"We're just friends"
Fandom: Supernatural Word Count: 1300 Tags: Friends to Lovers, Backseat Sex, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink, Fingering, Grinding, Dean Winchester is a Simp for You.
The interior of the β67 Chevy Impala always smelled the same: old leather, gunpowder, cheap beer, and the faint, lingering scent of Deanβs sandalwood aftershave. Usually, it was a scent that meant safety. Tonight, it felt like an intoxicant.
For monthsβmaybe years, if you were being honestβthe two of you had been playing a game of chicken with your own hearts. It was in the way your hand lingered on his shoulder a second too long after a hunt. It was in the way heβd let you pick the music, even if you chose something that wasn't "classic rock" enough for his tastes. It was in the silent, heated stares across motel rooms that Sam would break with a loud, pointed cough.
βWeβre just friends, Sammy,β Dean would bark, his jaw tight, eyes never leaving yours even as he dismissed his brother.
Just friends. Friends donβt look at each otherβs mouths like theyβre starving for a feast. Friends don't feel the air turn to static the moment they're left alone in a car on a rainy Tuesday night.
But here you were, parked on a dirt road miles from the nearest town, the rain drumming a rhythmic, frantic beat against the roof. You weren't in the passenger seat anymore. You were in the back, straddling his lap, your knees pressed into the worn leather on either side of his hips. The quarter-zip sweater you wore was pulled down just enough to expose the swell of your breasts, and Deanβs eyes were devouring the sight.
"So. What now, pretty girl?" he rasped. His voice was a low vibration you felt in your own chest. His hands, rough and calloused from years of iron and grease, slid down from your waist to cup your rear, squeezing firmly.
You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the short, soft hair at the nape of his neck. You leaned in until your lips were ghosting over his, breathing in his heat. "You always like calling the shots, Dean. You tell me."
He chuckled, a dark, hungry sound that vibrated through your thighs. He didn't hesitate. One hand shot up, his fingers threading through your hair and tilting your head back to give him better access. He didn't just kiss you; he claimed you.
It started with a bruising pressure, a desperate collision of teeth and tongue that tasted like unspoken promises. Dean groaned into your mouth, a low, guttural sound of surrender as he pulled you impossibly closer. He rolled his hips upward, a slow, deliberate grind of denim against denim that hit your clit with pinpoint accuracy.
A sharp, needy whine escaped your throat, swallowed by his mouth.
"Just friends, huh?" he whispered against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. "Friends don't make sounds like that for each other."
"Shut up, Winchester," you breathed, fumbling with the hem of his shirt. You needed skin. You needed to feel the heat of him.
He helped you, shucking his flannel and t-shirt in record time, his eyes never leaving yours. In the dim light of the dashboard, his skin looked like hammered gold, his muscles taut with tension. When you pressed your chest against his bare skin, the contact felt electric.
Deanβs hands were everywhereβon your back, your hips, sliding under your sweater to find the clasp of your bra. He popped it with practiced ease, his palms immediately finding the weight of your breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh, his thumbs flicking over your nipples until you were arching your back, gasping his name into the cramped space of the car.
"Youβre so beautiful," he growled, his voice dropping an octave into that gravelly register that always made your knees weak. "God, Iβve wanted this. Iβve wanted to get you alone in this backseat for so damn long."
He moved his mouth to your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive cord of your throat, marking you. His hands slid down, tugging at the button of your jeans. He made quick work of the zipper, his fingers diving beneath the lace of your underwear to find you.
You were already slick, your body betraying how much youβd been craving this. When his middle finger slid into you, you let out a strangled cry, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder.
"Look at me," he commanded.
You lifted your head, eyes hazy with lust. He was watching you with an intensity that felt like it was stripping you bare. He pushed his finger deeper, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with agonizingly slow, rhythmic pressure.
"You're so wet for me," he murmured, a smirk playing on his lips even as his eyes burned. "Tell me how much you want it. Tell me youβre not 'just a friend' right now."
"Dean, please," you whimpered, your hips moving instinctively against his hand. "I'm not⦠I've never been just your friend. You know that."
That was the breaking point. The smirk vanished, replaced by a raw, naked hunger. He pulled his hand away just long enough to rid you of your jeans and toss them into the footwell. He worked his own belt free, his movements frantic but certain.
When he was finally bare, his length pressing against your entrance, he paused. He gripped your hips, his knuckles white.
"If we do this," he said, his voice trembling slightly, "there's no going back. I don't know how to be 'just friends' with you after I've been inside you. You get that?"
"I don't want to go back," you whispered, reaching down to guide him. "I want you. All of you."
Dean didn't need to be told twice. He surged upward, burying himself inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. The breath left your lungs in a sharp gasp, your internal muscles clenching tight around him. He groaned, a long, pained sound of pleasure, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"You're so tight," he choked out. "Perfect."
He began to move, his hands locked onto your hips to control the rhythm. It was a frantic, desperate pace, the Impala rocking on its springs with every heavy thrust. The sound of the rain was drowned out by the wet friction of your bodies, the slap of skin against skin, and the chorus of broken moans filling the small cabin.
You leaned back, hands braced against the ceiling of the car for leverage, as you took him deeper. Every time he hit your sweet spot, the world tilted on its axis. Dean was relentless, his eyes fixed on your face, watching every expression of pleasure he elicited from you. He loved the way your eyes rolled back, the way you bit your lip to try and stay quiet, the way you whispered his name like a prayer.
"That's it, sweetheart," he urged, his pace quickening as he felt your walls start to quiver. "Come for me. Give me everything."
He reached between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, adding the friction you needed to tip over the edge. The combination was too much. You shattered, your vision going white as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, your body shaking as you clamped down on him.
The feeling of you coming was the final straw for Dean. He let out a loud, unrestrained shout, his back arching as he spent himself deep inside you. He held you tightly, his fingers digging into your skin, anchored to you as the waves of pleasure ebbed away.
For a long time, the only sound was the heavy, synchronized thud of two hearts and the rhythmic drumming of the rain. Deanβs head rested on your chest, his breath hot against your skin.
He finally pulled back, just enough to look at you. His hair was a mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were softer than youβd ever seen them. He reached up, tucking a stray hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheek.
"So," you whispered, your voice still shaky. "Friends?"
Dean let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning in to press a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Not a chance in hell," he murmured. "You're mine. About damn time I admitted it."
You know that won't last long, not with his track record.
A/n: forgive me if it's not the most lore accurate! Credits to @diviniyae for the divider!
