anna

He clicks on it, his face instantly heating at the sight. You've clearly been streaming for a while, your chat's full, hundreds of comments flooding in about your body and your moans. You're in skimpy lingerie, kneeling in front of the camera, holding a small vibrator against your panties, your lips parted in a small gasp. The lighting in the room is low, a soft focus on your glowing body, your bedsheets shrouded in a dim blush.

Dean always feels like an idiot when he watches you. He knows you're not real, not really- it's an act, designed to draw in suckers exactly like him. But he can't help it, you're gorgeous, the way you swallow hard right before you draw in another shaky breath, the way your fingers tremble as your move the vibrator over your clit. It feels vulnerable, it feels palpable.

"Fuck-" you gasp, struggling to keep your eyes open to read the chat, "-you guys really know how to keep me excited!"

He grabs his laptop as he moves to the bed, leaves the beer on the table- it can wait. He throws his laptop down on the mattress next to him as he pulls at the fly of his pants, more desperate than he'd like to pretend he is, tugging his pants off to find his cock already swollen under his boxers.

"Thought I'd try out this new toy-" you giggle, tilting your head to one side as you lift the vibrator, "-she's small but god does she pack a punch-"

KissCrazy: your so hot JohnDont: get ur tits out xXRock69Xx: give us more! pleaseee

Dean drags his eyes away, he doesn't like reading the chat- hates it in fact, hates seeing other people fawn over you. He knows it's not just you and him here, he's not naïve, but the chat makes it difficult to pretend otherwise.

You're clearly scanning it though, reading through as many messages as you can, though they're speeding by so quickly he doesn't know how you keep up.

You give a practiced smile to the camera, "Seems like you guys want me to take some clothes off? That right?"

You giggle again as you read through the responses, Dean keeps his eyes fixed on you, refusing to look.

"Well how can I say no to a request like that?!" You laugh, reaching for the clasp at the front of your bra.

Dean's fist tightens around his cock in anticipation, his mouth already dry as his eyes lock onto your chest. You pull lightly at your lingerie, the clasp falling undone to reveal your naked breasts. Dean lets out a sharp breath, slowly starting to stroke himself.

You pick the vibrator back up, "I'll take my panties off in a second-" you switch it on, bringing it up your your clothed cunt with a small giggle, "-I just wanna get them soaked first."

Your head tips back in pleasure as you start moving against the vibrator, your hips rocking slightly against it. Dean lets out a sharp grunt, touching himself to the sight, already closer than he's been in days.

"You- you guys enjoying this?" You laugh.

Dean moves his free hand to the laptop, barely lucid as he clicks around on the pad. He starts small, he always does- always acts like he won't tip too much- the fear of getting the credit card immediately reported stolen often holds him back.

IMPALA67 tipped $10

He'd be stupid if he thought you cared about him, but he watches your expression carefully. It feels unmistakable, your eyes widen for a second, a small smile, and then you moan again, louder, like you can't hold it back.

He spits in his hand, a groan as he reaches back out to his cock, running his thumb over the head, sliding down the shaft. He lets out a harsh grunt, the room filled with lewd sounds and ragged breaths.

"Oh- oh my god-" you gasp, grinding against the vibrator. Dean stares at your chest, the way it's rising and falling quickly as you start to move faster.

I<3PUSSY: such a slut 69Daddy69: perfect tits! WhoreFukker: wanna cum down your throat

Dean's jaw clenches, he starts to feel sleazy again, but he can't drag his eyes away from you. He speeds up, reaching back to the laptop with his free hand.

IMPALA67 tipped $20

It's clear on your face this time, you read the tip, then nod your head slightly, like a thank-you. Dean knows you recognize the username, his idiotic tipping, but he still gets a tightening in his chest when you make a note of it on camera.

Your fingers tremble as you move quicker, your panties soaked, your whole body covered in a thin layer of sweat. Dean wouldn't be surprised if you'd been at this for hours- you know how to draw out the time, how to get the tips rolling in early.

"I think I've made you guys wait long enough-" you smile, biting your lip as you pull the vibrator away, "-guess it's time for me to get naked!"

You lay back, hooking your thumbs around the side of your panties and slowly dragging them down your thighs. Dean sucks in a tight breath, watching carefully, his whole body starting to burn with how desperate he is for you.

The charges will get disputed. The bank will pay back whoever the card belongs to, you'll still get your payday. He made sure of it. It's a victimless crime as far as he's concerned. Hell- if he had a stable job, a monthly paycheck, he'd be paying you out of his own pocket. It's not his fault his life doesn't allow it.

IMPALA67 tipped $20

He lets out another groan, he doesn't care how loud he's being, these motel walls have seen worse. He tightens his grasp, the feeling rising inside him faster, how close he is just from watching you.

You pick the vibrator back up, no longer looking at the chat, trusting that the messages will keep rolling in whether you're looking or not. Your legs spread wide, the perfect view of your soaked cunt.

Dean has to bite his bottom lip, hips lifting off the mattress slightly as he ruts into himself. God you're fucking perfect.

He hears you gasp as you press the vibrator back over your clit, he watches as your pussy clenches around nothing, your own hips mirroring his actions, both of you grinding against the air. Dean pictures filling you, pictures fucking you so hard you scream.

IMPALA67 tipped $50

"F-fuck-" your quiet voice seems so far away as your toes curl, your body on fire. But you hold back, eyes opening slightly as you look back at the camera, "-god- feels so good-"

Dean slows slightly, he knows you'll try to drag this out, and he's already missed so much, he wants to see this through. He moves to his cockhead, rubbing his thumb over the slit, feeling how sensitive he is, "-shit."

"This little toy-" you laugh, moving it away as you start to read the chat again, "-D'you really think it can make me finish? Or should I use something else?"

xXRock69Xx: the vibe is so hottt BigCock911: use ur dildo KingDaddy: Fuck your vibrator!

Dean swallows hard, pulling his laptop closer. He's a sleaze- he's such a fucking sleaze- but right now he doesn't care. He just wants you, just needs you.

IMPALA67 tipped $50 IMPALA67: Finger Yourself.

You smile, a dance in your eyes as you drop the vibrator. You don't say anything, nothing about how you're ignoring the chat, how you're clearly only focused on one response. To anyone else it'd just look like you're too caught up in your own show. But Dean knows you've read it, Dean knows you're doing it for him.

Your fingers move back to your pussy, slowly stroking your clit, your hips rising slightly into the feeling. Then you reach down, pushing two fingers inside yourself.

Dean can't help it- he speeds up, his hand grasping his cock, his jaw tight. He bites the inside of his cheek, his forehead slick with sweat. He starts fucking his hand, watching every move carefully, every part of you twitching and flexing, the way you moan. You can't fake that kind of reaction, you're really making yourself feel good now.

"P-please-" you gasp out, your breath shaky, "-oh god- feels so good-"

IMPALA67 tipped $50

He's so close, he can feel it sitting in his gut, the desperation, the desire. But he keeps going anyway, watching the scene in front of him. You pull your fingers out, glistening in your own arousal as you move back to your clit- smaller motions, bringing yourself to the edge.

"I'm- oh my god- I'm gonna cum-" you manage, your hips lifting off the mattress, your back arching as you let out another loud moan.

Dean only just manages to focus on his laptop long enough.

IMPALA67 tipped $500

You cum, your body shaking as you push yourself into climax. Dean follows, cum spilling out onto his hand and abdomen, his whole body buckling as he watches you writhe against the mattress.

He collapsed back against the sheets, dragging in a desperate breath. You're clearly doing the same, though his eyes are shut he can hear you on video, quiet panting as you try to calm yourself down. He imagines the messages are still flooding in, people begging for more, but he doesn't open his eyes, refusing to look.

After a few minutes he hears you shift, he peaks one eye open as he watches you move towards the camera, "Thanks boys, I'll be back the same time tomorrow-" you wink and the screen goes black.

Dean looks down at himself, his cum staining his boxers, sticking to his hand. He lets out a small breath, rolling his eyes.

It takes him a while to clean himself up, a damp towel in the bathroom, a new pair of underwear. By the time he picks the beer off the table and sits back on the bed, there's a message waiting on his laptop.

CherryPie: Private show?

He smiles to himself.

IMPALA67: not too tired?

A moment passes, he almost talks himself out of waiting, but then another message comes in.

CherryPie: You always make it worth it 😉

The call starts coming through before he can second guess himself, he clicks accept without thinking.

"The five hundred not enough?" He laughs, cocking his eyebrow.

You smile at him, sweet- tooth rottingly sweet. Dean always has to look away when you do that, it's too much to try and remember you're acting when you look so genuine.

You let out a small breath, "You know that's not what I mean."

You've changed into a t-shirt, a new pair of panties, simple and comfortable. You still look stunning, your hair a mess from your writhing, a thin layer of sweat still stuck to your skin, but it's different like this, at the end of the night.

Dean smiles, "You look tired-"

"Thanks..." you laugh sarcastically, "You expect me to look any different after all that?"

Dean always gets it wrong with you, he doesn't know how to be his normal smooth self with a girl he's already seen every inch of- a girl he doesn't even know the real name of. "I don't mean that- I mean- you look nice- relaxed."

He doesn't know how this routine started- he trusts it doesn't happen with anyone else- no one else would be as stupid as him. He logs on, he watches one of your performances, he pays out the ass on some stolen credit card, and then he gets a private show. A private talk, with you, the real you- a real version of you at least. One who belly laughs and makes faces and talks frankly. And you'll get comfortable, listening to him talk, nodding along as you start to drift off. Usually you'll remember in time, log off with a smile. Sometimes you fall asleep, and Dean will have to fight himself to finally end the call.

He doesn't spend a dime on your private shows.

You smile, "Well I guess I am tired- fuck I'm actually exhausted-"

He tries to seem unbothered, "Y'don't have to stay- if don't want-"

"No! No!" You laugh, "I want to stay."

Dean doesn't say anything, just gives a small nod.

You relax back against your bed, laying down and spreading out. It's not as sexual as earlier, but it feels far more intimate.

"Fingers, huh?" You murmur, giving him a weak smile, "Better than the vibrator?"

He swallows hard, "I guess."

You laugh, "I'll keep that in mind- though I'm not sure many people were happy about that decision."

His jaw tightens, pretending not to care that you care about other people.

Your face falls slightly, "-But hey, that doesn't matter right now, does it?"

You lean back, closing your eyes as you stretch out across the sheets, your body too exhausted to stay alert.

"I don't mind what you use-" Dean admits, "You'll look good either way."

"I was thinking about you, y'know." You smile as you relax against the pillow.

"Yeah?" He knows it's a line, but he still plays along.

You crease your eyes open, "I mean it- I actually mean it. Picturing all those lines on your forehead when you get annoyed at me really gets me going-" you laugh.

"I don't get annoyed-"

"You get- vexed."

"I get confused." Dean admits.

You smile wider, "That's cute- I like that."

"You like confusing guys?" Dean laughs.

"I like confusing you." You close your eyes again.

Dean doesn't know what that means, he feels his forehead creasing, exactly like you told him it does, and tries to straighten himself out again, "Well, whatever you were thinking of- you looked good."

☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓☾𖤓

Part of the tarot series - 22 unrelated short stories exploring different Dean x Reader archetypes.

Just comment/message to let me know if you'd like a tag. Asked to tag: @pieolsen @bitchinwallaby @icedteabee @angel1withacigarette @lydia-caldwell-writes @eddiemunsonistheloml @bearymuchso @magic-sprinkled-daydreams @leysol @angrydragon90 @globetrotter28 @robynn9436-blog

☀️ As always- I'd love to know your thoughts ❤️ Comments are very much appreciated ☀️

instead, he’s quiet as he watches you take him in. and he doesn’t plan on interrupting your stunned silence yet, because he thinks that you should be able to take all of the time you need. he hasn’t seen you in several years now, and even though he feels as if he may collapse on your porch, he doesn’t want to rush you. 

rush this.

you look just as pretty as he remembers, however. and you smell the same, that good and soothing scent that seems to linger around you everywhere you go. it makes his heart squeeze and spin in a strange pattern and he’s more than glad to be in the presence of you again. and you haven’t made a move to shoo him away, so he decides to finally speak.

“hey, sweetheart.” he breathes, voice low and a little strained. it reminds you of his visible effort to stay standing, so you step forward to take his arm and usher him inside. 

another squeeze of his heart, and he closes the door behind him.

you push the strap of his duffel over his shoulder so that he doesn’t have to carry it’s weight anymore, and it falls to the floor with a hefty thud. there’s a familiar ache in your chest, one that always throbs there when you see him. but it’s been so long, and you’re not entirely sure what you’re meant to say now. you’ve missed him and you’ve been worried endlessly, but he knows that. 

you think. you hope.

you look up at him from where you’re both still lingering in the dimly lit doorway. he watches quietly, as your gaze flits over his face, checking for scrapes or cuts that you can clean and mend. but there aren’t any to be found, and his throat bobs when your eyes lock onto his. he blinks at you, his expression solemn and knowing.

he doesn’t have the slightest clue of what to say, either. and he selfishly hopes he doesn't have to say anything more at all.

his hands find your waist, slow and tentative, and he drops his forehead to yours as he feels you lean into his touch. your own arms snake around his shoulders and you breathe him in with one large, lasting inhale. his eyes close, yours stay half-lidded. as if he’ll disappear again if you let your guard down further.

you should be mad, you think. you could cuss him out and yell, berate him for making you think he was dead or gone forever. tell him how horrible his absence has made you feel. you could admit everything that you never got to.

but there's no anger burning inside of you, and no harsh words begging to be said.

his arms loop around the entire expanse of your middle now, and he squeezes you before ducking his head to bury into the crook of your neck.

and he's giving you more than you thought you'd ever get.

"don't know what to fuckin' say," he mumbles against your skin. "i'm sorry, so damn sorry. i know that doesn't fix a damn thing."

there's more coming, you can feel it from the slight tremble of his shoulders. your fingers tangle tenderly in the trimmed hair on his nape.

"missed you. everyday," he manages. "just- i was a coward. didn't know how to stay. couldn't lose you, so i had to leave, baby. had to."

baby. couldn't lose you, baby. missed you.

he noses at the slope of your shoulder and swallows a lump of emotion down with so much effort that you can nearly hear it.

he missed you, and he's back. holding you in his arms and you just can't feel anything bad or dark or venomous towards him. you know him, and you know how he feels and what he wants.

why he left and why he's back.

couldn't lose you.

you hold him against you tighter and let your eyes close.

"it's okay," you assure, voice so soft and quiet. he doesn't feel deserving of such a loving assurance. "it's okay, dean."

his fingers flex into the fabric of your shirt and his brow presses into the place beneath your ear. making sure you're real, taking you in still.

"stay." a short silence. "even if it's just for tonight. please."

he nods against you. he'll say more in the morning, apologize on his knees until his voice is hoarse and his knees ache something awful. whatever it takes to earn back his place by your side.

he's not planning on leaving anytime soon.

Sam bites down on his lip, trying to hide his laugh as the waiter finally walks off. You, blissfully unaware, take a sip of your soda like nothing happened.

Dean leans forward, voice low and sharp. “You flirting with him?”

Your head snaps up, eyes wide. “What? No! I was just being nice.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, Dean. Not everyone’s out here working their moves 24/7.”

Dean shoots his brother a glare. “Oh, shut up.” Then he turns back to you, frown etched deep. “Seriously, though. He was eating that up.”

You blink. “I just said I liked his tie.”

“Exactly,” Dean mutters, stabbing at his fries like they offended him. “Practically wrote your number on a napkin for him.”

Sam is full-on laughing now, trying to disguise it as a cough when Dean glares at him again.

You tilt your head, trying to make sense of Dean’s mood. “Wait—are you… jealous?”

Dean chokes on his burger, coughing hard enough that Sam has to hand him his water. “Jealous? Me? Pfft, no.”

Sam leans back, smirking. “You so are. You’ve been glaring at every guy who looks their way since we walked in.”

“I have not!” Dean protests, face flushed red.

You can’t help but laugh, leaning across the table to nudge his arm. “Dean Winchester, you’re ridiculous.”

His jaw works like he’s trying to come up with some smooth denial, but then you rest your hand over his, and all the fight drains out of him. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand.

“Fine. Maybe I don’t like other people looking at you like that. Happy?”

Your smile softens, warmth blooming in your chest. “Actually… yeah. Kind of sweet.”

Dean blinks, caught off guard. “Sweet?”

“Mm-hm.” You squeeze his hand, playful. “But for the record, I wasn’t flirting. You’re the only one I’d flirt with.”

Sam groans, dramatically reaching for his menu. “Okay, nope, I’m out. You two keep this up and I’m gone.”

Dean smirks at his brother before turning back to you, smug and satisfied now. “See? You hear that? Only me.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes, but you don’t let go of his hand.

Across the table, Sam mutters under his breath, “God, I hate being the third wheel,” but the grin tugging at his mouth says he doesn’t mind half as much as he claims.

“Dean, seriously,” you groan, brushing a bug off your arm for what feels like the hundredth time. You’ve been trudging through the Kentucky woods for an hour—thick summer air, dripping sweat, everything sticky and green. “There’s nothing out here. Those kids probably made it up cause they got caught smoking weed or somethin’.”

“Shhh…” He hushes you, eyes scanning the trees. “We’re not leaving till we’re sure.”

You sigh, shoulders sagging as you catch up to him in the tall grass.

Five years hunting, and you still hate this part. But five years with the man who saved you from a nest of vampires—who hasn’t let you leave his side since? That part you don’t hate.

You had no one when he found you. Nowhere to call home. You think that’s why he lets you tag along. He understands what that feels like.

Your eyes are closed in the dingy motel bathroom, splashing cold water on your flushed face. “Told you it was nothing,” you call out, shutting off the faucet. You reach for a towel to dry your face…

“OH MY GOD! Oh my GOD—Dean! Dean!”

You hear him drop something heavy before the door slams open. “What?! What is it? Are you—”

Your arm is already out, shaking like a leaf. “Is that a tick? Dean, is that a tick?” You caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. Tiny, dark, right above your elbow.

He pauses, exhales hard, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “Jesus, woman, I thought you were dying.”

“I might be,” you snap, breath coming fast. “You know I don’t do ticks—”

“I know,” he says gently, stepping closer, voice low and calming. “Let me see.” He angles your arm toward the yellow light, brows furrowed. “Where’re your tweezers?”

“Velvet bag. Duffle.”

He doesn’t tease you—though he should. You’ve beheaded vamps and salted bones, but a tick sends you spiraling. Why? One traumatic summer. You, age eight. A deer tick stuck in your ear.

He knows the story. He knows all your stories.

He’s gone and back in seconds. “Deep breath,” he murmurs as you suck in a shaky inhale. “Good girl.”

Your breath catches—for a different reason entirely. You pray he didn’t notice.

The smirk tugging at his lips tells you you’re not that lucky.

He makes quick work of it. Plucks the thing off with clinical precision while you stand there trembling. Pulls out his Zippo, burns the wretched thing pinched in the tweezers, then washes it down the sink.

“I hate to say it,” he says slowly, watching your face, “but if there’s one…”

“Don’t.”

He shrugs. “Might be more.”

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then, softly:

“I could help you. Check.”

You know his offer is innocent. You think. But it feels like a step in a direction you've both been avoiding. Years of dancing around each other. Late nights. Long hunts. Shared motel beds—but never crossing the line. Keeping it clean. Easy.

You think about it for a long moment. Your fear of ticks is louder than your fear of getting in too deep.

“…Okay.”

His eyes flick over you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean takes your hand and leads you out into the open room, flipping on the overhead light. The walls look worse in full brightness—cracks, stains, cobwebs. You’re reminded why you usually leave that light off in these places.

He drops the tweezers and Zippo onto the bedside table. “C’mere.”

You step into his space, your pulse thudding in your throat.

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice like honey. “I’ll be gentle.”

“Not funny, Dean.”

He grins, then steps behind you. His hands are warm as they slide over your shoulders, brushing your hair aside. His breath ghosts over your neck.

“No tick here,” he murmurs, voice rough.

“Arms up.”

You obey, slowly. He lifts your tank top, eyes dark as they trace the newly exposed skin. His fingers skim your back, light and searching—too gentle to be clinical. You shiver. He turns you to face him.

He doesn’t try to hide where he’s looking. His gaze drops—your chest rising and falling beneath the white lace of your bra. His fingers slide along your collarbone, brushing the strap, trailing heat wherever they touch.

“No tick here.”

You look up at him. Really look. And something shifts.

He drops down to his knees in front of you, never breaking eye contact. Your breath hitches. Then his fingers find your belt. He moves slowly, deliberately, giving you time to stop him. But you don’t. Can’t.

The leather slips open. Button. Zipper. His hands slide inside the waistband of your jeans and he tugs them down, slow, like he’s unwrapping a gift. You brace yourself on his shoulders, lifting one foot, then the other. When he looks up again, his expression is reverent. His hands skim your thighs, gaze trailing behind.

And when he leans in—nose brushing your inner thigh—your knees almost buckle.

“Dean?” It comes out a moan.

He smiles against your skin. “Still lookin’ for ticks.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah.” His voice drops. “But you’re lettin’ me.”

And you are. God, you are.

Your fingers slide into his hair before you even realize it, and he groans at the touch—low and needy. His hands run up your outer thighs, then grip your ass, pulling you closer to his mouth.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Just feel—every warm breath, every brush of lips, every teasing drag of his fingers higher.

You know this is reckless. Know there’s no going back. But one more second without his mouth on you might break you. And from the way Dean is looking at you—like he’s been starving for years. You’re sure he feels the exact same way.

His hands slip higher, fingers hooking into the sides of your panties now. He looks up, waiting—giving you that one last chance.

You nod.

They slide down. Soft cotton against your thighs. He helps you step out of them, then tosses them aside. And then he’s just looking. Eyes locked between your legs. Hands smoothing up your thighs again.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart…”

You gasp as his fingers brush your inner thigh, then trail up, teasing just around the spot you need him most. Then he leans in and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss just beside your center. Then another. Just above.

Your hips twitch. His hands grip tighter, grounding you. He lifts one leg to open you up, rests it over his shoulder.

And then—finally—his mouth finds you.

You choke on a breath, head falling back as his tongue drags through your folds—slow and unrelenting. Dean fucking Winchester, the man you’ve fought beside, bled beside, slept two feet away from for years—on his knees, mouth on you like he’s been waiting for this forever.

Maybe he has.

He groans against you. His tongue flicks over your clit, then sucks it into his mouth, and you damn near lose your balance. “Easy,” he murmurs, voice dark and thick. “I got you.”

Your hands fist in his hair. You try not to grind against his face, but he encourages it—hands moving to your ass, dragging you closer, holding you right where he wants you. “Dean—fuck, Dean—” You can’t help the moans. Breathless. Broken.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling, your stomach coiling tight, and that knot in your gut is about to snap. He can feel it. He wants it.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, mouth slick, voice wrecked. “Let me have it.”

You do—with a cry that breaks into a moan, your whole body shaking as pleasure tears through you like lightning. Dean holds you through it, hands steady, mouth relentless. Only when you’re gasping and sagging against him does he finally pull back, lips red and glistening, eyes dark with hunger.

“Fuck,” he breathes, letting your leg down and standing. His hands are all over you now—gripping your waist, sliding up your back, burying into your hair as he kisses you.

And God, you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You moan into his mouth, clawing at his shirt, tugging it up and off. He helps you, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside, pressing you back toward the bed.

“Get up there,” he says, voice low and rough.

You climb onto the mattress, pulse still hammering as he follows, kneeling between your legs. He pops the button on his jeans, eyes on you the whole time. When he shoves them down with his boxers, your breath catches. It might be the prettiest cock you’ve ever seen.

“Dean…”

He crawls over you, bracing himself on his forearms, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He reaches between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, teasing the tip through your folds. “You’re so wet for me,” he rasps.

And then—he pushes in.

You gasp, one hand digging into his bicep, the other fisting the sheets as he stretches you open. Inch by inch. Slow. Steady. Giving you time to feel every damn part of him. He’s big. Thick. And you feel full in the best possible way.

“Shit,” he growls, jaw tight.

When he bottoms out, you’re panting beneath him—overwhelmed, on fire.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first. Grinding deep with every thrust. Hips rolling. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside out. He kisses your neck, your shoulder, your mouth. Holds your hips so tight you think he might never let go.

“Been wantin’ to do this,” he mutters into your skin. “For years…”

You whimper. Wrap your legs around his waist. Pull him deeper. “Then don't. Don't.. stop.”

That does it.

His rhythm picks up—rougher now. Desperate. Each snap of his hips draws a moan from your lips, your nails digging into his back, leaving red lines behind.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. The sounds he makes as he fucks you make your head spin. The grunts. The whimpers.

You clench around him just to hear more.

“Jesus Christ,” he bites out—and fucks you harder. The bed creaks under you. You’re gone. Both of you.

“Gonna come again,” you gasp, body wound tight. “Dean, please—”

“Come with me, baby,” he growls, thumb finding your clit. “Come on, I wanna feel it.”

You shatter.

Second orgasm hitting you like a freight train. Your whole body arches. Clenches down around him. You cry out his name. Dean follows with a guttural moan, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every twitch of his cock.

He collapses against you, breath hot on your neck. Both of you panting, slick with sweat, tangled together. For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Just the sound of your breaths and heartbeats.

Then—

“Well,” he mutters into your hair, smug as hell, “pretty sure there’s no more ticks.”

You smack his shoulder, breathless, still trembling. “Asshole.”

credit & links:

⟡ more dean winchester.

⟡ pics & gif from pinterest, edited by me.

⟡ dividers by @easytiger-xo.

Your eyes fluttered open, your body startled just enough to blink at the screen. “Mmh—just finishing this scene,” you mumbled, your fingers still hovering over the keys. “Almost done.”

A warm hand slid gently over your shoulder.

Dean stood behind you, sleepy-eyed in his henley and sweats, hair mussed like he’d just climbed out of bed. There was something incredibly tender in the way he looked at you, half-smiling, half-concerned.

“You fallin’ asleep mid-sentence?” he murmured, brushing your hair back.

You let out a breathy little laugh. “Maybe.”

He leaned in, lips brushing the top of your head. “Baby, you’ve been out here for hours.”

“I was writing,” you mumbled, your voice thick with exhaustion. “It was actually going somewhere.”

He crouched beside you, his palm warm against your thigh now. “You’ve got tomorrow for that,” he said, voice dipping into that low, coaxing drawl that always made your chest flutter. “What you don’t got is a reason to be fallin’ asleep at a damn kitchen table when you could be in bed—with me.”

Your breath hitched at how softly he said it.

Dean didn’t wait for you to argue. He eased the laptop from your lap with gentle fingers, saved your document, closed it, and placed it on the counter like it was fragile. Then, without even asking, he slipped an arm under your knees and the other around your back.

You melted against him immediately, arms around his neck as he lifted you.

“Dean…” you murmured sleepily.

“Yeah, baby. I got you.”

He carried you down the hallway slow and steady, like you weighed nothing, like this was his favorite thing—because it was. You, heavy with sleep, tucked against him, trusting him with all of it.

By the time he set you down in bed and tugged the blankets up around you, your body had gone pliant, lulled by his scent, the sound of him breathing, the low rustle of his clothes as he climbed in behind you.

When tugged the covers over both your bodies, you reached out—wordless—fingertips brushing his arm.

He smiled and climbed in behind you, strong arms wrapping around your waist as he pulled you close.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “I love you.”

“I know,” he breathed, lips brushing your shoulder. “Sleep now, sweetheart. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”