chuckle from him.

He glanced back in the mirror, shaking his head. "Still not used to it."

"What?" you asked.

"A car seat in my Baby… with my baby in my Baby."

You laughed. "Better get used to it—we’ve got plenty more years ahead." When the bunker entrance came into view, you hesitated. "Can we keep going?"

Dean smiled, turning the wheel away from home. "Yeah. Of course we can."

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The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.

They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.

When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.

“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”

Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”

“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”

Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.

He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.

You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.

I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-

Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-

You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.

If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?

I am not circling you like a shark-

Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.

You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.

That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.

You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.

But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.

Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish. 

Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.

You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.

It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.

The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.

“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”

Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“

“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“

The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.

She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.

You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.

It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother.  Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.

You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.

Which is why you don’t know what to do now.

Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.

Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.

The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘

He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-

“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”

You frown, and Dean pauses.

“In a good way.”

“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”

“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“

He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.

But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“Me neither.”

“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”

“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.

“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”

And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.

He doesn’t really remember.  

“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”

Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”

You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.

Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.

You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.

Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.

Not you.

You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.

The asshole doesn’t make it easy.

He makes it impossible.

“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.

His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.

“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.

“Okay.”

“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”

 “I’ll come get them later.”

Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.

“I got ice cream.” He mutters, gaze locked onto yours. “’S gonna melt.”

“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”

“I’m going to distract you from work-“

“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.

“Dean-“

“C’mon.” He moves you in front of  him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”

You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.

There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.

You need to get away from him.

You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.

Which leaves one solution.

Avoid Dean.

Avoid him like he’s the plague.

You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.

If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.

But it’s not working.

You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.

It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.

Not dying.

You’re not strong enough to kill it.

This is the feeling of love being tortured.

Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.

You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.

Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.

That’s part of the problem.

None of them are Dean Winchester.

But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-

“Where the hell are you going?”

You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”

“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”

“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.

He doesn’t look amused.

You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.

He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.   

“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.

“Maybe.”

“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”

His brow furrows. “Napped.”

“For how long.”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not an answer-“

“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.

“Out.”

“Out where.”

You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”

Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.

He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.

But you don’t think he will.

Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.

“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.

“N- No.”

“We got drinks here-“

“I know.”

He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”

“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.

But Dean doesn’t leave.

He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m goin’ with you.”

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“

“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”

A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“

“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”

Oh.

He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.

Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.

So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.

“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”

You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.

You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.

Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.

And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.

You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.

“Dean, where are we-“

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”

You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“

“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”

“It’s-“

“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”

There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“

“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“

“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“

“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”

“Dean-“

“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”

You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“

“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“

“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.

But he does.

Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.

You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.

Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.

You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.

He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.

For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.

“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”

You nod—you didn’t blame him  in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.

“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.

“What?”

“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”

“I- I can stay?”

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.

“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“

“I was going to the bar.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“

“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.

“You kissed me.”

You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.

He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.

“No, I- I’d remember that-“

“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”

Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.

“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.

If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.

Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.

It’s guilt.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”

“Dean-“

“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“

“Dean-“

“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.

You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.

“Stop grinding your teeth.”

Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.

“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.

“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“

“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.

He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.

“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”

Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“

“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”

“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“

“I kissed you back.”

“Did you mean it?”

His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“

“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”

“The internet?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.

“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“

“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“

“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“

“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“

“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”

Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”

“And- And the love-“

“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“

“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“

Dean moves before you can think.

One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next  his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.

You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.

It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.

He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.

Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.

“Careful.” 

You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.

“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.

There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.

He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.

You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.

Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.

“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable-“

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”

There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.

He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.

“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”

“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.

“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“

He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.

“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“

“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“

“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“

 A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.

“De- Dean-“

“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”

Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”

“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.

Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”

You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.

“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”

Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“

“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”

“You- You never-“

“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.

You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.

“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”

Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.

You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.

Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.

You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.

He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.

Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.

“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.

You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.

“I- I’ve been patient-“

 “Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”

Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.

You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.

“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“

You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.

“Please, please, please-”

“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”

“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.

“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”

You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.

The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.

Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.

“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”

You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.

Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.

Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.

Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.

You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.

“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.

You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.

For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.

Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.

He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.

A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.

You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.

“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.

“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“

His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.

Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.

You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.

Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.

“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”

You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.

Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.

“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”

You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.

“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.

He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”

“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”

“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”

You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.

“What the fuck-“

“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”

You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“

“No, you don’t.”

“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“

“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”

“List works for Sammy.”

“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“

“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”

You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.

His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.

“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.

Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”

You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give  me twenty dollars.”

“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.

That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.

Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.

Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.

You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.

But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.

“No.” He chastises, and you pout.

“I wanna put you in my mouth.”

“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“

“Why not-“

“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”

You frown. “I know that.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.

You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.

“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”

Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”

“I am my age-“

“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.

“A sexy way?”

“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“

Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.

Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.

“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“

He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.

“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”

You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”

He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”

“Do you want the real answer to that?”

“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.

A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.

“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”

The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.

Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.

“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“

He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.

You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.

“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.

You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“

“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“

You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.

You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.

“I’m gonna move, alright?”

You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.

“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”

You nod, and his lips twitch.

“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”

Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.

“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”

“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“

“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”

“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.

“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“

“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“

He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-

“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“

You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.

You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.

And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.

Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.

He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.

He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks. 

 It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.

Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.

“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”

You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.

He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.

When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.

First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.

Dean. You need to be near Dean.

He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.

“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”

You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”

“And I woulda earned that.”

“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”

Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.

“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”

You like it.

You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.  

✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦

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