Dean doesn’t do vulnerable. Dean does jokes and deflection and sex as a weapon. But with you.. the second you say “tonight, you’re going to let me fuck you,” his whole facade cracks. He laughs first. Nervous. A little too loud. “Yeah, right. That’s funny.”

Then he sees your face. Sees that you’re not joking.

His throat works. Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands find his own thighs, gripping hard. “You- wait. For real?”

You don’t answer. You just start unbuckling his belt.

And Dean lets you. That’s the thing. He could stop this. He’s stronger than you. But he doesn’t. His hips lift off the bed so you can pull his jeans down. His arms go over his head without being told. He’s already panting.

“This is so fucked up..” he whispers, but he’s half-hard. “You’re gonna make me into a- a bitch or sumthin'...”

“That's kind of the plan.” you say. “Now shut up and turn over.”

He does. God, he does. Dean Winchester, on his hands and knees, ass in the air, face burning red. He can’t look at you. He buries his forehead in his crossed arms and mumbles, “I hate you. I hate this.”

But his hips are already rocking. Small, involuntary circles. Seeking.

“sure you do, Deanie.”

When you grab his hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, he groans. Deep. Guttural. “Fuck. Yeah. Hold m'down. Don’ let me move. I’ll be bad. I’ll be so fucking bad. You have to make me.”

He talks constantly. Dean cannot shut up when he’s turned inside out like this. Sam whines and begs and cries. Dean runs his mouth like a fucking porn star, and it’s the hottest, stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.

You lube him up—two fingers, then three—and he chokes on a groan. His hips push back onto your fingers like a starving thing. “More. More, more, more. Give me another. I can take four. I want four. Stretch me open. Make me a mess.”

He’s dripping precum onto the sheets in thick, sticky strings. He reaches back with one hand and tries to help you finger himself. You slap his hand away.

He whines. Dean Winchester whines. “fuuuuckkk, jus' gimme anotherrrr.”

When you finally line up the toy he pushes back onto it before you can even thrust. Impales himself in one desperate, reckless movement.

“Oh fuck-”

His voice cracks, his arms give out. He collapses to his elbows, face in the sheets, ass still up, and he’s grinding back onto you. You grab a fistful of his short hair and yank his head back. He moans like a whore. His back arches harder, presenting himself to you like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. You set a brutal pace: hard, fast and mean, and Dean meets every thrust with a slap of his hips, no shame, no hesitation. He’s fucking himself back on you so hard the headboard is banging against the wall.

“Harder-” he gasps. “Fucking destroy me. I want to limp tomorrow. I want everyone to know.”

He’s just a man. Loud, wrecked, and greedy.

“Oh fuck- oh fuck- yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, holy shit-”

His mouth is running nonstop. Dirty, broken, desperate nonsense. “You like that? You like fucking your boyfriend’s tight little ass? God, you’re so deep, you’re so deep- faster, come on, fuck me faster, I can take it, I’m not fucking made of glass-”

You, suprisingly, listen to his demands and speed up the pace to his heart's content.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, grinning through the sweat and the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “That’s my fucking girl. Look at you. Look at what you do to me. I’m such a mess. I’m such a fucking mess for you—”

He reaches back with one hand and spreads his own cheek wider. Wider. For you. Just to give you a better angle. Because Dean Winchester in doggy style isn’t just submissive—he’s an exhibitionist about it. He wants you to see every inch of how pathetic he is. He wants you to know that he’s yours.

“Harder,” he gasps. “Harder, harder, fuck- break me, I don’t care, I want to feel this tomorrow, I want to sit in the Impala and wince every time I hit a bump and remember-”

His cock is leaking onto the sheets, untouched, and he’s so close you can see it in the way his thighs shake. But he doesn’t ask to come. He doesn’t even think about it. All he wants is more. More thrusts. More depth. More of you.

“Tell me I’m yours-" he moans, and for the first time, his voice cracks. “Tell me I’m your good little slut. Tell me or I’m gonna fucking lose it-”

You lean down, lips to his ear, and you whisper exactly what he needs to hear. It makes him choke on a breath that turns into a sob once and then come so hard his vision whites out. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as he spills all over the comforter in thick, pulsing ropes.

And when he comes back to himself, ten seconds later, he just laughs. A breathless, wrecked, happy laugh. He doesn’t move from his position. He just looks over his shoulder at you with those fucked-out green eyes and grins.

“So,” he says, voice hoarse. “Same time tomorrow?”

He’s already hard again.

Pretty, young clerk who just transferred here, so caught up in whatever work your boss threw at you that never once did you notice the watchful eyes of Mark being glued onto you, or you just did an insanely good job ignoring it. 

He’s been eyeing you for a while now, ever since he noticed that the cubicle that’s been sitting empty for months by now finally got a new inhabitant. When he first saw that somebody’s bag and papers were resting there, he just nodded to himself, accepting that he just got a new coworker, shuffling over to his own desk — which he barely used, considering that he preferred to be out on the field, and was doing an awfully good job at that. 

The turn came when he glanced up at the sound of heels clicking, eyes drifting over to the direction of the sound. Sure enough, his eyes lock onto the young, neatly dressed — presumably clerk or secretary — woman, who just so happens to be heading right towards him. She comes to a halt right in front of Mark’s table, placing an ashy brown document folder with the utmost care.

“Agent Blythe sent this. He said you should go over this as soon as you can,” she spoke up, tone quiet, as if she was scared that Mark was going to bite. No, that was the last thing he would do — unless she asked him to. 

Mark nodded along, eyes slowly wandering from the document up to the woman, assessing as much about her as he could. Definitely younger than him, and definitely new here. 

“Thank you,” Mark pressed out after the realization that she’s been waiting for some kind of response from him dawns on his suddenly lovestruck brain. Shooting him a weak smile, she pivots, and much to Mark’s surprise, plops down into the seat he previously eyed. 

Ever since then, he’s been keeping his eye more on you, the newcomer, than on the assigned paperwork. In a way, he found your constant focus charming, his eyes studying the curves of your face and body as much as he could. 

Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month. One month of silent admiration, and Mark Meachum hasn’t made any moves. It was weird, considering that it was him out of all people. If anybody, he was the one who hesitated the least when it came to picking up women. Perhaps that was the reason why nobody ever really registered that his “spacing out” had more behind it. 

His co-workers would sometimes take notice of how his eyes tended to wander over to you, said co-workers just watching with furrowed brows before Mark’s attention shifted back onto them and onto the mission, paperwork, or meeting topic at hand. Unbeknownst to them, even on the smaller field missions he was assigned to, his mind was still revolving around the woman in the office.

He woke up, and his first thought was you, which bag charm you’d pick today, how you’d do your hair, which plain white dress shirt you’ll wear — because despite his age, his eyes were still good enough to pinpoint that each shirt, despite looking the same at first glance, was a bit different. He had enough time to observe, that was for sure. Mark was, in a way, living his best life at the office. 

Until he wasn’t.

You spent less of your breaks at the coffee machine, and more looming over the desk of some scrawny guy, just two desks away from yours. When you did in fact spend your break at that damned coffee machine, you did it with the same scrawny guy. Mark tried to reassure himself that you two were talking about business, some task you two had to work together on, but the more he watched you two laugh together, the less convincing that alibi sounded to him.

It didn’t help that one time, when both him, you, and your alleged friend were on coffee break at the same time, while Mark was leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the room, a coworker of his came up to him, noticing as his eyes were fixed on you, and out of the blue just said “They’re so cute together, aren’t they?”. He had the audacity to smile while saying this, too, Mark involuntarily frowning, both at the fact that this heavily implied that you and that dude were dating, and that this coworker of his seemingly approved.

No, they’re not cute, Mark wanted to retort, only to stop himself at the last second, gripping the to-go cup just a bit harder instead. 

Now, rumors say you two are dating. Does Mark like that? Absolutely not. 

So, after listening to somebody raving on about how you and this twink are the cutest couple at the office, he pushes himself up from his desk with a sigh, deciding that it’s time to confront you. Not in a “What the fuck is going on?” way, but more in a “Small talk, soft smiles, discreet questions” kind of way.

Catching you alone proved to be a harder task than expected, that guy whose guts he despised always lingering just a step away from you. 

So, when he finally saw you alone at the coffee machine — your regular spot by now, paying it a visit way too often —, he pounced on the chance. 

The coffee machine emits a low, rumbling sound as it releases hot steam, while the paper cup slowly fills up. The noise from the hallway fades slightly around you, marking your first moment of calm since the morning rush. 

A shadow falls across the machine, and you sense a presence beside you. It isn’t your usual colleague, you would recognize his footsteps from a distance. Shooting a sly glance in that direction you’re surprised to see Mark Meachum, standing next to you with an air of complete ease, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

"I was starting to think you’d bought a season pass for this machine," he says, his voice carrying that familiar deep, slightly husky tone as a faint, small smile plays at the corner of his mouth. "Whenever I look up from my papers, I either see you here, or..." he pauses for a moment, feigning thought as his eyes sweep over you in a flash, lingering on the shirt you’re wearing today, "...or your companion."

He leans in a little closer, as if about to share a confidential secret, though his body language suggests he is flirting rather than discussing official business. 

"I’ve heard from the others that you’ve been doing some serious teamwork lately. Do you really get along as well as the rumors say, dating, according to them, or did a shared caffeine addiction bring you together?"

“Oh, um,” you stammer for a second, taken aback by his question. You could feel your face burning up as he stared you down, a calm smirk plastered across his face as he awaited your response. “No point in lying to a detective, huh,” you muster up. “I didn’t know it was… this public. And obvious.”

Of course it’s obvious, that twink’s following you like a lost puppy, Mark thought, although kept it to himself and kept his facade.

“But… yeah, we’re… together,” you finally press out, eyes darting over to your coffee cup in a weak attempt to avoid his piercing gaze.

“Are you happily together, or just... together?” he asks, his voice deliberately playful, as if the question were merely part of typical, teasing office banter. Inside, however, every nerve of his strained.

“I’m… really happy with him, actually,” you nervously chuckle, still trying your best to avoid having to look him in the eye. 

Mark feels as though he’s been punched in the gut. The professional detective, who has always managed to talk his way out of any situation, suddenly feels defenseless before the girl standing by the counter.

“Then... I suppose I should offer my congratulations,” he says finally, and for once, all mockery or flirtatiousness vanishes from his voice, replaced by a quiet, slightly weary note of acknowledgment. “That sort of thing is rare in this house. I hope he takes good care of you. Because if he doesn’t, I’ll be forced to have a word with him... on a strictly professional basis, of course.”

Mark watches in silence as that kind, understanding smile flits across your face. Oh, how it melted his heart. You don’t take offense at his remark, nor do you play along, you simply... gently close the subject. 

As you turn and walk down the hallway, paper cup in hand, the heels of your shoes click rhythmically against the stone — just as they did that very first day you set that folder down in his office. 

He doesn’t move right away. He stays there by the coffee machine, leaning against the wall, his gaze following your figure until you turn behind the partitions and back into your own domain.

The noise of the corridor returns, and colleagues bustle back and forth, yet the image of your eyes lighting up with happiness as you spoke about him — that other guy — still lingers in Mark’s mind. 

Finally, with a deep, stifled sigh, he pushes himself away from the wall and heads toward his own desk. He doesn’t look at you as he sits down, but his movements are heavier than usual. The stack of papers is still waiting for him on his desk — the very work he had been using as the perfect excuse to stay close to you.

He makes sure to stalk all your social media that same night.

He feels like a teenage girl for doing so, but desperate times require desperate measures, and tonight just so happened to be a desperate night.

Still, he had an advantage that those teenagers didn’t — his career. Of course, it wasn’t the most ethical use of his tools as a detective, but something had to be done. It only helped him that you worked right where he did, which put your name in the company’s files, which he could access. Birthday, phone number, full name, birthplace, every basic thing he could’ve asked for, right under his fingertips.

Mark made sure to check in on your more personal details too, taking over to Instagram — finding it through a software that was able to connect every social media account to a phone number or other personal info you’ve given to make the account.

The more he found out about you, the more enamored he felt towards you. You seemed just like he thought you’d be, Mark even cracking a few faint smiles as he went through your posts and stories. They revealed just about anything about you. People you’re friends with, hobbies, interests, places you frequented, everything he needed to get a grasp on you and your habits.

Suddenly, his smile faded. Scrolling through your highlights, the screen flashes to a picture of you and the twink he oh-so-despited. In the picture were you two, with you planting a kiss on his cheek. 

Oh, how much Mark would’ve paid just to be in that guy’s spot! That twink looked awful next to you, it was like putting a rat and a supermodel side by side, him being the rat of course. Oddly enough, you seem happy. Keyword, seem. 

That guy probably doesn’t even know how to take you on a date, stifled behind that desk all day, hunched over like a caveman. He’s the most regular looking regular dude in existence. He probably can’t even hold his weight up when he’s above you in bed! He probably makes you do all the work! 

You deserve better than that, that’s for sure. Somebody who knows exactly how to work their fingers and mouth on your body, somebody who actually makes you feel good during sex. Somebody who actually pays attention to you, somebody who takes you on proper dates, somebody who actually cares about you. Surprisingly enough, the description seemed to fit somebody called Mark Meachum.

Alright, it’s his dirt for not not doing anything back when he could’ve, but still, this entire situation felt like the universe just majorly fucked him over. Of course the worst guy gets the best girl. It felt like such a joke. 

What did you see in him anyway? Definitely not his looks, that was for sure. Was he that funny? Mark is funny too, why not choose him? And he’s handsome too, and could totally provide everything you could ever ask for for you! From good meals to gifts to love and comfort to a home to good sex, he’s got it all! One word from you, and he’s yours!

But as long as that dude’s in the way…

Mark crafted his masterplan. He’d do whatever needed to be done, and already had a few ideas. First, he needs the guy to lose his shit. It didn’t matter why or over what, he just needed him over the edge, shouting, ready to land a hit on anybody. Women hate abusive men, and the moment this guy snaps, you could have a perfectly good reason to leave his ass. Bonus points if it happens with Mark present, giving him a perfect chance to swoop in, be the hero, and save the day. Chicks dig heroes, no?

The detective’s mind, which spends the day unraveling a web of crimes, now begins to weave a very different kind of web at night. Unethical? Who cares about ethics when your happiness is at stake with a man who probably can’t even afford to buy you a decent dinner, let alone treat you like a queen? Mark knows exactly what you need: attention, a real man who will protect you, who knows how to touch you, and with whom you never have to shrink away in fear.

If the guy makes a scene, starts screaming in the middle of the office, or — better yet — raises a hand against someone... you leave him immediately. And who will be there to help you up, to calm you down, to form a shield between you and the world with his broad shoulders? Mark Meachum.

The next morning, Mark walks into the office a completely different man. Gone is the weary, disillusioned man of the day before. He looks elegant — well-shaven, his shirt straining against his broad shoulders — and his confidence practically vibrates in the air. 

As he passes your cubicle, he doesn’t stop, but for a split second, he flashes that deep, knowing gaze at you, the kind that stirs something deep inside you. Then, his eyes slowly drift toward the guy sitting two desks away. A faint, predatory smile, almost imperceptible, touches Mark’s lips. 

Throughout the morning, Mark begins to execute the first phase: applying subtle psychological pressure.

When the guy goes out to the photocopier, Mark "accidentally" happens to be right there. He doesn't speak to him but steps up beside him in the narrow corridor, using his physical size to tower over him. When the guy finishes with the papers, Mark blocks his path for a moment before finally stepping aside with a cocky, condescending half-smile. 

Later, in the communal kitchen, just as the guy is standing by the microwave, Mark walks in chatting with an agent and deliberately remarks loudly. 

"…Yeah, some people just aren't cut out for field work. You get those typical desk-bound rodents who’d crumble if they ever faced a real problem. It’s a good thing they handle the paperwork for us, at least, right?"

He sees the guy’s shoulders tense up and his neck start to flush with anger, yet he holds his tongue. Mark mentally chalks up a point for himself. The office gossip and subtle teasing have begun. 

Every time you walk past Mark, he is deliberately kind and attentive, offering a small compliment about your hair or your shirt—just enough to make your boyfriend, who is watching you from afar, increasingly agitated and jealous. Mark knows exactly what he’s doing: he is slowly, systematically injecting poison into your relationship, waiting for the moment the guy finally snaps from jealousy.

A few days later, the perfect opportunity arises. There’s an afternoon office meeting attended by both your department and the detectives. As it happens, your boyfriend is the one giving the presentation. He’s visibly nervous, his hand trembling slightly as he holds the laser pointer. 

Mark sits at the far end of the conference table, leaning back comfortably and twirling a pen between his fingers. He looks bored, yet he is watching you out of the corner of his eye, observing the way you smile encouragingly at your friend. That smile is the final straw for him. 

The moment has come. When the guy finishes his talk and asks if there are any questions, Mark slowly sets down his pen and straightens up.

“I have a question, if you don’t mind,” Mark speaks up. His voice is soft, yet it carries an edge. “The data on the slide looks good. But what’s the plan if things don’t go according to script in the real world? Because this strategy is... cowardly, to put it mildly. It’s like someone is afraid to get their hands dirty. Are you sure you can handle a real crisis, or when trouble hits, would you rather just hand the job over to the grown-ups?” 

The air in the room freezes. Your boyfriend’s face goes stark white, then flushes a fiery red. He grips his notebook so hard his knuckles turn white. He knows perfectly well that Mark isn’t criticizing the presentation, but him — as a man — and doing it right in front of you and the entire office.

The guy’s throat is visibly going dry as he swallows hard and practically drives the laser pointer into the tabletop to hide his trembling hand. Mark’s mocking, confident gaze is practically burning his skin, yet he doesn’t dare lash out with the bosses present.

"The strategy... is based on protocol, Detective Meachum," the guy manages to choke out, his voice an octave higher than it should be. "But thanks for the observation." 

Mark acknowledges the reply with nothing more than a nonchalant, barely perceptible nod. He doesn’t need to do anything else. He successfully castrated the guy’s self-esteem right there in the office.

As you leave the meeting room, your friend practically strides ahead down the hallway, not even waiting for you. When you catch up with him in the small, secluded photocopy room next to your department, it’s immediately apparent that their pent-up anger and humiliation is about to erupt. 

The moment the door shuts out the outside world, he turns to you, their face still flushed with tension. 

"What the hell was that?" he demands, trying to keep his voice low but trembling with rage. "Did you see what he did? He made a fool of me in front of the entire management! And you? You just sat there! You didn't say a word in my defense!" 

"Please, calm down, it’s just work, he had a logical question, and—" you try to soothe them, but your words only add fuel to the fire.

“Don’t tell me it’s just work!” he snaps, brushing off your attempt to get closer with an angry wave of his hand. “Meachum’s been circling you like a vulture for weeks! By the coffee machine, in the hallway... He’s always right there wherever you are. And you actually encourage him with that sweet little smile of yours! You think I don’t see it? You think I’m blind?! Why don’t you just tell him to get lost? Or maybe you like having a ‘real’ detective hovering around you, not some ‘desk-bound rodent,’ which is what he called me?!” 

His tone is harsh, accusatory, and unfair. He’s speaking to you in a way you’ve never heard before, and jealousy is completely distorting his behavior. In short, everything is going according to plan.

Feigning boredom but actually on tenterhooks, Mark walks down the corridor past the photocopier room, carrying an empty binder as if he has business there. The door doesn't close quite right, so every word of the heated argument spilling out reaches his ears clearly. Mark stops a few paces from the door, leans back against the wall, and a triumphant gleam lights up his dark eyes. His plan is working perfectly. The guy is digging his own grave right now.

The tension is almost palpable in the cramped air, thick with the smell of photocopier toner. You stand there, stunned, facing your partner, whose eyes are now completely devoid of the gentle, familiar warmth that made you fall for them in the first place. 

"That’s not true!" you say, raising your voice to break through their wall of anger while holding your hands up defensively. "Mark is just a colleague, nothing more!” Ouch, that stings Mark a bit, overhearing this too. “Yes, we ran into each other by the coffee machine, but I was polite because I work here and don’t want to make enemies. You think I’m encouraging him? I chose you, I’m with you!"

Well, not for long, Mark silently smirks to himself.

"Oh, sure, polite!" the guy snaps, a hysterical, bitter half-smile twisting his face. He steps closer, invading your personal space, and jabs his index finger angrily toward your chest, though he doesn't actually touch you. "I saw the way he looked at you in the conference room! And you just take it. Because you like the attention, right? You like having some big, armed macho guy checking you out in the hallway! You turn his head, and then you’re surprised when he comes after me in front of the bosses? Did he do it because of me? Hell no! Because of you! Because he thinks he can have you!" 

Damn fucking right.

"Stop it, please, you’re being paranoid!" you say, shaking your head. You feel a hot sting in your eyes born of helplessness and disappointment, and the effort to hold back tears makes your throat tighten. "I didn't do anything. Why are you blaming me because a detective was a jerk to you?"

"Because you don't stand up for me!" the guy shouts — now having almost completely lost his self-control — and slams his fist onto the top of the photocopier in a rage. The plastic cracks with a loud snap, and the papers in the tray shudder. "You think I’m a pathetic coward, just like he does, don’t you?! Just because I don’t play the tough guy!" 

Outside, in the dim light of the corridor, Mark’s face remains motionless, but his body goes rigid. Hearing the sound of the fist slamming against the plastic machine, his eyes narrow, and he grips the binder in his hand so tightly that the cardboard begins to creak. The guy has crossed a line. The physical aggression—even if directed only at an object—provides the perfect pretext.

Mark slowly lets go of the wall. His steps are heavy and purposeful as he heads toward the door of the photocopier room, in no rush. He knows the tension is reaching its peak, and that his arrival will be like a lightning strike on a gunpowder barrel. 

Mark presses down the door handle with a slow movement, and the door swings open quietly. He doesn’t burst in or shout, he simply steps into the cramped room, bringing with him that calm. His eyes slowly sweep the room: the papers still fluttering on the photocopier, your friend’s clenched fist, and finally you, standing in the corner and fighting back tears. 

Mark’s face is perfectly impassive, as if he had no idea what was actually going on here — or that he was the one who had triggered this whole avalanche. 

"What’s all this racket in here?" he asks, his voice deep and unhurried. "You can hear the shouting all the way down the hall."

He takes a step forward with his hands in his pockets, a movement so natural it looks as if he had simply come for some copy paper, yet his positioning instantly becomes strategic as he plants himself precisely between the two of you, physically cutting the dude off from you. 

With his broad shoulders, he almost completely blocks the guy from your view, offering you protection while fixing his dark gaze directly on your friend. 

Shock quickly gives way to helpless rage on the guy’s face when he realizes Mark walked in at the exact moment he had completely lost his composure. He tries to straighten up so he doesn't look so small next to Mark, forcing a mocking, trembling half-smile onto his face. 

"What is it, Meachum? Is the noise bothering your detective ears?" he snaps back, his voice tense yet striving for confidence. "Or did you just find another excuse to stick your nose where it doesn't belong? This is a private conversation. So get back to your donuts and stop snooping around." 

Not a single muscle twitches in Mark’s face at the pathetic insult. He doesn't raise his voice or take the bait. Instead, he simply looks the guy up and down slowly — as if studying an irritating but completely harmless insect — before turning his head away with a deep, weary sigh. He acts as though the guy’s attempt at intimidation isn't even worth a word. Probably because yeah, it wasn’t.

“Grown adults don’t go around slamming office equipment just because they don’t get what they want,” Mark remarks coolly, his tone as condescending as if he were speaking to a tantrum-throwing toddler. “If you’re done with the show, go back to your desk. You’re safe behind the partitions.” 

This total dismissal makes the guy absolutely lose it. A red haze of humiliation clouds his vision. 

“Say what?!” The guy snaps, stepping forward as his hands clench into fists and his body trembles with rage, ready to do something monumentally stupid right there in the middle of the office.

"I think you should back off, buddy, and calm down," Mark says, his voice suddenly dropping an octave and turning cold as he takes a single, menacing step forward. "Before you hurt someone in here. Someone you... supposedly love." 

He shoots a quick glance at you out of the corner of his eye, as if his very presence were shielding you from your boyfriend's unpredictable aggression. That gesture is the final spark that sets the situation ablaze. 

"I don't give a damn!" your boyfriend screams, completely losing his head. "I don't care about you or your stupid rules! You think you're the hero here? I don't give a damn about anything!"

His voice was almost hoarse with helpless rage, his gaze darted wildly between Mark and you. And Mark stands there in your midst, and beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The trap has snapped shut.

Rage completely distorts your boyfriend’s features as the last spark of reason vanishes from his eyes. He can no longer bear the humiliation. With a wild roar, he swings his arm, attempting to land a blind, uncoordinated punch on Mark’s face with all his might. 

You press yourself against the wall in fear, freezing at the sight of the man you once thought kind and peaceful suddenly transforming into an unpredictable, aggressive stranger. 

Mark doesn’t even flinch. He moves with the reflexes of a seasoned detective, effortlessly deflecting the guy’s swinging fist with his left hand while grabbing his clothes with his right and slamming him against the side of the photocopier with such force that the machine cracks loudly under the guy's weight.

"That’s enough," Mark hisses. Hearing the commotion, the office security team immediately burst in from the hallway. There is no need to explain the situation: they see your terrified, cornered face, Mark restraining the raging man, and the damaged photocopier. 

"Escort him out. And don't let him back into the building," Mark orders the security guards as he releases the guy. The guards firmly grab your friend and begin dragging him out of the room. Face flushed red and panting, the guy still tries to turn back toward you, his voice echoes hoarsely down the hallway as he is hauled toward the elevators.

“This isn’t over! You’ll regret this, you hear me? You’ll regret it!” The shouting slowly fades away at the end of the hallway, and the door to the copy room clicks softly shut. A suffocating silence suddenly settles over the room. It’s just you, trembling with shock and fear, and Mark, who slowly turns around, adjusts his shirt sleeve, and fixes his concerned gaze straight upon you. 

The first part of his plan has gone perfectly: the “rodent” has been eliminated, and the hero stands right there before you.

Mark exhales slowly as he assumes his most perfect, concerned expression. Beneath the surface, every fiber of his being is celebrating. The sweet taste of triumph courses through his veins: his plan worked flawlessly, the guy completely ruined his chances with you in a single minute, and Mark is absolutely certain that, after this, you wouldn't dream of taking him back. 

He takes a cautious, slow step toward you, deliberately avoiding any sudden movements so as not to startle you further. His heavy footsteps are now muffled, soft and reassuring against the floor. 

"Hey... It’s okay. He’s gone, he can’t hurt you," he says, his voice suddenly softening into an incredibly gentle, deep baritone that seems to fill the cramped room.

He reaches out cautiously, and his palm rests on your shoulder with a warm, heavy weight. His movement is firm yet gentle. He gives your shoulder a soft squeeze, as if trying to impart some of his own strength to you, while his eyes search your face. 

Your body is still trembling from the tension, and the sound of your friend’s screaming and the crash of the plastic machine echoes over and over in your ears. 

Mark’s thumb moves gently across your shoulder, lightly smoothing your clothing as he leans closer to you. Inside, he is practically vibrating with pride, seeing how much you need him right now. 

"He shouldn't have spoken to you like that. No one has the right to raise their voice at you, especially not someone who claims to care about you," Mark murmurs, a subtle note of manipulation in his voice further widening the rift between you and your now ex-boyfriend. "Come, sit down in my office. I’ll get you a glass of water, and then we’ll figure out what to do next."

The initial wave of shock is slowly receding, yet the trembling lingers in your limbs. You don’t burst into tears, you are too proud to cry in the middle of the office, and your professional composure holds you back, but your voice falters as you finally release the pent-up tension. 

"I just... I can't believe it," you say, letting Mark guide you into his quieter, private office. "I mean, I just wouldn’t have expected him to… lose it, you know. I guess it turns out he wasn't who he pretended to be at all." 

Mark nods silently as he places a glass of water in front of you. His face reflects sympathy, yet deep down, he is drinking in every word you say as if listening to the sweetest victory anthem.

“Many people can only keep up the act as long as things go their way,” Mark replies, sitting on the edge of his desk right across from you. “Crisis situations reveal who the real man is, and who’s just a child throwing a tantrum when backed into a corner. You deserve someone by your side who protects you, not someone you have to defend yourself against.” 

As the minutes pass, the initial heavy atmosphere slowly lifts. The conversation between you becomes surprisingly light and natural. Mark deliberately steers the talk away from the drama. With subtle humor, intelligent questions, and that deep, husky voice of his, he makes you feel completely safe with him in a matter of minutes.

You find yourself sitting in his office, sharing things with him that you wouldn't normally discuss with colleagues — like your work and your hobbies — while Mark hangs on your every word as if you were the only person in the entire building. 

He somehow knew a thing or two about anything and everything you brought up, much to your surprise. The perks of him thoroughly stalking you, although you didn’t know about that part yet.

Days passed, days turning into weeks. It all happened so quickly, but with good company, time passes faster, no? And good company was exactly what you got ever since the twink got fired for that stunt in the photocopy room. With him out of the way, you’ve been open to your savior — Mark Meachum. 

Whenever you went for coffee breaks and he saw it, he made sure to go with you, the two of you chuckling and talking over your little cups before heading back to your desks, stealing glances and soft smiles from across the room whenever your eyes locked. Mark Meachum made going to work somehow… enjoyable?

Every day, you strutted in with the hopes that Mark would be there instead of on the field, sorting through his documents before you passed a new stack to his desk, accompanied by his regular coffee order as a gift. He thanked your efforts with that charming smile of his and praises.

Your ex-boyfriend was fired with immediate effect following the scandal, and the tension in your life vanished along with him. In its place, something far more exciting and vibrant entered your daily routine. Mark Meachum was no longer just a distant detective watching you from across the room. He became your refuge, your morning coffee companion, and honestly, the reason you’re much more particular about choosing your shirts and accessories before leaving the house these days.

For Mark, life was booming too. Since the scandal, he’s been living his best life — talking with you, laughing with you, earning your soft smile multiple times a day. It fed him like no food could. He’s been legitimate ever since the guy got fired, no stalking, no unethical business, just finding out everything about you the way normal people do. Still, he never really went past the casual flirting, not until now — but best believe, he was planning to change that soon enough, not willing to make the same mistake twice.

You walk through the door this morning with your usual rhythm, carrying Mark’s favorite black coffee and the latest batch of files Agent Blythe entrusted to you. Your heart beats a little faster when you spot his broad shoulders. He didn’t go out into the field today — he’s sitting at his desk, brow furrowed as he pores over the paperwork. 

He looks up the moment he catches the sound of your footsteps. His weary face instantly softens, and that signature warm half-smile — reserved solely for you — plays at the corner of his mouth. 

"I was starting to think you’d forgotten your most important client," he says in that trademark deep voice as he takes the steaming cup from you. Your fingers brush against each other for a fleeting moment, and the warmth of his skin sends a subtle shiver down your spine. "Thank you. And for the report, too... though I’m much happier about the courier than the paperwork itself."

He leans back comfortably in his chair, slowly looking you up and down. 

"What do you say we swap coffee for something a bit more serious tonight?" he asks suddenly, his voice dropping slightly to make the moment feel more intimate amidst the office bustle. "I know a fantastic place just a few streets away. Great food, great wine... and no risk of Agent Blythe dumping another stack of files on us. Are you in?"

Of course you were! Mark Meachum, your workplace crush, was the one asking!

A few hours later, you find yourself in a completely different world. Soft jazz plays in the restaurant, and the dim light is broken only by the warm glow of candles on the tables. The atmosphere is intimate and elegant, yet welcoming. Mark sits across from you. He has shed his detective’s sternness and his professional mask, his white shirt sleeves are casually rolled up to the elbows, revealing his forearms, and he appears far more relaxed than he ever is at work. 

Yet, his gaze has lost none of its intensity. As he swirls his glass between his fingers, his dark eyes seem to shimmer in the candlelight while he watches you. "I have to admit, the office lights don't do you justice at all," he says in a low, husky voice, a faint, satisfied smile playing on his lips. "You look beautiful tonight."

Mark is the perfect gentleman throughout dinner. He is attentive, and — what surprises you most — he seems to hit the mark perfectly with his choices of food and conversation topics, as if he knows exactly what you like. Of course, he is actually drawing on the knowledge he gathered about you that one particular night, but now he isn't doing it while staring at a screen, he gets to see firsthand how your eyes light up when talking about your favorite things.

When the waiter clears the plates, Mark suddenly reaches across the table, and his warm, heavy palm rests gently over yours. His fingers trace your skin lightly, sending a sudden wave of heat rushing through you.

“You know...” he murmurs, locking his eyes with yours, his voice suddenly turning much more serious. “From the very first day you brought in that folder from Blythe, I knew you were going to turn my life upside down. For months, I just watched you and cursed myself for not making a move sooner. But now that you’re here with me... I don’t plan on making that same mistake again.”

When Mark’s warm palm settles over your hand, your heart begins to pound wildly—not with fear this time, but with sheer excitement. You don’t pull your hand away, instead, you turn your palm upward and gently interlace your fingers with his, signaling that you want exactly what he does. 

"I’m glad you didn’t make that mistake again after all," you whisper, your eyes radiating the attraction Mark has been craving for months. 

The rest of the dinner feels like a hazy, continuous dream. The conversation deepens, and flirtation gives way to a serious, focused attentiveness. Mark hangs on your every word—and for the first time, he isn’t doing it as a tactic, but because you have completely captivated him.

You’d been begging Dean for weeks to stop by a mall, whirring on about semi-annual sales, and Sexy Little Things, and fantasy bras as you browsed through catalogues in the backseat, lips sparkly from something Sam had caught you describe as “my one true love, Beauty Rush.” 

At last, Dean had given in on a random Sunday night in October. He’d dipped out to a nearby sports bar, grumbling under his breath about watching the Cowboys play the Eagles after a long day’s drive. Sam had offered you company. 

Sam so, so deeply regretted that particular decision. 

The store itself was bad—dimly lit and unbearably sensual. But the merchandise? Awful. Victoria’s Secret was a vortex of bras, thongs, little sheer slips. Sam had never felt more out of place, his usually imposing frame hovering behind you like an awkward shadow whilst you’d perused the racks, the shelves, the drawers, whatever, lined with lingerie. He’d tried steering you towards the register. The safe zone. A little nook of body lotions and perfumes, anything to bring you away from the dressing rooms. 

And yet nothing had worked. Not his feigned interest in lipglosses (which he’d learned were “tasty enough to kiss off” from the ad outside), nor his almost forceful attempts to literally push you forward. Twenty minutes in, your arms had been taken hostage by lace, and satin, and bedazzled… everything, really. 

“It’ll just take a minute,” you had said, already slipping inside the room that he’d soon find out would be his demise, the words a blatant lie. 

Based on Sam, anyway, because he could’ve sworn you’d been in the store for a hundred hours. It certainly felt so as he leaned against a striped pink wall, casting nervous smiles at everyone who looked his way. The blonde teenage associate seemed amused, occasionally pretending to consult her co-worker, although he could hear the two girls giggling in the corner between assisting customers. An older lady helping her daughter shop wasn’t as merciful, her disapproving (weirded out, perhaps, and not without reason) stare making Sam feel even more like an imposter than he already did. 

It’s fine. It’s FINE. I’m fine.

“Sam?” Your voice crawled through the thick slab of walnut, sweet like honey and soft like early morning sun. A trap. 

He knew that tone. 

Fuck. 

It was the signature “Sam” you’d use when you wanted his opinion, his help—just him. No way he could pop in there. No way, José. Purely imagining you try on Victoria’s Secret was agonising. 

Still, “what?” he answered, voice embarrassed and gratingly higher in pitch, for Sam was a fool. A masochistic idiot who was unable to deny you. 

You opened the door in a grin and a whole lot of nothing. Sam almost fainted. His mouth opened and closed, once, twice, would’ve been thrice if you hadn’t spoken. 

“I’m stuck.” He was suddenly yanked inside the dressing room by the sleeve of his Carhartt jacket. “Everything is so beautiful, it’s impossible to pick. Do you think this looks better on me in pink,” you chattered away, casual in contrast to his fluster, as you held up a lacy bra, gesturing between it and your cleavage, “or purple?”

It was more skin than he’d ever seen on you. So, so much more skin. Your body was essentially bare, and you were asking him about colours, of all things. 

Fuck my life. 

“Are you… are… am I allowed to be in here?” His cheeks burned, his hands were clammy, and his heart was surely trying to evacuate his body. Sam was going to die in a room where fuchsia had thrown up all over. “They might think we’re… I mean…”

“Stealing?” You waved a dismissive hand. How many times had he wondered if you were actually this clueless? He might as well have had “I’m so into you, it’s killing me to be here” written on his forehead, and you’d have missed the (sub)text. “I like purple, but pink is my favourite. And, I don’t have a lot of pink lingerie.” 

You hardly owning pink intimates was crucial information Sam could’ve lived his entire life without knowing. 

He slumped down on the plush ottoman in the corner, half because the expression on your face told him he was stuck there indefinitely, half to better hide the little (big) problem brewing in his jeans, and raked a stressed hand through his messy hair, a few pieces of his bangs standing up in different directions. 

“Pink’s good,” Sam mumbled in the midst of his attempt to keep his stare focused solely on your features. “That shade of purple is, uh, cheugy.” He’d never used cheugy. What even was cheugy? 

“Cheugy,” you giggled, furrowing your eyebrows in a way that made you look adorable, in Sam’s painfully smitten opinion. “I’m not convinced cheugy is an actual word. Y’know what, take a good look at this,” you gestured around your chest, deliciously innocent. “Memorise it. I’ll try the purple one on, and then you can make a decision.” 

The dressing room—Sam’s personal chamber of torture—fell silent as he just… stared. At what, he wasn’t even sure. One moment his eyes were on yours, the other they’d dipped to the bra in your hand like it was going to catch fire any second. You were going to MODEL a BRASSIERE for him. He’d either been a saint or a downright sinner in his past life to end up here. 

“Please don’t,” he pleaded, “for my sanity.” Silently, though. What really came out was, “uh…” 

You turned around before he had a chance to protest, and Sam almost groaned, his stare bouncing anywhere but your hips, your thighs, or the curves your thong dipped into. 

“I’m getting those,” you gestured offhandedly to what Sam would’ve assumed was underwear, but in Victoria’s Secret world, were most likely shorts. “Another lipgloss, the Sexy Little Things perfume.” You slid the lace straps down your shoulders and draped the bra over a pile of merchandise the poor hooks could barely hold. “And a Winter White bouclé sweater. That’s decided. But the freaking bra is making it difficult.”

Somewhere between struggling to breathe and wishing the ottoman he was slouched on would swallow him whole, Sam made the mistake of noticing your reflection. You had to have done it on accident. Had to. Yeah. You were thrumming with excitement, oblivious to the mirror and the tiny, unrelated fact of inadvertently flashing him through it. 

Everything after was a blur. You had eased back into your clothes, probably. Public indecency was a crime. Sam vaguely remembered offering to pay, like a gentleman (or a boyfriend, his brain had helpfully supplied then), and manoeuvring outside the mall to reunite with Dean. 

“Drinks are on me.” Sam jumped, so subtly anybody would’ve noticed, and glanced behind his shoulder. Dean was across the room, devouring a plate of chicken wings, but the only sign your presence had ever been beside him was a small crapload of shopping bags. “Go crazy,” you grinned at him, folding your arms on the oak bar top. “It’s the least I can do.” 

“Yeah, well.” He did yearn to go crazy—just not in terms of whiskey. “I’m expecting you to pay when we find the equivalent of Victoria’s Secret for flannel.” 

The comment yanked a laugh from you, soft and carefree, the way he’d always hear it when his eyes closed. “Thank you for keeping me company. Tonight was great. I forgot how fun it is to be a girl.” 

Sam smiled, sincere yet oh-so-strained. He almost blurted out what he’d seen. Almost admitted how you’d affected him. Almost laid his heart out. But at last, “don’t worry about it,” was the only response he could muster. 

“Thank you,” you repeated for the thousandth time, caressing his arm before your warmth left him entirely as you retreated back to the table, to Dean, to a mountain of much needed fries. 

“‘welcome to morrow creek. population 1,206.’” you squinted out the window, voice flat with disdain. “cute.”

dean snorted from the driver’s seat, tapping the steering wheel with a finger. he was already bored. “bet they sell nasty homemade jam.”

“three women,” sam muttered from the passenger seat, flipping through the thick folder of clippings in his lap. “all under twenty-five. found dead in bed, no forced entry, no signs of struggle, uh, local cops think it’s a carbon monoxide leak. but each of ‘em..” he paused, glancing back at you. “they were all virgins.”

the word dropped heavy between the seats, even though dean chuckled like it was just another day at the office. “so.. we’ve got a purity-sucking monster. awesome. what’s next, a ghost nun with mommy issues?”

you leaned your head against the cold window, lips quirking into a smirk that felt a little too tight. “well, good thing none of us fit the bill, right?..”

dean laughed under his breath, but you felt sam’s eyes flick back to you, too quick to mean nothing. you didn’t meet his gaze. instead, you stared hard at the road and let your smile fade.

the motel was standard horror-flick material, though. the three of you tossed your bags into one of the two-bed rooms and you immediately claimed the lumpy couch in the corner before the brothers could bicker about it.

“i’ll take the death trap,” you said, dropping your bag with a thud. “i’ve had worse.”

dean smirked, eyeing the couch like it owed him money. “suit yourself, sweetheart. hope you like springs in your spine.”

sam didn’t say anything, just watched you with an unreadable expression he got when he was thinking too hard. “you sure?” he asked after a beat. his voice wasn’t pushy, it was gentle, as if he wasn’t asking about the couch at all.

you raised an eyebrow, already pulling out the iron blade you kept tucked beneath your jacket. “don’t worry about me, sammy. i’m not exactly delicate.”

that earned the tiniest smile from him, but his eyes didn’t let go of yours right away. you turned your back before it could linger.

the three of you spent the afternoon digging through the town’s pathetic excuse for a library. sam and dean did their usual tag-team, sam sweet-talking the clerk for access to records, dean bitching about how much dust was on the damn files. you tucked yourself into a quiet corner and started scribbling connections, your fingers stained with ink and that familiar buzz of adrenaline humming under your skin.

you were good at this. better than good. you’d learned from the best, but you had your own rhythm now, your own gut instincts that whispered before the lore caught up.

you leaned over the table and tapped your notebook with the back of your pen. “look at the dates. all three deaths were on the waxing crescent. always between midnight and 3 a.m., always in their homes. no signs of entry. that means it’s either incorporeal, or it’s being let in.”

dean leaned over your shoulder, and you caught the faint scent of his cologne. “damn,” he muttered, lips close enough to your ear to make your skin prickle. “you’re getting scary good at this.”

“i’ve been scary good,” you replied coolly, not looking at him.

you could feel sam watching you again, from behind the half-wall of old encyclopedias. you could feel he was trying to peel something back. you didn’t give him the chance.

by the time night crawled in, the motel felt colder than it should’ve. dean was lounging on his bed with a beer, flipping channels, while sam meticulously salted the windows and doors, making sure every corner was sealed. you added your own touch, drawing sigils on the mirror with charcoal, tucking your blade under your pillow, double checking the line of salt at the threshold until it looked right. you told yourself it was just muscle memory. that you weren’t nervous.

but you were. not because of the hunt.

because of you.

because the second Sam said the v-word earlier, your body went cold. not because you were ashamed, or insecure, or anything stupid like that. you just hadn’t wanted them to know. you hadn’t wanted them to realize you were the kind of girl this monster wanted. pure, untouched. you’d spent years building yourself into something sharp and untouchable. and now, something out there could sniff it out like blood in the water.

you cracked open a beer and forced yourself to take a long sip, masking the shake in your hands with practiced ease. then you stood. “i’m beat. gonna crash early.”

dean waved you off with a lazy salute. “sweet dreams, killer.”

sam said nothing. just watched you walk out like he already knew something you didn’t want him to.

your motel room was just a few doors down, but it felt like another planet once you locked yourself inside. you did what you always did. you locked the door, salted the windows, tested your knife grip, triple-checked the lines on the floor. but your chest still felt tight. your palms were damp. your skin felt… exposed.

you weren’t scared of dying. that had stopped being your biggest fear a long time ago. what made your stomach twist was the idea that you might get chosen. that this thing might sniff you out, and suddenly sam and dean would know. they’d look at you differently. pity you, protect you.

and you didn’t want to be protected. you wanted to be seen as dangerous.

but right now? sitting alone in a dark motel room, knees pulled up to your chest as you stared at the door like it might explode inward, you felt like prey.

a knock broke the silence. your head snapped up.

“hey… it’s me.” sam’s voice was low through the door, almost gentle. he already knew not to scare you more than you were.

you hesitated, heart hammering. “what the hell, sam?”

“i saw that expression when you left,” he said. “you okay?”

the words caught in your throat. you didn’t know how to lie to him right now. there was a long pause. thank fuck he didn’t push.

you stood slowly, crossed the room on quiet feet, and undid the lock. your hand trembled just slightly on the doorknob before you opened it.

“…come in.”

sam stepped inside slowly. honestly, he wasn’t sure you’d actually let him. his eyes scanned the room, your over-prepared salt lines, the open blade on the nightstand, the half-drunk beer. then they found you again. that same look.

and that, somehow, felt even worse.

he stood in the middle of your motel room like he didn’t want to make the first move.

“you gonna say something?” you asked, voice quiet but sharp. defensive. if he touched the wrong nerve, you might shatter or explode. you weren’t sure which.

sam’s gaze softened a little, but it didn’t lose focus. “did you really come in here just to sleep?”

you turned away, busying yourself by pretending to adjust the salt line by the window. “what the hell does that mean?”

“you’re scared,” he said, blunt now. “not of the hunt, or the monster. of being its target. and I think you already know why.”

you felt your pulse in your throat, your fingers twitching at your sides. “so what? you gonna tell dean? put me on some kinda leash? lock me in the car like a liability?”

he was behind you before you even heard his steps, his voice brushed close to your neck. “no. i’m not gonna tell him anything. i’m not here to judge you. i’m here because…” he paused, like he needed to find the exact words. “because if you are what this thing’s looking for, that means you’re in danger. and i’m not letting anything happen to you.”

you turned to face him, and suddenly he was close, his chest nearly brushing yours, his hand ghosting over the air between you. “you don’t get it,” you said quietly. “you don’t know what it’s like… walking around with this stupid secret. being the only one in the room who hasn’t-.. who is-..”

“a fuckin’ virgin?” sam finished for you, gently but without hesitation. “yeah, i got that part.”

your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. “…you think it makes me weak, don’t you?”

“no,” he said, voice low and certain. “i think it makes you brave as hell for coming out here and hunting with us anyway. for pretending like it doesn’t matter when i can tell it’s tearing you apart inside.”

you felt something split wide open in your chest. a dam cracking. you were so tired of holding it in. of hiding behind sharp jokes and harder walls.

“i didn’t plan on staying that way forever,” you murmured. “it just… didn’t happen. didn’t feel right. not yet.”

sam’s thumb brushed your jaw. “and now?”

you swallowed. looked up at him through your lashes. “now i feel like a goddamn target. like it’s this thing hanging over me and, sam, i hate it. i hate being afraid.”

his lips hovered close to yours, voice a whisper against your skin. “then let me help.”

you stared at him. “you don’t have to-”

“i want to.”

there was no hesitation in his eyes. no lust-fueled pressure. he leaned in, mouth catching yours in a kiss that was patient but deep, like he’d been holding it back for too long. you melted against him before you could even think, hands grabbing the front of his shirt like it was the only thing anchoring you.

his tongue brushed yours and the groan he let out was filthy, like the taste of you knocked the breath out of him. “you taste so fucking sweet,” he muttered against your lips. “been wondering what it’d feel like to kiss that mouth since you first mouthed off at me.”

you pulled back slightly, breathless. “that was, like… day three.”

sam smiled, hand sliding down to the curve of your hip. “yeah. i’m patient.”

you tugged his shirt off, finally getting your hands on all that muscle he kept hidden under layers. his stomach taut under your fingers as he stepped you back toward the bed.

“you sure about this?” he asked one last time, voice rough but gentle.

you nodded. “i don’t want it to be fear that takes it away from me. i want you.”

that did something to him. suddenly he was all over you, mouth on your neck, hands gripping your thighs as he lifted you onto the bed like you weighed nothing. he kissed down your body like a promise. every touch was careful and intentional, but so hungry. and when he finally pushed your thighs apart and knelt between them, he looked up at you like he was about to ruin you.

“i’m gonna make this good for you,” he murmured, voice so deep it made your toes curl. “so good you forget why you were scared at all. so good it won’t matter that you waited this long.”

you barely managed to gasp before his mouth was on you. hot, skilled, tongue licking long deliberate strokes on your pussy. he was memorizing every single sound you made. you clawed at the sheets, moaning his name like a prayer, and he just held you open with those strong hands, eating you out. he’d literally die if you pulled away.

and when you finally came, shaking and gasping, he kissed back up your body, slow and sweet. “i’ve got you,” he whispered, brushing his lips over your jaw. “let me take care of the rest.”

sam moved over you like he’d been dreaming about it. until now, until your back was arched against the bed and his body was finally settled between your thighs, all warmth with pressure and want. the motel room around you felt like it didn’t matter. the only thing real was him.

“you good?” he asked again, voice wrecked and whisper-rough, his fingers brushing your cheek while his other hand slowly guided his cock along your folds, teasing. not out of cruelty, but to give you time to breathe.

you nodded, but your voice cracked a little when you said, “yeah. i want it.”

he kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to calm your heartbeat with his mouth. “gonna go real slow,” he murmured, forehead pressed to yours. “you tell me if you want me to stop. you say the word, and i back off. no questions.”

“i won’t,” you whispered, hips already lifting to meet him. “i want you, sam. just you.”

the first push was gentle. he went slow, careful, watching your face the entire time, not even trying to hide how hard he was breathing. you were tight, hot, the stretch just on the edge of too much, and the feeling of him filling you had your eyes rolling back almost instantly.

“oh my god,” you gasped, fingers gripping his shoulders. “sam..”

“i know, baby. i know.” his voice was tight, controlled, but he was barely holding back a growl. “you feel-fuck-you feel perfect.”

he paused once he was buried inside, letting you adjust, kissing your neck and running one hand slowly up your thigh like it would help you relax. “breathe,” he whispered. “you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

you were trembling, half from nerves, half from the feeling of him, all of him, seated so deep inside you, stretching you open in a way that felt devastating and intimate all at once. you didn’t even realize tears were brimming at your lashes until sam kissed one off your cheek. “you okay?” he murmured, thumb brushing under your eye again.

“i’m perfect,” you whispered. “just, holy fuck, don’t stop.”

his hips pulled back slowly, and when he pushed in again, it was smoother. still deliberate, but deeper, more rhythmic, trying to find his pace with you, tuning his body to yours. you wrapped your legs around his waist and let your head fall back, moaning shamelessly as he started fucking you in deep, slow strokes that made your breath hitch every time he bottomed out.

“that’s it,” he grunted, forehead still pressed to yours, sweat beading at his temple. “taking me so fuckin’ well, baby… i’ve got you. just let go.”

you couldn’t think. couldn’t speak. the way he was moving slow, his name kept falling from your lips in a quiet chant, the only word you could seem to remember.

sam’s hand slid between your bodies, thumb pressing soft circles into your clit. you gasped, body jolting, and he smiled against your neck. “that feel good, sweetheart?” he whispered. “you like when i touch you like this?”

“yesyes, please, don’t stop-” your voice broke again as pleasure started coiling hot and heavy in your belly. “i’m gonna, sam..”

“i’ve got you,” he said again, voice so loving it hurt. “you can let go. you’re safe.”

you came around him hard, clenching so tightly around his cock that he had to bite his lip to keep it together. your whole body tensed, then collapsed under him as you shook and gasped through it, and he held you like you were something precious, whispering through every twitch.

“that’s it, that’s my girl… fuck, baby, you’re so beautiful like this…”

he kept moving, chasing his own high now, breath stuttering as he fucked into you deeper, a little faster, but never rough. his face was buried in your neck, hand gripping your thigh, and when he came, it was with a full-body groan. he buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering, panting like he’d just run a marathon.

and then… silence.

heavy breathing. the weight of him on top of you, solid and real and safe. you ran your fingers through his hair, and he let out the softest sound, content, like he didn’t want to move.

he stayed draped over you, his hand still curled around your waist like he needed to keep you close in case you disappeared. you felt wrecked, in the best way.

after a while, sam leaned up on his elbow, pushing the sweaty hair off your forehead, looking down at you like you were made of fucking starlight. “you still okay?” he whispered, and his voice was so gentle, so low and fond, it made your throat get tight.

“mhm,” you mumbled, already half-asleep, still spread out and naked beneath him. “i think you fixed me.”

sam chuckled, brushing his lips over your temple. “i’m a healer now?”

“literally,” you sighed. “virginity demon who?”

he kissed your jaw. “oh, the spirit is banished, alright. world saved.”

you rolled into him, lazy grin pulling at your lips. “one orgasm at a time.”

“…one?”

you blinked up at him, then immediately burst out laughing as he smirked like the smug bastard he was. “okay, chill, sam,” you groaned. “my body’s not even functioning yet.”

“i’ll give you thirty minutes,” he muttered, pulling you into his chest, tucking the blanket around both of you like you weren’t still sticky and sweaty and fucked dumb.

“i’m gonna fall asleep like this,” you whispered, fingers drawing little shapes on his bare chest.

“good. you should.” his voice was all honey again. “you’re safe with me.”

and that was the last thing you heard before you drifted off, wrapped in sam’s arms, thoroughly wrecked and absolutely ruined for anyone who wasn’t a 6’4” soft-spoken demon hunter who fucked like he was trying to put your soul back together.

it felt nice finally falling asleep. your legs were tangled with sam’s, your head tucked under his chin, and his hand was still splayed across your ass like it belonged there. which, to be fair, it did. the room was still warm with sex and body heat and whatever leftover cologne he wore that now lived in your hair.

until the door slammed open like it was kicked by a cop.

“you have got to be kidding me.”

you screamed. sam jolted awake with military precision, reaching for the knife on the nightstand in one motion while covering you with his body in the next.

and standing in the doorway, framed by shitty motel light and holding a crumpled paper bag full of snacks, was dean winchester.

mouth open. face full of regret.

you just stared at each other.

“…dude,” sam said groggily, arm still around you like he didn’t have his whole ass out under the sheet. “what the fuck.”

dean blinked again. “nah.”

he turned around immediately. stared at the wall. took a deep breath.

“oh, no, no no no, this is not happening. this is not how I start my fuckin’ morning. i got beef jerky and a coke and now I have to go pour bleach in my brain because my little brother decided to go all lust in the dust with you.”

you groaned, flopping onto your back and dragging the sheet over your head like a corpse. “please kill me. please kill me now.”

“don’t tempt me.” dean yelled, still facing the wall with his arms out like he was trying to keep a crime scene untouched. “i trusted you! you were the normal one! you sat next to me during stakeouts! you made fun of him with me! what the hell?!”

“i don’t think I’ve ever made fun of sam with you-” you started to say, but dean spun around dramatically, index finger raised like a furious little league coach.

“don’t lie to me now, sex goblin! i saw what i saw, and i can’t ever go back from that!”

sam had the audacity to rub his eyes and mumble, “you could’ve knocked, dude.”

“oh, don’t you start,” dean snapped, pacing now. “i’ve heard you. i knew you were in here. i was trying to be respectful. i thought, ‘hey, they probably just fell asleep watching TV, maybe they’re sharing the room, maybe sam’s just being weird and overprotective, maybe she had a nightmare..’ BUT NO.”

he spun to face you both again, looking personally betrayed.

“y’all were out here doing the monster mash and i walked in ten seconds too late to stop my retinas from dissolving.”

you peeked out from under the covers. “we didn’t mean for you to find out this way.”

“oh really?” dean scoffed. “how were you planning to tell me? group text? powerpoint? smoke signals from your fucking bedroom?!”

sam sighed. “dean-”

“no. no ‘dean.’ i need castiel to erase the last ten minutes of my life.”

he turned back toward the door, paused dramatically, and looked over his shoulder with the most betrayed face known to man.

“i hope you know,” he said solemnly, “that i will never sit on that bed again.”

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @impala67rollingthroughtown @multiversefanfics @starzify @ladykitana90 @idontwannabehere78 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @pieandflannel @tendertulip @tinas111 @everythingisaspectrum @pennywatsonlafayette @lunaleah @anxiety-prime-max @amsliajskxkxkx @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @kimxwinchester @incubusimmolation @riteofpassage77 @ohangeleyes @kcundercover4 @southernimpala @laceandlipstick @bowbowrry @fernsplace ⊹ ࣪ ˖

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

based on the trend from twitter (I think I’m not on there lmao)