“tell me, did you raise a man?”

Too many options. You weigh them. He'll give anything, you could ask for his mouth or thick fingers or dick. Could push off your back and clamber onto his lap. He's a mess but hiding it well, save for telling pinched brows.

"Wanna see you better."

He sits high on his knees and blinks at you, trying to focus. It's hard, when you're a glowing vision in his backseat and nude besides underwear. An angel. Splayed and running a tender hand along his chest, your thumb coaxes his nipple.

"Fuck," he hisses, dark lashes aflutter.

You smile. Rarely are you the one doing the teasing.

"Sensitive," you coo and pinch quick. "Oh, you like that."

Ribbons of silver moonlight bleed through the windows, strapping across his abdomen. They set the honey-blond hairs above his belt flaming white, flowing down his navel in a band, beckoning to be licked and touched.

You twist his nipple between a delicate thumb and index. He barely swallows a whimper.

"Baby." He scrambles to hitch your thigh up his waist, holding it there while he helplessly grinds the swell of his jeans against you. "Fuck, you're so- so good. A fuckin' angel."

Your hand falls and settles on his bicep. He ruts slow and stuttered, lowering himself to press the point of his nose beside your ear. Powdery fragrance, he breathes in and in again, chest flowering with sticky, sweet love.

"Dean, I... oh."

He raises his head, fingers kneading at the dough of your leg. His rings indent cold and your half-lidded eyes tug his heart achingly. You've such a breathy, faraway voice and he hasn't even fucked you stupid yet.

"Good?" he checks. "Feels good? You like this?"

You nod feverish, catching his chin with a sloppy, pillowed kiss. He's got enough sense to grin lopsided and swallow your mouth whole, tongue needling for yours. This earns him a dreamy, lilting sigh that pits straight to his gut and pools there in welling heat.

"Y'sound like..." he starts, mumbling and blissed, following a connecting string of saliva back towards your lips. Can't ever get his fill, mind a mantra of you, warm, soft, sugary. "Heaven. What does heaven sound like?"

A shaky breath passes from your nose. "Heavenly, I'd guess."

He licks a stripe on your throat. Your arms cross over his shoulder blades, palm scooping through spiked hair, hips lifting to meet his movement. A small, hiccupping sound flies from him traitorously, bordering on plea.

"Jesus- shit," he says. His clothed thrusts become sloppy.

"Here," you offer, reaching for his belt. "Please."

There's nothing else to think about, to feel, except for your fingertips grazing past that musky trail on his low stomach. He slows, missing the friction as it wanes, but adoring your cautious expression. Excitedly nervous. Your pinkie curls around a belt loop. His palm skates the length of your thigh.

"Y'don't have to," he murmurs. "It's okay, baby."

Dean decides you must be magic, when your eyes find his. Glittering jewels amidst the dim light in the car. He can see your smile, a perfect, curling thing, and holds back from kissing you again and again until your brain is mush.

"Want to," you reply. His belt comes undone with a clink.

The button of his jeans pops out lazy under your tentative touch, but he doesn't rush. Rolls his lip beneath a shiny canine as you slide the zipper down and stifles a whiny beg. You're soft and pretty and he wants to bury himself in your skin forever.

You work his jeans to his knees and then pause to watch him quietly, ignoring his straining boxers, your chest pulling with prolonged rises. He wonders where that brief teasing went but loves you just as much, like this. Affected.

"Hey," he whispers. Leans quickly to give a smacking kiss to your hip bone. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you. You're, um. You're beautiful, too."

His body pangs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can you fuck me, now? Please."

Yes, yes, yes.

Clumsy in this small space, he manages to kick off his pants without hitting the top of his head and yanks his wallet from the back pocket to grab a condom. Brings it to his teeth and tears it open. His supply is diminishing.

"Yeah, yeah, baby. Yes. C'mere."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

A slow ache chews his stomach and turns it jammy as he watches you grab a fuzzy hand towel off the counter to scrub dry. He thinks about what to say. He's never been good with this part of you, though he wants to be, because he loves you in an overwhelming entirety.

To ask if you're really okay would cause embarrassment. You'd start worrying about how obviously vulnerable and worked up you look, so he won't ask, but he'll cross the small space and pull the cloth from your fingers gently because you're being too rough.

"Didn't know you were back," he murmurs, one palm settling over the rise of your hip. His thumb smooths circles there. You're warm. He draws the towel in soft strokes over your chin and the delicate skin beneath your pretty eyes.

"Sorry," you answer, staring at him jewel-eyed. He feels a lot at once.

"Why? You don't need to be. No reason."

"Oh. I'm glad you're here."

You're far away, voice a dreamy fade, gaze pointing an invisible dagger to the center of his chest. It narrowly misses his heart. He drops the towel once your face is matte and tilts his head. It crumples on the tiled floor with a hush.

"I'm here," he repeats. "Always here."

You hum. So distant, he'd like to take your arms and hoist you from this thick, sticky mass of overwhelm you've sunken into. He can make sure you don't fall too deep. Gives a squeeze to your waist and sways you with him. The tip of his nose kisses the bridge of yours.

"You smell good," you whisper.

"Thanks." He blinks at you. "What d'you need from me?"

"Dean, I don't need anything."

He takes in a small breath, heart swelling.

"Please," he begs. "Angel, just talk to me."

He desperately wants you to understand that you can ask for whatever you'd like, doesn't matter whether he knows how to give it. And if you need him to be different, if that would be easier, he'll scrape a new man together and spread the pulp over his skin in resemblance.

"I... I don't know," you say. "I don't know. Can you hold me?"

"Yeah," he says quick, already gathering his forearms around the small of your back. "'Course, whenever. I like holding you, sweetheart."

Dean is steady and pillowed by a weakness you've endowed; carapace dissipated. Tiny kisses land on your temple and he keeps you upright when your weight begins to slump. His plan is to stay like this forever, but your brows furrow when the fluorescent flickers, so he detaches only to guide you into his bed.

His sheets waft amber and earth and the faint, stuffy notes of immature cologne. He sweeps soothing fingers along your side and doesn't urge you to explain yourself.

Metal meets his tongue in a mawkish bead. The taste is gone quick, the sense diminished and stomped to nothing by your sugar smile. You're spilling words that he can't hear. Reduced. Staring at soft lines that crease beside your lips.

He wants to be completely Dean Winchester again, just once more, before allowing himself to succumb to whatever magnetism you've veiled his body with.

What was it like to not need you? He can't recall.

Is it love? How did his life feel before you stepped into it? A small, miserable room made up of John and Sam and menthol and turnipy cigarette smoke and discarded bandages. Always moving and never permanent.

And, and, and.

You seem permanent.

"Dean," you murmur, shoulder kissing his. The jumbled mess of his mind clears and an aching tide of cool air laps upon him. "Have you been listening to me at all?"

"'Course I have," he lies. It pulses again. His whole being, maybe.

He leans more of his weight back against the motel wall and likes how the grit scratches his spine. Likes how you mimic him, likes how you crane your neck slightly to keep his gaze tacked.

"Okay," you say. "It's nice being here with you."

How much more can he take? He deliberates the question for too short of a second before abandoning it promptly in favor of thinking about how pretty you are, how strangely the stars continue to skew your eyes.

"Really nice, sweet thing," he replies.

You hum. There's a faint swath of sleep pilling at your undereye. He could drag it gone with his thumb and would be happy to touch you like that. Simple and mundane and special, unlike how he touches anybody else.

"Sometimes, I wish we were nocturnal," you whisper.

"Oh. Why?"

"I feel real at night."

He's been staring too long, so he looks ahead and up into stretching, sparkling tar, and agrees with a gentle grunt. He feels real, alive and thrumming, only because of you.

"Yeah," he sighs. "I do, too."