💋

He always does this. He knocks on your door and grabs your face between big hands, and suddenly all that resolve and determination—never again—dissolves with your willpower. His hands are rough  and calloused, but trace your hips and hold you down so gently, you can almost pretend he cares if you break. His cock is thick and impossibly long, and he always drags it between your soaked heat and bumps it against your clit before pushing himself in just right. His lips are chapped and soft, sucking possessive marks into your neck that he has no right to claim, but that doesn’t stop you from running your fingers through his hair and holding him right where he is. He wouldn’t dare to leave. Not in the middle of this. Not before you’ve both gotten what you want.

What Dean wants. You don’t let yourself pretend that this is everything you need anymore. It’s the only hope you have of one day telling him no, because the rest of you control rests on a thin rope, and it always slips from your hands the moment Dean touches you like you matter.

You never walk away from him with an aching, unsatisfied body. A few nights ago he put you on his face and made you ride until your thighs were shaking and tears were springing into your eyes. Before this, he spit on your cunt and scissored you open with thick, careful finger, kissing and nipping at your thighs as your greedy pussy swallowed him right up to the knuckle. Even now, as every roll of his hips becomes smaller—as his face twists in concentration and his mouth against your jaw becomes desperate—Dean’s thumbing at your clit, trying to get you over the edge with him.

“C’mon, baby, c’mon-“ He pushes himself up to his knees, forcing a deeper, rougher angle. “Show me what you’ve got, I know you can do it, come on-

You whimper, staring up at him under lidded, glazed eyes. The whole world is just a blur of color at this point, but Dean is bright and clear. The heave of his broad shoulder and chest, every muscle in his arm as he wraps it around your waist and makes you arch your back, the flex of his abdomen as he ruts forward like a feral dog. The sharp, unforgiving thrusts are making your head spin with pleasure, turning you into a boneless wreck of need. You grab his arm, trying to steady yourself against something, and Dean’s attention rips up.

He says he likes to watch himself fuck you, and you’ve never doubted that for a second. He’s spent whole sessions just staring at his cock or fingers splitting your cunt open. He likes putting you on his face because he can watch you react. You like it better like that, usually. The eye contact is too close. Too intimate. Too real.

But you grab him, and he looks at you, and it’s almost like a shot. His eyes are blown-out and so strangely soft, staring at your wrecked, open expression with too much, too much, too much-

“De- Deeean-“ You cry it out like a pray, because it is. Dean grunts, hips snapping, the wet sound filling up the air and his eyes never leaving yours. “Dean- Dean- Fuck, please- Please-“

You’re babbling. You never do that with anyone else, but Dean is Dean, and he makes you do things you never counted yourself capable of. He groans your name, and you squeal when he drags you up, off the mattress and straddling his thighs. Your clit drags against his abdomen, his cock bullies right against your g-spot, and Dean grabs your jaw with a single, painfully gentle hand.

“Cum for me, sweet girl,” he rasps, still holding your gaze, even as your eyes start to cross. “Soak this fuckin’ cock, baby, cum-“

You almost scream as your orgasm rips through you, and Dean crashes his mouth against yours, eating every whimper and moan with harsh lips and his tongue down your throat. You press into him, pussy gushing and fluttering around his dick, and he makes that deep, rumbling sound that always comes right before-

“Shit-“ Dean gasps against your mouth, pulling you so close you can’t feel anything but the heat of his bare chest, the sensation of his cock twitching and pumping in your cunt. “Fuuck-“

Dean moans your name, and a warm, pleasant heat starts to spread through your tummy and drip between your thighs. He doesn’t stop moving until his cock is softened, and you don’t try to stop him. You’re barely more than a limp doll right now, returning his kisses with tiny mewls, eyes crossed and body limp.

For a moment after it’s done, you stay tangled together. You always do. It’s the most dangerous part of the whole thing, because it feeds that tiny little fool in your chest, who refuses to believe that this is just sex. Who takes your heartstrings and weaves grand worlds where Dean loves you back, and you’re going to be just fine.

Dean kisses your brow, and your eyes flutter closed. There’s an advantage, to being a crybaby whenever he fucks you stupid. He never once has considered that the tears might be real.

“Think you can walk?” He mutters, still buried deep inside of you, still holding you like he cares.

You shake your head, and his mouth twitches against yours.

“Alright, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

And you press your face into the crook of his neck, letting that fool take you over. She takes his words as gospel. My girl and I’ve got you and Baby, they’re exactly what he means and nothing more, nothing less.

When the logical part of your brain wakes back up—Dean’s always had this ability to hit a button in you, sliding his hand around the back of your neck and making all your thoughts just bubblegum feelings and electric colors—you’re going to remember why you always say this has to be the last time.

He’s perfect, and he’s not yours. He makes that perfectly clear, until he pulls these little stunts and ends up buried between your thighs. You agreed that he wasn’t yours, when this arrangement started.

Safer with someone you know, he’d told you, like he hasn’t fucked his way across the entire country. Easier. Nothing to worry about, when it’s you and me.

And you’d been a starry-eyed, gooey hearted fool who just wanted whatever part of Dean he was willing to show you. The burning love you kept tended in your ribs hadn’t seen a problem with adding fuel to the wildfire, even if Dean was never going to see it. But now he’s carrying you to the bathroom like a princess, and he’s going to be gone in the morning, and that wildfire is an inferno. He doesn’t know. He can’t know. You can map out everything he’d ever say in response to your feelings, from the harsh sneer he would’ve given when he had the Mark of Cain, to the kinder let down you’d get now.

You’re too young, he’d say, like it was a consolation prize. And I like you, sweetheart, but I don’t do this kinda thing. Not with girls young enough to be my daughter. Not with kids that I hunt with. Not with you.

You press your face further into his neck. He’s always so warm and sturdy, a massive tree that’s offering you just as much shade crushing, unbearable weight and tangled roots that keep you pressed down. He smells like leather and whiskey and something perfectly, faintly spice. You want to drown in it. You want to drown in him.

“You good?” Dean asks, and his voice is too gentle. It rattles the little fool, screaming for the rest of you to listen and just accept that he loves you.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

“You’re bein’ quiet, even for- Y’know-“ He chuckles, that low, insufferably charming pride crawling into his voice. “After I fuck you dumb.”

“You did not fuck me dumb,” you mumble against his skin, and you can hear his grin.

“Big words from the girl who couldn’t talk five minutes ago.”

“That was unrelated.”

“Unrelated,” he echoes, his thumb dragging a small circle against your spine. “Always forget how bratty you get after, sweetheart. Dangerous.”

You roll your eyes, and hug him tighter. He laughs, and kisses the side of your head, and he has the nerve to call you dangerous.

“You wanna watch a movie?” He asks, leaning down to run the water, still keeping you tucked so carefully against his chest, and all you can do is nod. Dean sighs. “C’mon, gimme a little more than that-“

“Yes, please,” you mumble, and he pauses.

It’s only a fraction of a second. You don’t understand it, and you don’t want to. Not when he feeds your delusions and kisses your brow again, then your cheek, then your lips. And you let him. You always let him, because you’re a foolish, stupid, lovesick idiot. You don’t want his affection, not like this. But you don’t want to lose him—it would be like ripping a vital organ out of your ribcage, even if you didn’t know you had it a year ago—and you can’t ever tell him to stop being so sweet without explaining yourself, and getting that gentle, horrible let down.

You don’t want it. You don’t want any of it. And this, this had to be the last time. 

You hold the line. You don’t know how, but you hold that line with white knuckles and grit teeth and a taste like bile in the back of your throat.

Dean knocks on the door, only two nights later, and you don’t answer. He calls your name and you sink into the mattress, praying he just thinks you’re asleep. 

“I just- Uh- I wanted to talk?” He says, and you press your face into the pillow like that can somehow shield you. “Really, that’s it. Just talking, so- If you could-“

Dean sighs. You can hear the please, hanging between every word, but Dean doesn’t really say please. He just begs with everything else in him, or gives up. And you can picture him running his hand over his face, the heavy look in his eyes, the defeated sag in his shoulders. It’s like a knife being driven through your gut, and you sit up, ready to open the door-

“Alright,” he mutters, and you freeze. “Night, baby. Sleep well.”

Footsteps retreat, and you stay there on the mattress, frozen and lost, adrift in a sea you dove into.

But you did it. You held the line.

And you keep it. It makes sweat bead and your skin burn, but you close the door and don’t open it back up. You’re done, and you’re going to keep it that way.

Dean doesn’t ask questions. You don’t know if you want him to or not, but it doesn’t matter, because you catch him staring and giving out signals, but he’s taken your no in stride, and doesn’t seem to have any plans to push back against it. When this started, you agreed to leave out a specific book on the war room table if either of you wanted something. Dean starts to leave it out every night, and you never go to his door, and one night, it vanishes.

And that’s fine. That’s exactly what you wanted.

And if it feels like you’re dying because of it, and if you spend an hour over the toilet dry heaving that night, that’s no one’s business but your own.

“Dean’s been grumpy lately,” Sam says one morning, and you blink at him over your coffee.

“Grumpy? Dean? That’s- Woah-“

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Sam gives you a flat look. “You know what I mean. Grumpier.”

You shrug, looking back to your mug. “Maybe he needs to get laid.”

“Uh huh.”

You can feel Sam’s stare. It makes you itchy and small, and you’re not sure if you want to punch him or run. You settle for staring at your coffee harder. It’s the easiest course of action.

“Dean needs to get laid,” Sam repeats your words, something strange—almost sharp—in his tone, and you nod.

“That’s what I said.”

“Dean-“

“What’s up?” Dean walks into the kitchen, stopping right behind you, and you hunch over like you can grow a shell to protect yourself.

Even just a few feet away, he’s always so warm.

“Uh- Hey, Dean-“

“Hey,” Dean mocks back, and Sam huffs.

“Dude-“

“Shut your face-“

“I didn’t say anything- I-“ Sam says your name, and you glance up. His brow is furrowed with worry, his eyes locked on Dean behind you. “We were just-“

“Just what?” Dean snaps. “Just talking? Shooting the shit, getting real comfortable?”

Sam sighs. “Dean-“

“I got a gun, Sammy,” Dean points firmly, and you stare at his finger like a woman driven mad with thirst. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “We all have guns, that- That threat doesn’t do anything-“

“I’ll show you doing something- Hey-“

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You’d been trying to slip out while they fought, but Dean—goddamn him—had noticed. He always notices. You love him so much it’s going to make you cave in on yourself, and maybe take the whole bunker with you, like a dying star.

He catches your arm, and you can’t stop yourself from looking at him. His brow is knit, his jaw locked, and his handsome face has deep lines you only used to see when the world was ending. There are bags under his eyes. Deeper than usual. You want to smooth the lines with your thumb and kiss his jaw until he relaxes, but that’s not your ache to soothe.

Dean doesn’t say anything. You can’t say anything. He looks exhausted, and there’s a lump forming in your throat.

“You- You hungry?” Dean rasps, and you’re starving.

“No,” you breathe before you can think, and Dean swallows.

“Well, when you’re hungry- There’s a diner in town-“

“Henry’s?”

“No, uh- A new one. I- I was wonderin’ if you wanted to go, later, or something.”

“Or something?” You tilt your head, and Dean nods.

“Whatever you want.”

God, he’s cruel. He’s perfect and cruel, and you want to vomit on his flannel and kiss him until you pass out.

“Oh- Okay,” you say, because you’re only so strong.

The lines in Dean’s face relax. His grip loosens. Then Sam coughs, and Dean lets you go.

The diner is… nice. Nice and easy, in a way you haven’t felt in longer than you want to admit. Dean insists on driving you, and paying, and sitting in one of those booths with your feet bumping under the table.

He presses his knee forward, while he orders. You swallow and don’t allow yourself to think much of it. He’s warm through his jeans, but he’s always warm, and he hasn’t tried anything in a few weeks, so you allow it. Your love for him hasn’t been flickering out, but the harsh wind of his absence has made everything feel colder. It’s okay, to indulge yourself in something so small. You’re still keeping it together. You’re still holding the line.

“So, uh-“ Dean clears his throat, turning his bottle in his hands. “How are you?”

“How- Am I?” You blink at him, and he nods tightly. “I- I’m okay. How are you?”

“Good. Great.” He frowns at the table. “You know. Same as always.”

You almost laugh. “You’re always great?”

“I focus on the positives, sweetheart-“

“No, you don’t.”

He rolls his eyes, glancing up to hold your light, amused gaze. His mouth twitches. His fingers tap against the glass, and you try not to let yourself sink too deep into the attention.

It’s okay to drown a little. A long as you don’t drop the line.

“Maybe I’m turning a new leaf,” he says, and your face splits into a full smile.

“You?”

“Yeah, me. Why’d you say it like that-“

“Because you’ve never turned a leaf in your life-“

“Ah-“ He points the head of his bottle at you with a grin. “Not true. Remember when I started learning guitar?”

“Yeah, you smashed it on a werewolf’s head after a month.”

“That was a tactical choice, I would’ve kept playing if the wolf didn’t get in the way.”

“Uh huh.” You lean back in your seat, crossing your arms. “What songs  had you learned to play?”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “Hey, we don’t need to talk about that-“

“I think we do.”

“Nah, I mean- I only had a month-“

“You learned how to work a rocket launcher in a week.”

“That’s just buttons and triggers, sweetheart. Even you could work it.”

“Even I?” You raise your brows—trying not to let the delight shine too bright in your voice—and Dean freezes.

“I mean- uh- You’re not great with guns, and- I could teach you-“

“You could teach me.”

“Maybe? If you wanted- Or-“ Dean groans, slumping back. “Stop givin’ me that look.”

“I’m not giving you any look,” you tease, and Dean sighs.

“Will you stop if I say I’m an idiot?”

You soften slightly. “You’re not an idiot, Dean-“

“You sure?” He grumbles. “Kinda feeling like one right now.”

You laugh, but it’s gentle. You can almost see him pushing down into himself. It makes you heavy for him, like you’re trying to take that invisible weight off his shoulders, even if he can’t feel you helping the pain. “You’re a dork,” you say, bumping his knee under the table. “But you’re not an idiot.”

Dean grunts, watching you under hooded eyes, and you smile easily.

You missed this, more than you want to tell him. Just talking, without worrying that it’s going to end in world-changing, back-breaking, beautifully heart-aching sex. He feels like your friend again, closer to your fingertips than he’d been when he was balls deep inside of you.

“Wonderwall,” he grunts suddenly. “And Hallelujah.”

You blink. “What?”

“Those were the songs,” he mutters, picking at the label of his bottle. “That I got, before I smashed the guitar.”

“Oh,” you pause. “I love Hallelujah.”

“Yeah. I know.”

You stare at him, and he stares right back. A faint flush is threatening your cheeks, so you duck your head to hide it, and Dean lets out a soft laugh.

“You alright-“

“Yep. I- I’m good-“

“You look good.” Dean laughs again, when you shoot him a glare. “Don’t gimme that face, I’m saying something nice-“

“You’re being a butt,” you stick out your tongue, and his eyes dance with an easy kind of light that almost makes your heart stop.

“You’re the one who was callin’ me old earlier,” he drawls, and you roll your eyes.

“You are old.”

“Yeah, but that’s never stopped you, has it.”

Your mouth falls open, eyes going so wide it almost hurts, and Dean grins at you. If you weren’t shocked into static, you’d slap him or- or lunge across the table and kiss him-

Hold the line.

“Aged wine is supposed to be better,” you manage to say, somehow, and Dean laughs, loud and free.

“That all I am to you? Some wine?”

“No,” you smile at your plate. “You’re also very good cheese.”

“Good cheese, huh.”

“Mhm.” You point a stern finger at him. “No puns.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but dips his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

There’s the flush. You’d keep trying to hide it, if Dean didn’t start talking about something unimportant and easy, and suddenly you forgot to be embarrassed. He’s not trying to kiss you or get you back to the car. He’s just… Talking to you. Dropping that light, teasing praise like it’s nothing, then telling you a story about when he used a tuba to beat a poltergeist, grinning like a winner every time you laugh.

When lunch is over, he rests a hand lightly on your lower back, but doesn’t do much more. He kisses your cheek when you get back to the bunker, and asks if you want to watch a movie tomorrow night. You swallow, locking your hands together like they can force the line to stay firm. Dean says your name, almost panicked, and you blink up at him.

“Just a movie,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Out in town, at- Uh- That shitty theatre next to the coffee place. Or- I can try and find a drive-in, if those still exist-“

“They do,” you say softly, and he swallows. “There’s one out in Beloit.”  

“Beloit,” Dean mutters. “Yeah- Yeah, okay. You wanna go there?”

You nod, and he grins. You smile back, and it feels… Different. Shy, in a way you haven’t been around him since he first started fucking you. Almost delicate. You weren’t supposed to let this feel like something delicate.

Dean jaw works, and you can almost see the thoughts turning behind his eyes. He lurches slightly, brow furrowed, then pulls back up. You’re seconds from asking him what’s wrong when he just leans down and… does it.

His lips graze your cheek, his hand brushing against your waist, and you almost melt right into him.

But then he stands back up, and takes a large step away. You swallow, resisting the urge to reach up and brush your fingers over where he kissed. It’s not like he’s never done that before, but again.

It just feels different.

“See you tomorrow,” he murmurs, and you nod weakly.

If you had a mind that was thinking in more than bursts of glee and songs of Dean, Dean, Dean, you’d tell him that you live together, and he’s always going to see you tomorrow. But he walks away, and you let him, and it doesn’t hurt. There’s a space that he left, but something in you seems to think he’s going to come back. You can’t tell if it’s the fool or not.

For once, you decide not to try.

The movie is nice. Dean rests his hand on your knee, but doesn’t go any higher. You lean into his side, and his arm goes around your shoulders, but there’s no kissing or dragging into the back seat, and you didn’t know there could be a better way to be close to him. Sex is great. Looking up and finding him already watching you is better.

He brushes some hair from your face, and you half expect him to kiss you. His eyes dart down to your lips like he wants to. Your fingers curl in his shirt, and his throat bobs.

“You likin’ the movie?” He whispers, and you nod.

“Good find,” you breathe, and he grins.

“Thanks. Eat the popcorn, it cost me a billion bucks.”

You roll your eyes, and throw some of the over-buttered, half-burnt popcorn at his face. He laughs, catches a kernel in his mouth, and grabs your chin between two fingers. Your breath catches. He just turns your face back to the screen, and pulls you a little closer into his side.

The movie ends the same way the diner did. Dean walks you to your bedroom door like it’s the porch of your house, kisses your cheek, then walks away.

Then, after the movie, you play mini golf. You win, but you know he let you. He buys you a snow cone and licks it off his nose when he eats it like a rabid dog. You wipe a little extra off his cheek, and he stares at you, but still doesn’t kiss you. Not fully. His hand seems to always rest on your lower back, now, but that’s all the contact you get. All that you allow.  

Hugs are on the table, too. They’re somehow more dangerous than the forehead kisses. After the hugs, he sometimes just stares at you and cups your cheek, and your heart moves into your throat until you think you’re going to spill it out all over his chest.  

You manage to keep it together. For the sake of this new, slowly growing garden of what your friendship is becoming, you swallow your love with greater ease and more bile than you ever did while you were fucking. After the mini golf you get dinner and see another movie. You convince him to go on a walk with you, and he hates it less than he pretends to. You eat together in the bunker and call when he’s on a hunt with Sam and go to a car show and it all feels like breathing.

Sometimes he still looks at your mouth, and you freeze up, unsure if you want him to kiss you or not. You know you want him, but somehow you’ve found even more to lose than before, and if it slips through your fingers, you’re not sure they’re ever going to stop shaking and groping at the empty spaces again. You can take holding his hand in the bookstore while he peers over your shoulder, pretending to be interested for no real reason other than to make you smile.

“There are so many of them,” he mutters, and you giggle.

“There’s a lot of ways to write words, Dean.”

“Yeah, but- You’d think there would be repeats or something.”

“There probably are,” you shrug, running your fingers over the spines. “But they’re still all fun.”

Dean sighs, squeezing your upper arm. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You hum, leaning back to smile at him, and all his features relax.

“You want some coffee?” He brushes some hair from your face and you nod.

“There’s a shop next door, could you get me-“

“Hey,” Dean flicks your nose, grinning roguishly. “Trust me, I know what you want.”

You nod a little stupidly, and his smile falters. He looks to your lips again, then almost shakes himself, taking a small step.

“Don’t move,” he squeezes your arm again, then backs away. You watch him go, unable to help yourself, and smile when he looks back. He does that all the time now. And he always smiles back.

You turn back to the shelf, looking at the books without actually looking. You already miss him, and he told you not to move, but that can’t count if you’re going to stand next to him in the coffee line, can it-

“Hey.”

You fumble slightly, turning to find a man leaning against the shelf and smirking at you. You blink, and his smirk widens.

“What’s girl like you doin’ in a place like this?”

“The… Bookstore?” You frown, and he laughs. You don’t think you said anything all that funny.

“Look, I just- I saw you from over there,” he nods vaguely, and you frown. “And I thought you were cute. Can I get you some coffee or something?”

“My- My friend is already getting me coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds strangely far away.

The man nods, but doesn’t retreat. “Alright, then can I get your number? Maybe beat your friend to coffee next time?”

And you don’t want to say yes, but this is a chance. To hold onto this new friendship with Dean while also getting over him at the same time. This man isn’t ugly. Compared to Dean, no one really stands a chance anyway, and you have to get over him eventually.

So you give him your number, and try not to feel like you just did something wrong.

Dean clears his throat from behind you, and you spin around on your heels, a sour guilt twisting in your gut.

“You- You’re back,” you say, and he grunts.

He’s not look at you. He’s glaring at the man with the same, deadly glint that he gives monsters and demons before he cuts them in half. You touch his arm lightly, and he tenses. You feel sick.

“Hey, buddy,” he snaps at the man, who—not seeming to understand the gravity of Dean’s glare—grins back.

“Hey.” He winks at you, slowly backing away. “Have fun with your friend.”

Dean’s coffee spills over the top of it’s lid. He doesn’t look away from the man when he leaves the store. He shoves your drink into your hand, not meeting your gaze.

“Dean-“

“I’m gonna go wait in the car,” he mutters, and you swallow.

“Oh- Okay.”

Your arm wraps around your stomach, and you press a little away from him, from the wrath seeming to wave off his body like a volcano. He glances down, jaw tight and a vein in his brow ticking. You stare at his neck, unable to hold the weight of his gaze. He lets out a sharp breath, and shakes his head.

“Get your book.”

You shake you head. “No- It- It’s okay-“

Dean says your name, and your mouth snaps shut. “Just- Get the damn book.”

He looks like he’s in pain, and you don’t know how to fix it, so you do as he says. You get a cheap one, that worm of guilt burrowing deeper and deeper into your gut until you can’t even drink your coffee without feeling like it’s going to come back up.

Dean’s fingers dig into your back, when he guides you out the door. He starts the engine by almost punching in the keys, and holds Baby’s wheel like he’s trying to strangle it. You can see all the anger brimming under the surface of his skin, and worried you’re just going to make it worse. You don’t even know where it came from. It’s not like you’re together, or the guy said something rude. You open and close your mouth too many times to count, then give up, shrinking back into your seat.

Dean looks over at you. You try to look out the window, and nowhere else.

A loud, sharp breath escapes him. “Son of a- Alright.”

You look over with a frown, then squeak when he yanks the wheel off to the side.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Just- Fuck-“ He bows he head, glaring down at his legs, and you swallow.

You fidget with your fingers, watching him nervously, waiting for him to break the silence. It takes while. So long you think about just getting out of the car to give him space.

But then he looks up, and your heart gets cleaved open. His face is twisted in pain, his lips parted and his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard.

“What-“ He takes a deep breath, scanning over your openly confused features. “What else am I supposed to be doin’?”

You blink at him, fingers curling in your lap. “What?” You ask softly, and his throat bobs.

“I- I’m really trying,” he mutters, looking back to his hands. “I swear to god, baby, I’m tryin’ my best, and- I know I ain’t amazing at this but- If you could throw a guy a rope when he’s never- I’ve never done this, alright.” He waves between your bodies, jaw clenched tight. “And I’m really givin’ it my best shot, but I’m still not allowed to kiss you, and you’re takin’ numbers right- Right in front of me- So just- Something.” He gives you a pleading, broken look, eyes shining on yours in the dark. “Anything.”

You open your mouth, but you can’t even figure out what the fuck you’re supposed to say. You know all the words he’s saying, but it’s like he’s speaking a language you never learned, spitting out a code you’re just supposed to magically understand. Dean’s jaw ticks, when you don’t answer, and you try to sputter out an answer, but he’s too loud to hear your confused whimper.

“Look, just- Whatever the hell you do need me to do, I’ll do it, I swear I’ll do it, but- You gotta tell me, sweetheart-“

“Tell you what?!” You almost shout, and Dean leans back in surprise. “Dean, I- I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean huffs a low laugh, looking back out to the road. “Yeah. Alright,” he grabs the keys, voice rough and pained. “Sure. Whatever-“

“No.” You grab his wrist before he can start to the engine. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

“It doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does-“

“Nah.”

“Dean-“

“You wanna call that guy, call ‘im.” There’s an almost toxically bitter sound to the words, and Dean’s making a face like he just got shot. “Whatever. See if I care.”

Your nails dig into his wrist, when he tries to yank it away. He shoots you a glare, the bags—gone, after months of ease—already starting to form.

“C’mon, kid, just- let go-“

“Would you care?”

Your question is small, but it makes Dean recoil like it burned. He scoffs, but it’s too loud, and you hold him tighter.

“Would you care-“

“No, I fuckin’ love watching douchebags parade around with my girl, who would care about something like that?”

Something snaps, right at the base of your spine. You sit so tall you’d think someone is dragging you by the nape of your neck, and Dean blinks in something close to surprise.

“What-“

“Your girl,” you whisper. “That’s- I’m- Why would you say that?”

Dean blinks. “Why wouldn’t I say that?”

“Because you and I- We’re not- That’s-“ You lean back, letting go of his wrist, and when you look down, you’ve left little crescent marks in the skin. “No- No- You didn’t- You said no- No strings-“

“Yeah, and then you stopped fuckin’ me, and I-“ Dean says your name as you press back against the window, brow furrowed in worry. “Baby, it’s- It’s alright, I’m not that pissed-“

“You were yelling,” you choke out, and he swallow.

“Well, I was- Just- C’mere.”

He reaches out, cupping your cheek with the same gentle touch he used to use, right before he kissed you. You gape at him, head spinning, panting like you just ran a marathon.

“I’m not mad,” he rasps, almost pleading, and you shake your head.

“You were-“

“Sweetheart-“

“Why?” You whisper, grabbing his wrist, your nails sinking back into the marks. “Why- Why would you care?”

Dean swallows. He shakes his head, looks out the window, and chuckles.

“Dean-“

“I don’t want you goin’ out with him. And- Call it possessive, or stupid man shit, or- Whatever the hell you want,” he drags his thumb over your cheekbone, voice dropping to something tender, something soft. “You’re my girl. And I want you here, telling me what to do, how to- To be what you need.” His voice cracks. “Come on, baby. Just- Tell me what to be.”

You stare at him, a lot of pieces colliding into each other at once in your head. The diner and the movie and the touching and the caution and-

“Are we dating?” You choke out, and Dean frowns.

“What’d you mean, are we dating?”

“I mean are we dating, Dean, are you- Are you my boyfriend?”

“Uh- Boyfriend kinda makes it sound like we’re sixteen and necking-“

“What the fuck is necking?”

Dean groans, dropping his head. “Don’t say that, sweetheart. Makes me feel fuckin’ fifty.”

Your lips twitch. “You are almost fifty,” you say, and he chuckles.

“Yeah. Guess I am.” He looks back up to you, caution lining his features. “You always seemed to like it.”

You swallow. You did. You’d never been sure if it was the older thing itself, or the fact that it was just Dean, but you’d liked it. You always liked all of him, from the uglier wounds to the beautiful, glowing heart that almost managed to peak through, no matter how thick his steel and iron walls became.

He glides his thumb back and forth over your cheekbone, and your breath hitches. He swallows, closes his eyes, and mutters your name.

“Did you… Not think we were dating?”

You shake your head, and Dean snorts dryly.

“Huh,” his mouth curves into a tight smirk. “Makes sense why you wouldn’t kiss me, I guess.”

“You guess?” You squeak, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, makes a lotta sense, actually-“

“How long have we been dating?!” You almost shriek, and he gives you an amused look.

“’Bout three months.”

“Three months?!”

“That’s what I said, baby-“

“Shut- Shut up-“ You plant a hand over his mouth, and he raises his brows. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me we were dating, you- You butt?!”

Dean’s eyes sparkle, looking pointedly down to your hand, and you release him with a scowl. He rubs his jaw, grinning at you like you’re some cute bunny, and you lean back in your seat with a huff.

“Sweetheart,” he says gently. “I thought you knew.”

“How would I have known-“

“’Cause I asked you on a date? And you said yes?”

“That- That never happened.” You snap, and Dean frowns.

“Yes, it did. Sammy- He was there-“

“Sam was there-“

“Yeah, and- I said there was a new diner in town, and you said you’d go with me, and we started dating!”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. Dean stares pointedly back, and you can’t help yourself. You bark out a loud, sharp laugh.

“That was not asking me on a date, you fucking- Oh my god!” You shake your head, and Dean’s frown becomes almost puppy like.

“Yes, it was-“

“You have to actually say it’s a date, Dean! You can’t just- Just ask me to do something, I thought we were just hanging out! As friends.”

He’s pouting now. If you weren’t pissed, it would be adorable. “I- Uh- I paid for everything. And got you gifts.”

“Friends do that-“

“Do friends kiss your face all the time?” Dean twists to fully glare at you, and you pause.

“Um- Maybe?”

Dean snorts. “No, they don’t-“

“But I thought that was just you!” You protest. “You- You’re always- You know-“

“I know?” He mocks, and you scowl.

“We were fucking for a year, Dean,” you snap, tipping up your chin. “I thought you were comfortable with me.”

“I am comfortable with you,” Dean shrugs, leaning slightly forward. “Real comfortable.”

Your nose twitches. He’s too close, now. Consuming your vision, making your vision all stupid and fuzzy. “You’re comfortable with everyone,” you sniff, and he laughs.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls, running a hand slowly up your thigh. “We both know that ain’t true.”

You make a tiny, involuntary sound when his fingers dip under your skirt, teasing sensitive, neglected skin. He hasn’t touched you there in so long. Too long. You have to hug yourself to stop your body from flying at him.

“I haven’t fucked anyone else in eighteen damn months,” Dean mutters, holding your gaze. “I’ve been waiting around for you for months, wondering what the hell I was doin’ wrong, and you thought I was just being nice?!”

You swallow, your voice suddenly small. “You are nice,” you whisper, and Dean snorts.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re nice to me-“

“Because I-“ He cuts himself off, fingers pressing into the soft skin of your thigh. You grab his hand, holding it against you, and his eyes dart down. He heaves a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and bows his head.

“Dean?” You whisper, and he shakes his head. “Dean, I- I’m sorry I didn’t- You said we were just going to be casual-“

“I know what I said,” he grunts, glaring at your hands. “But I- I didn’t- I thought it would help me.”

You swallow. “Help you?”

“Yeah.”

“With what-“

“You know what.” He finally looks at you, and you’ve never seen him this vulnerable. Almost bowing before you, holding onto your hand like it’s the last thing keeping him alive. “And I can’t- I don’t know how to-“ He takes another ragged breath, gives you another pleading look. “You stopped letting me pretend, you started- You started telling me no, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t.” He swallows. “I’m tryin’ to do this right, baby.” He squeezes your hand, leaning a little closer. “Please let me do this right.”

You blink at him, tears watering in your own eyes, and nod. Dean’s shoulders shudder, and he holds your hand so tight you think he’s trying to just mold you together. He glances at your lips, but doesn’t move. So you do it for him.

Dean stares at you, completely still as you lean forward, his chest so still you’re worried he’s not breathing. You rest your hand lightly on his chest and press the lightest kiss you can to his parted lips. He shakes, one hand flying to your waist, his touch still heartbreakingly delicate. You kiss him again, a little harder, and a low rumble starts in his chest.

You pull back, pressing your brows tight together. Dean stares at you, eyes glossy and blown out, the restraint ticking in his jaw, and you smile softly.

“I love you,” you breathe. “And I- I know you can’t- You know, say it back, but- I love you, Dean.”

His breathing his ragged, and he’s still gaping. You laugh nervously, looking down to your fingers, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“If- If you could say something, though, that would be- Um- Nice-“

Dean grunts, and your words fall off into a squeak as Dean drags you forward into his lap.

And this. This is a real kiss. Dean’s mouth slots perfectly against yours, his arm wrapping fully around your lower back, his fingers digging into your hips and his other hand cradling the back of your head. He kisses you like he’ll die if he doesn’t, pushing his tongue down your throat and moaning against your mouth. You pull on his shirt and he gropes at your ass, dragging you further into his lap. The pressure of his thigh against your core makes your head spin, but that might just be the lack of oxygen. Neither of you seem to be willing to come up for air, taking sharp, tiny breaths between sloppy kisses.

You whimper, already going limp, and Dean leans back with darkened, shining eyes. You know that look. You used to pray for and dread it all at once. It always made you feel like something close to prey, paralyzed and unable to flee his spell.

But this time is different. This time, there’s nothing you’d rather do but fall into his charm.

Dean presses another, small kiss to your lips, dragging his thumb over the tingling swell. Your tongue flicks against the pad of the finger, and he groans, pushing it slowly between your lips.

You wrap around him, sucking lightly, giving him your best, sweetest Bambi eyes. Dean’s throat bobs, his fingers digging into your ass.

“We’re goin’ home,” he mutters. “Then I’m gonna fuck you.”

That’s a lovely plan. You smile around his thumb, and he says your name, pulling his thumb away with a small pop.

“Jesus, you- You gotta tell me yes-“

“Just fuck me here,” you whisper, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

Dean glances to the backseat, then to you. “Uh- I mean- That’s- If you’re sure-“

“Please,” you push a little further forward, dropping your hand to press against the bulge in his jeans. “I need you, Dean. Now.”

And for a second, you think he’s going to demand going all the way back home. Say something about you deserving a soft bed and gentle loving, when you just want him, filthy and raw and yours. You’re so busy giving him doe eyes, you don’t notice his hand dragging down your spine and your ass, right up until it dips under your skirt, and cups your pussy through your panties.

You gasp, and Dean smirks, slowly rubbing his hand back and forth.

“Need me?” He drawls, pushing his thumb against your clit. “Like this, baby? This how you need me?”

“Ye- yes-“ Your lips brush over his, your hips starting to grind down as he drags his thumb in tiny circle, his hand still rocking back and forth. “Just- Just like that, Dean- Shit-“

You push down, kissing him with a sloppy, uncontrolled mouth. Dean grunts, splaying his free hand against your neck and pushing you down. He’s massive and warm, the hand working your pussy offering just enough friction to work you up, but nothing more. You wrap your arms around his neck, panting against his lips and moving you hips to chase more friction.

“That feels good, doesn’t it,” he mutters, kissing you between every word.

You coo, trying to kiss over his face, and Dean slaps your pussy once, leaning back with a stern glare.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer immediately, already getting heavy-eyed and dazed. “So- So good, Dean, feels so good, just- More-“ You claw at his shoulders, trying to at least get to some bare skin, and settle for pressing your mouth back over his. “More- Need some more, De, now-“

Dean silences you with a deep, rough kiss, and taps his thumb against your clit in quick, harsh movements, pushing his palm down hard against your aching pussy. You cry out, trying to force your hips further down against him, and Dean squeezes that back of your neck.

“Look at  you,” he mutters, almost in awe. “Few months without some cock and you get bossy, don’t you.”

“No- No,” you manage to protest. “You’re just- You’re being slow-“

“I’m being slow?” He mocks, running his fingers over the line of your panties. “Baby, I’ve barely fuckin’ started.”

You try to roll your eyes at him, but he uses his hold on your neck to turn your head, forcing your gaze back down to his. Your eyes widen, and he smirks slightly, raising his brows.

“You gonna break out some manners for me?” He asks, slowly dragging your panties to the side. “Or am I gonna need to teach you again?”

“Te- Teach me?” You choke out, and Dean hums.

His thumb drags down from your clit, parting the lips of your pussy and smearing your arousal. Your heart is trying to hammer out of your chest, every nerve in your body seeming to respond to the mockingly sweet touch.

“Dean,” you press your hands against his chest, unsure if you want to push him away or drag him closer. “Don’t- Don’t be mean-“

“I’m not bein’ mean,” he hum, the gleam in his eyes something else all together. “I’m giving my girl exactly what she wants, how she wants it.”

You blink at him hopelessly, and he chuckles, pulling you down into a long, slow kiss. It would be romantic and loving, if it wasn’t for his thumb pushing at your weeping entrance, refusing to dip even a fraction of the way inside.

“Remember how you used to beg for me?” He mutters, and your face burns with a mix of arousal and shame. “I sure as shit do. Spent hours thinkin’ about it lately, planning how I was gonna take you when you let me again. But,” he switches out his thumb for the very tips of his fingers, yanking slightly on your hair when you try to look down. “Jesus, baby, I’m worried I’m gonna break you.”

You shake your head frantically, and Dean raises his brows.

“Words, pretty girl,” he reminds you, pushing his fingers just a little big deeper. “I know it’s hard, but you’ve got it, talk to me-“

“I can take it,” you breathe out, watching him under fluttering lashes. “I- I can take it. I promise.”

Dean works his jaw, his grip on your hair tightening. “Sweetheart-“

“Please,” you breathe, leaning down until your noses bump. “I need it. I need you.”

Those are the magic words. Dean stops trying to play noble, stops trying to hold back for the sake of romance. You loved him when he fucked you like a whore and gave you nothing soft, and you’re going to love him even more when he treats you like a toy, then kisses you everywhere after.

Dean smashes his lips against yours and eases his fingers into your waiting pussy, groaning under his breath when you clench down around him.

“So fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, scissoring them inside you. “Never gonna get over how fuckin’ tight you are, sweetheart, like you were made for me. Made to be mine.”

He almost snarls the last words against your lips, pushing himself fully up to the knuckle. You mewl as he finds your g-spot with that precision that makes it look easy, that’s always made you sure you couldn’t ever enjoy someone else if you tried.

Dean pumps his fingers slowly, crooking them so they drag against that spot, and pulls you back to watch your face contort with pleasure.

“That’s it,” he grunts, pulling almost all the way out before slamming them right back in and twisting to bully against that sensitive spot. “That’s just how you like it, huh? Already gettin’ like this from just my fingers,” he chuckles, grinding his hips up against your thighs. “Imagine how you’re gonna be on my cock, sweet girl, if you can barely fuckin’ take this?”

“That- That’s not fair-“ You choke out, every word breathy and weak, and Dean just smirks.

“Isn’t it?”

You try to protest, but Dean pushes your head back down, and his kiss knocks almost every thought from your head. It’s all just the familiar, perfect way his mouth moves against yours, rememorizing something that never stopped being his. The wet sound of his fingers working you open fills the car, and your whole body burns with desire and shame. He’s right. You’re already soaked and ready for him, your cunt clenching down and still begging for more. You need that full, impossible split of him. After months of nothing, you’re worried his cock is the only thing that’s going to be able to do it.

But Dean seems to like proving you wrong today. A coil, tight in your stomach, starts to wind tighter and tighter. He drops his grip on your hair for a second to push down on the base of your spine, forcing your cunt almost right over his bulge. He reangles his hand, forcing in another finger, and you make a strangled sound.

“De- Dean-“

“We’re gonna get you relaxed, baby,” he mutters, twisting his wrist so the drag against your g-spot almost rips through your body. “Nice and relaxed ‘f me, you can do it.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to listen, and your clit pushes down against Dean’s cock, still tight in his jeans. The pressure is perfect, combined with the brutal thrusts of Dean’s hand, and you press your cheek to his.

“That- That’s good,” you pant, clinging to the hem of his shirt. “So- Soo good-“

You whimper, and Dean hums. He’s rubbing your back, and that’s somehow almost as good as the hand obliterating your cunt. “There she is,” he mutters. “Always so good at listening when I got my hands on you, aren’t you sweetheart.” He kisses the side of your head. “That’s my girl.”

That’s what does it. My girl.

The coil snaps, and your orgasm rips through you, making your eyes cross and your body curl limply into Dean’s arms. His hand coaxes you through it, his palm rubbing against your pussy as you mewl and clench around nothing, the light pressure helping you ride it like a long, easy wave.

Dean kisses your cheek when it’s done, then right under your eye, then your nose.

“That’s one,” he mutters, and you whine. He chuckles, hiking your skirt up with light touches. “Come on, you know the rule.”

“Stupid rule,” you grumble. “Never agreed to it.”

“Never heard you complaining before,” he points out, peeling your dress off, and you stick out your tongue.

“That’s because I always forget- Dean!”

He smacks your ass, and you squeak, pussy clenching around nothing. He’s forming a tent in his jeans as he looks up at you, and you narrow your eyes. You fingers brush against the head of him, and his groan falters, his head tipping back against the bench.

You smile, pushing your hand down against his cock, and he catches your wrist, shooting you a stern glare.

“Not at young as I used to be,” he warns, and you giggle.

“But I want to,” you try to pull your hand free, and roll you eyes when he won’t let you. “Oh- Come on-“

“Nope,” he grunts, even as his dick jumps against the fabric. “You know the rule-“

“Dean-“

“Three to one,” he mutters, a dare gleaming in his eyes. “You give me one, I give you six. That’s the fuckin’ deal.”

You laugh, but his mouth doesn’t even twitch, and slowly, your smile falls into something more serious. More determined.

Damn this stubborn beautiful man and his orgasm rules. Damn you, for thinking he ever wouldn’t want to fuck you when he made you orgasm rules that weren’t proportional or fair at all.

You yank your wrist away, stick out your tongue again, and pull your underwear fully off. Dean watches you with his hands tight on your waist, eyes shining with curiosity, but patient.

And you’ve never been good at riding him, but you’ve always been good at this. You climb over Dean’s lap so your ass is near his shoulder and your face in his crotch, your back arched like some animal in heat, your pussy bare and on full display.

Dean’s never been able to help himself. One hand immediately slides around the arch of your back, then the curve of your ass, then settles back against your pussy. The other slides in your hair, petting your hair while you fumble with his belt. He chokes out your name, and you shoot him a glare, pulling out his cock with light, careful hands.

He’s so hard you’re worried he’s going to hurt himself. Pre-cum is beading around his tip, his veins throbbing like a porno. You stroke him slowly, and he lets out a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I’m serious, baby-“

“Prove it,” you say, before licking a slow, teasing stripe up his shaft.

And you know how this game ends. You’ve played it a million times before. The beautiful thing about it is that—especially when Dean thinks he’s winning—you can never lose.

You take him into his mouth, and the sound that he makes is sinful. It’s a choked, rough version of your name that sounds holy from his mouth, and comes with his fingers dipping into your heat like it’s a comfort toy. You take him until he bumps against the back of your throat and hum, swirling your tongue. Dean grunts, and pushes your head a little further down. You wiggle your ass, pussy cold and throbbing, and Dean groans.

“Jesus, woman- Gonna kill me- Fuuuuck-“

You start to bob up and down, sucking with that perfect pressure you know he likes, getting what can’t fit in your mouth in your hand. You can take him better and better with every second, letting his push against your gag reflex, and you drop that hand to play with his balls. Dean’s already giving shallow uncontrolled microthrusts, repeating your name over and over until it’s more of a choked moan.

“Can’t- Shit, baby, I can’t- That damn mouth, you’re gonna- Shit-“

You squeeze his balls and suck as hard as you can, and Dean almost roars your name, his cock jumping as he shoots thick, white ropes of cum down your throat. You swallow every drop, licking the rest off your fingers as you rise back up. There’s going to be a handprint on your ass, from where he was holding onto you. You hope you feel it in the morning.

And when you smile at Dean, you know you’re in trouble. Naked and wet for him, crawling forward so your tits press into his face and kissing him as sweetly as possible. Dean grunts, one hand shooting up to cradle the back of your head, and his responding kiss is deceptively gentle. He lets you lead it, groaning when your tongues press together, tasting himself on your lips. He lets you pull his shirt over his head and lets you trace over the lines of his muscles. You smile against his lips and lean back, and there’s that predatory glint again.

Dean’s hand twitches on your back. He wipes your chin, gathering some stray cum and slowly pressing his against your lips. You clean it off obediently, and his jaw ticks.

“Back seat,” he grunts. “Now.”

You almost scramble to listen. Rolling off of him and trying to climb over, making it halfway before you feel massive hands wrapping around your waist, holding you in place. You swallow, trying to twist over your shoulder to look at him, but Dean blows a sharp breath over your clit, and you double over with a squeak.

“De- Dean-“ You plant your hand on the bench, blood rushing to your cheeks. “Dean- wait-“

“Hmmm.” He kisses one curve of your ass, then the other. “Wait for what?”

You’re not really sure. “This- I- I can’t hold myself up,” you fumble, and he chuckles, kissing right over your clit.

“That gonna be a problem?” He teases, pressing smaller, faster kisses over the sensitive button. “Or,” he spreads your ass cheeks, humming against your heat. “Do dirty girls get what they asked for?”

Shit. “It’s uncomfortable,” you whisper, and Dean pauses.

He sighs, then kisses your clit again. You squeak when he drags you back down, and melt into his chest as he kisses all over your face, rocking you back and forth in his arms.

“’S why I wanted the bed,” he mutters, and you sigh.

“’M sorry-“

“No,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, massaging your hips with steady hands. “I’ve got it, just- uh-“

He glances up, and you watch him frown around the car with an openly adoring expression. The work of his jaw and furrow of his brow as he thinks, how he holds you so tight in his arms, it’s impossible to not love him.

“Got it,” he mutters. “Trust me?”

You nod easily, and he glances back down. His eyes soften when they meet yours, and this kiss isn’t feral or brutal. It’s just… slow. Adoring, a silent promise of what you’ve sort of always known.

Dean is going to take care of you.

He lays you out in the backseat, rubbing your thighs as you settle into the cushioned bench. You watch him with your heart in your throat, arms wrapped tight around your stomach. Sometimes, under his attention, you’re not sure what to do with yourself. He’s too pretty, too big, too much in the best possible way.

“Getting’ shy on me?” He teases, pushing up your knee, and you flush.

“N- No.”

“Hm,” Dean pins your leg against the bench, guiding the other one so it hooks over his shoulders. “Sounds like you’re gettin’ shy.”

You swallow, hugging yourself tighter, and he chuckles.

“All that work to make you relax,” he mutters, kissing his way up your thigh. “And you’re already wound back up.”

“You took too long,” you whisper, and Dean laughs.

“Sorry, sweetheart.” He kisses just the side of your cunt, and your breath hitches as he sucks a small, firm bruise into the skin. “You know I’m gonna make it up to you, yeah?”

You nod weakly, then blurt, “Yes!”

Dean’s mouth twitches, and he grabs one of your wrists, guiding it down to his hair. You weave it between your fingers, your breathing already ragged, your whole body lit up with anticipation.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, kissing the other side of your cunt, massaging your thigh and pushing your leg a little higher. “Nice and easy, pretty girl.” He kisses you pussy, open-mouthed and wet, and you let out a high, shameless sound.

His mouth should be classified as a sex toy or something. It moves and works against you like a machine, kissing you with so much fervor you already start to see stars. You had some recovery from the fingering, but Dean’s already stripping it away with sharp, unrelenting kisses and grazes of his teeth against your clit.

“Taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans against you, the word vibrating through your body. “Never wanna live without this pussy again, baby girl, shit-“

He groans and dives back down, starting to work you open like a man starved. You push on his head, silently begging for more, afraid to open your mouth. The sounds that leave you will be embarrassing, and you’re already too far gone for them.

But Dean likes you loud, and he won’t let you hold back. He hooks his arm fully around your leg, dragging you further down, giving him a better against your pussy. You mewl when he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking impossibly hard, and Dean laughs against your cunt.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ You grab at the front bench, yanking mindlessly on his short hair. “De- Dean- Oh my god-“

He groans, pushing his face impossibly further. His tongue is deliberate and thick, pumping in and out of your cunt before pressing flat on your clit and dragging back and forth. It’s enough to drive you mad, making the coil in your stomach burn and burn and burn until your whole body is shaking with the sensation.

“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “You- Fuck-“

He nips at your clit, dragging a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Your eyes lock, and you swallow, a broken moan falling from your lips. The first time he did this, he told you that he loved it. That there was nothing better than a woman, right on his face, dripping and sweet for him. It didn’t take you long to believe him.

Here, he looks at you like you’re some kind of heaven he’s been allowed to touch. His mouth never stops moving against you, his eyes lidded and almost drunk, and your arousal shining on his face whenever he reangles it to devour you a new way. It’s a sight that could knock you off your feet, if you had any left to stand on. Dean on his knees, his broad, freckled shoulders forcing your knees apart, his attention a drug you never want to bother being clean from again.

You start to shake, your stomach seizing up as you fight off your orgasm, but Dean doesn’t tolerate that either. His mouth goes back against your clit, his tongue darting up and down and back and forth in tiny motions, almost tickling it, making the little nerves light up and-

You cum with a loud, choked sound that’s really supposed to be Dean’s name, and push at his head. You expect him to stop, and finally get on top of you.

But you forgot about his stupid orgasm rule, and he doesn’t stop. His grip tightens and he starts to make out with your overstimulated pussy. You squeak, pushing weakly at his head, and his eyes gleam.

“De- Dean- Fuuuuck- That’s-“ Your eyes roll back, your body seizing up again, almost unable to take so much. “Oh- Oh my gooood-”

Dean groans against you again, and it’s worse than a vibrator. It’s warm and deep and Dean, mixed with his filthy mouth and stubble, scraping against soft skin.Your thighs lock around his head and he lets them, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pulls you fully onto your back, pushing himself up onto his knees. His cock bounces against his stomach but he ignores it, using his now free hand to grope at your breast. You moan, clenching around nothing as he laps at your clit and pussy.

“I- I can’t-“ Tears spring at your eyes. “Dean- Please-“

He hums, rolling your nipple between deft fingers, and you throw your head back with a broken moan.

Warm, thick fingers weave through yours, and  you blink at him under watery lashes. He’s let go of your breast to hold your hand. His thumb is dragging slowly back and forth, and his mouth isn’t slowing down, but you don’t want it to. You can see the challenge shining in his eyes. You take a ragged breath, give him the smallest nod, and he smiles against your pussy.

You didn’t know the human tongue could move that fast. You’re sure it’s not supposed to, but Dean’s never cared about things like that. He drinks you up like wine, rapidly toying with your clit—swirling and kissing and flicking and sucking like it’s candy—and your eyes roll back in your head as your third orgasm springs through your body like a geyser.

Dean lowers you down slowly, pressing one last kiss to your swollen kiss before rising back up, wiping his chin of your release and cleaning it off his fingers with a smug grin. His cock is at attention, and your mouth waters. He always gets it in. You’re a little afraid of it right now.

“Six?” You breathe out, and Dean snorts.

“You’re the one who pushed for it, princess.”

“It- It’s your stupid rule-“

“You love it,” he shrugs, slowly settling himself back between your legs. “And you’re gonna take it, aren’t you, baby.”

You wrinkle your nose, and Dean gives you a stern, amused look.

“Aren’t you?” He taps the head of his cock against your cunt, and you squeak.

“Dean-“

“You’re the one who got bratty and cocky, sweetheart,” he drawls, pushing your leg back down. “So you’re gonna take it, ‘cause I know you can.”

You swallow, giving him your best doe-eyes, and he just chuckles. Dean lowers himself down, presses a gentle kiss to your brow, and murmurs against your skin.

“That ain’t gettin’ you out of this.”

You press your face into the crook of his neck, and Dean smiles, kissing the side of your head.

“All shy again,” he mutters, dragging that massive cock between the lips of your pussy. “Let’s take care of that, huh?”

You cling to him as he rolls you both over, guiding your legs to straddle his torso and lining up his cock with your weeping, abused pussy. He pulls you gently up, rubbing your side and watching you a painfully adoring gaze. You try to cover yourself again, and he catches your hand, shaking his head.

“Come on,” he mutters, weaving your fingers together. “Let me see you.”

And damn him for being so soft and sweet, you don’t think you could tell him no if you wanted.

“Take it easy,” he says, wrapping both of his hands around your waist. “All you, baby. Show me what you want.”

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.”

You believe him, in a way you’d never believe anyone else. It might be how he looks at you. Like you’re an angel over him, like you’re really, truly letting him enter paradise as you sink down onto his cock.

He grunts, his fingers tightening against your body as his cock slowly splits you open. Even with how much he’s worked you open—your pussy so wet it’s already dripping onto his thighs—it’s a tight fit. You can feel every vein dragging inside of you, the hard curve pressing right into your g-spot and making you flutter around him.

Dean jerks his head up, squeezing his eyes shut, and you swallow.

“Sorry-“

“’S- ‘S alright,” he exhales sharply, relaxing back into the seat. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, baby. I’m good.”

A smile ghosts over your lips, even as you start to only breathe through your nose. “You look it,” you tease, and Dean gives you a half annoyed, half impressed look.

“You’re tight,” he grunts, and your smile widens.

“You’re big.”

He groans, throwing his head further back, and you giggle again. He’s sitting just right again, his chest rippling under your hands, and you feel like that angel. You feel like a goddess, with how his hands are dragging over your body, how your name falls from his lips.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, eyes raking over your body. “So perfect.”

You take a deep breath, and start to grind down onto his cock. Dean groans, one hand dragging down to squeeze your ass, but he doesn’t move. He won’t unless you beg him, and you’re determined not to. You can ride him until your thighs give out. His cock bumps against your g-spot, and his abdomen drags near your clit, and it feels good. You rock back and forth a little faster, your breath catching, and Dean groans.

“Look at you,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Pretty fuckin’ girl, riding my cock like the needy little thing you are, aren’t you. So fuckin’ wet for me, baby, so- so tight-“

He groans, and you push down on his chest, picking up your pace.

“So big, Dean,” you moan, pushing up your chest like a pornstar, trying to make him break first. “You’re so big, feels so- so good-“

You moan, tossing your hair, and Dean makes an almost feral sound.

But he doesn’t break. The bastard never breaks, and you’ve never been good at riding him. Your thighs are already sore, and they quickly start to ache, making your movements smaller and weaker. Dean watches you start to whine, your brow furrowing in concentration, and just smiles. You both know what he’s waiting for. You don’t want to give in.

“So quiet, sweetheart,” he coos, running his hand up to palm at your breast. “Someone drove by, they’d think I wasn’t fuckin’ you properly.”

You glare at him, unable to even speak, and he chuckles.

“You know what you gotta do, baby girl.”

“Fu- Fuck you-“

“I will,” he winks. “If my girl says please.”

Your eyes narrow. His grin widens, and you think you might be about to fly apart with how bad you need it. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid face that you love and his big cock that makes you all jelly and dazed thoughts and useless.

“Please-“

The word barely leaves your mouth before Dean moves. A single, well-aimed thrust up into your cunt that makes you fall apart. You fall forward onto his chest with a scream, and Dean groans, giving shallower, gentle thrusts to work you through the orgasm.

“I know,” he murmurs in you ear, his words painfully soft in comparison to the pleasure wracking your body. “I know, princess. Two more to go.”

You don’t think you can take two more. Four has been your max for a very long time, and that was with a lot more prep time and space between orgasms. But Dean doesn’t seem like he’s going to give you much of a choice.

You’re a doll in his arms again, when he hauls you up into his lap. His cock leaves you for a single second, just for the adjustment, and you whimper at the loss.

Dean hums, kissing all over your face as he slides back in.

“That’s my girl,” he starts to rock your hips back and forth with steady hands, picking you up then dropping your back down so his dick drags through every inch of your heat. “Takin’ me so good. Just like that, feel that, baby-“ He pushes on your lower back, making his cock slam against your g-spot, and you sob against his neck. “Feel how fuckin’ good we fit together, my girl.”

Dean’s voice is lined with something darker now. More possessive and hungry. He fucks up into your like an animal, dips drilling forward and mouth attached to your neck. All you can do is take it, over and over until your eyes are crossing and the only words you can remember are babbles of Dean and please.

The neck orgasm is slow, blooming from where he’s slamming against your cervix and spreading pleasantly through your body. Dean moans against your skin, mouthing at your jaw and neck, his tongue dragging and kisses messy. When you try to kiss him back, it’s mostly with a mewl and lips that follow his lead. Everything is humid and light in your body, everything is Dean around you, and there’s a new, strangely hot sensation in your core that’s demanding all of your attention.

It’s tighter than the usual coil, and gets hotter and hotter with every thrust of Dean’s cock. He’s getting uneven now, his own words falling into pants and moans, his balls slapping against your ass and hands leaving prints as he folds you fully over his chest.

“One- One more-“ His voice is gravelly, almost as wrecked as you feel. “Milk my fuckin’ cock, baby girl, cum for me-“

You open your mouth to warn him about the strange feeling, but it’s too late. Dean slams home, crashing his mouth against yours, and you cum with a hoarse scream. Hot cum shoots into your cunt, right as something gushes out of you in wet, burning waves. It feels good, so good you can’t think, so good your mouth hangs open and your moans turn into pathetic, weak babbles.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Dean groans against your mouth. “Fuckin’- Yes-“

Your body seizes and twitches around him, but even when he’s done, Dean doesn’t pull out. The last of your release pushes itself out and her collapses backward, rubbing your back and craning his neck to grin at your cockdrunk expression.

“Gettin’ stupid?” He teases, and you can’t manage to raise an arm, so you just bite his nose. He laughs, leaning up to steal another, quick kiss from your lips before settling back down.

You curl over him, resting your head against his shoulder while he pets your head, both of you still panting and coming back down. You might be there for a hundred years, or just an hour. It doesn’t matter. The car is going to reek of sex for maybe a year. Sam might never agree to ride in it again. But it was worth it. More than worth it, when you look up at Dean, and find him—just as always—already looking back.

“We’re still dating, right?” You whisper, because you have to be sure.

Dean grins, and kisses you slowly. You hum, letting your eyes flutter shut. Letting him carry you, whenever he thinks is safe to go.

“Yeah,” he mutters, and you can hear it in his voice. All the love he’s been trying to show you, for who knows how long. “We are."

✦End note: if i write enough of these it's gonna happen to me guys trust ✦

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“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

Dean had complained the first time he found your jacket thrown over the back of his chair, but he hadn’t moved it for three days. Sam had noticed that too. Sam noticed everything when it came to you, which made him feel like a creep on the nights when he caught himself listening for your footsteps in the hall. Dean was less subtle, but he liked to think he wasn’t obvious. He was wrong.

Sam had seen the way Dean watched you when you bent over a pool table during interviews, the way his hand found your shoulder in crowded bars, the way his smile got tight when another man made you laugh too easily. Dean had seen Sam too, though. He had seen the way his brother softened when you said his name, the way Sam’s anger dulled around the edges when you touched his arm, the way he leaned closer when you spoke like the rest of the room had gone quiet.

Dean still remembered the first night they met you because you had walked into the middle of their hunt like a thunderstorm with a shotgun. The case had been ugly from the start, a string of disappearances around an abandoned church in Ohio, the kind with too many bones under the floorboards and not enough locals willing to talk. Sam had been elbow-deep in research for two days, and Dean had been getting twitchy from waiting around, which meant they were both a little too tired and a little too sure of themselves when they went in.

Then the spirit had come out of the walls faster than expected, and Dean had ended up flat on his back in the mud with the breath knocked out of him. You stepped over him, fired a round of rock salt into the dark, and said, “You always let ghosts throw you around like that, or am I special?” Dean had stared up at you, rain dripping off his lashes, too surprised to be annoyed as quickly as he should’ve been. Sam had come running from the other side of the graveyard, flashlight cutting through the downpour, and he had stopped dead when he saw you standing there.

You had blood on your cheek, mud on your jeans, and a look on your face like you had already decided the Winchesters were a full-time headache. By sunrise, you had helped them burn the bones, called their plan reckless, and accepted diner coffee from Sam with both hands curled around the mug. Dean had told himself you were trouble. Sam had thought the same thing, but softer.

After that, you kept crossing paths with them until it stopped feeling like coincidence and started feeling like a choice. Dean would never admit it, but every time your number lit up his phone, something in his chest settled before he even answered. Sam was worse in a quieter way, always asking if you were okay before asking what case you were on, always saving you a seat at the library table when you came through Lebanon.

You teased him for it once, nudging his boot with yours beneath the table, and Sam had gone pink around the ears like he was still capable of being embarrassed by kindness. Dean had laughed at him, of course, but only because your foot had brushed Dean’s ankle next, and his own thoughts had turned dangerous enough to make mockery feel safer. You became the person they both looked for after a hunt, the person they both wanted beside them in the Impala, the person they both pretended not to watch when you were curled up on the couch in one of their stolen flannels.

It wasn’t clean, and it wasn’t simple. Nothing about wanting you had ever been simple. Dean wanted you loudly, even when he tried to hide it. Sam wanted you carefully, which somehow made it worse. The worst part was that you seemed to know.

The hunt that night had only made things uglier between them. You had gone undercover at a bar outside town, all warm smiles and easy laughter, leaning close to some suspect with your hand wrapped around a glass you barely drank from. Dean had watched from a booth with his shoulders stiff and his mouth pressed into a flat line, looking like he might break the table if the man touched you. Sam had been standing near the jukebox, arms folded, expression calm enough to seem harmless to anyone who didn’t know him.

Dean knew him. Dean saw the tension in Sam’s jaw, the way his eyes followed the man’s hand when it drifted too close to your waist. “You gonna glare him to death, Sammy?” Dean had muttered, but his own voice came out rougher than he wanted. Sam hadn’t looked at him right away. He kept watching you smile at a man neither of them trusted, and the old protective instinct twisted into something much more selfish inside him.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam had said finally, low enough that only Dean could hear. The words should’ve ended there, but Dean had looked over just as you laughed at something the man said. His hand tightened around his beer bottle. Sam saw that too, and something bitter and competitive sparked between them before the hunt had even finished.

By the time the three of you got back to the bunker, the air inside the Impala had been thick enough to choke on. Dean drove too fast, one hand loose on the wheel and the other tapping restless patterns against the leather. Sam sat in the passenger seat with his shoulders squared and his eyes on the road, acting like he wasn’t listening to you shift in the backseat.

You were quiet behind them, probably tired, probably amused, probably too aware of the way both brothers had gone tense the second that man at the bar looked at you like you were something he could keep. Dean glanced at you in the rearview mirror more times than he needed to. Sam caught every single look reflected in the glass.

“Case is done,” you said from the backseat eventually, your voice soft but edged with curiosity. “So why do you both look like you’re still hunting something?” Dean huffed, like the answer was ridiculous. Sam didn’t answer at all. That was when Dean knew his brother was in deep, because Sam Winchester only got that silent when the thing he wanted was sitting too close and too far away at the same time.

Now, in the library, Dean kept dragging the rag over the pistol like friction might burn the image of you out of his head. Sam closed the book in front of him with careful hands, the sound small but final. Dean’s eyes snapped up at once, because everything Sam did had started to feel like a challenge tonight. “You gonna actually read that thing, or are you just trying to look thoughtful?” Dean asked, his voice lazy in a way that didn’t fool Sam at all.

Sam leaned back in his chair and looked at his brother over the book, expression mild but eyes sharp. He didn’t answer right away, because he knew Dean hated waiting almost as much as he hated being seen through. The library light caught on Sam’s cheekbones, making him look tired, annoyed, and far too composed for Dean’s liking.

Then Sam looked toward the hallway again, where you still hadn’t reappeared, and Dean felt something hot and ugly move under his ribs. “I’m thinking fine,” Sam said at last, his voice measured. “That’s usually the part where you get nervous.” Dean laughed once, short and humorless, because the comment landed too close to the truth. He set the gun down carefully, which only made him look more dangerous.

You appeared in the doorway before Dean could answer, and both brothers went still in two completely different ways. Dean’s stillness was physical, a sudden pause in his hands, his breathing, his entire posture, like his body had forgotten what it was doing. Sam’s was quieter, but no less obvious, his gaze lifting to you and staying there just long enough to give him away.

You had changed into soft shorts and an oversized shirt, your hair slightly messy, your face bare of the focus you wore on hunts. You looked comfortable in their home, and that did something unbearable to both of them. Dean’s eyes flicked over you before he forced them back to your face, and Sam watched him do it with a tightness gathering in his chest. “You two are doing that thing again,” you said, stepping farther into the room.

Your voice carried easily in the quiet, teasing at first, but there was something underneath it that made Sam’s fingers curl against the arm of his chair. Dean tilted his head, acting confused because denial had always been one of his favorite bad habits. “What thing?” he asked, like he hadn’t been sitting there vibrating with jealousy for the better part of an hour. You looked at Sam instead of answering Dean, and Dean’s smile sharpened.

Sam saw the way Dean reacted to your attention shifting, and he hated the small satisfaction it gave him. You weren’t trying to be cruel. That was the thing that kept ruining them both. You didn’t toss them looks because you wanted to watch them bleed.

You did it because you were honest with your attention, because when you cared, it showed, and when you wanted, that showed too. Sam had seen it in the car, in motel rooms, in the bunker kitchen when you reached over him for coffee and lingered close enough that he could smell your shampoo. He had seen you go warm under Dean’s praise, and he had seen you turn quiet when Sam’s voice softened around your name.

“The thing where you both act like you’re mad at each other, but somehow I’m the one getting stared at,” you said, folding your arms loosely as you leaned against the table. Dean dropped his gaze to the movement for half a second, then dragged it back up, annoyed with himself. Sam looked down at the closed book like it might offer mercy. It didn’t. “Maybe you like being stared at,” Dean said, and the words came out lower than he meant them to. You didn’t flinch. You smiled, and Sam felt the room tilt around it.

Dean knew he should stop there. He knew that tone, that look, that dangerous little space opening between all three of you was exactly the kind of thing that ruined people’s sleep and made mornings complicated. But then Sam looked at you again, and the look on his brother’s face was too careful, too hungry, too patient. Dean hated patience when it came to you. He hated the way Sam could stand there and make restraint look like devotion. “Careful, Dean,” Sam said, and his voice was calm enough that it sounded almost kind. Dean turned his head slowly, brows lifting as if Sam had just done something interesting and stupid at the same time.

There was no raised voice, no slammed glass, no dramatic shove toward violence, but the tension between them snapped tight anyway. You felt it too, because your smile faded into something softer, something more aware. “Careful with what?” Dean asked, though they all knew he wasn’t asking because he didn’t understand. Sam’s eyes stayed on him for a moment, then moved back to you. “With acting like you’re the only one who gets to say things like that to her,” he said. The words landed heavy in the room, and Dean’s grin disappeared.

For a few seconds, nobody moved. The bunker seemed too large around you, too quiet, every small sound suddenly amplified. Dean could hear the faint buzz of the light overhead, the shift of Sam’s breathing, the tiny inhale you took before you tried to hide it.

Sam could hear Dean’s knuckles flex against the table, could see the muscle jumping in his jaw, could feel the old Winchester warning signs lining up one by one. You looked between them, and something in your expression changed from amused to caught. Not scared. Not uncomfortable. Caught, like you’d walked into a room where the truth had been waiting long before you arrived.

“Is that what this is?” you asked, your voice quieter now. “You’re both mad because you think the other one’s getting too close?” Dean wanted to answer fast, something smart and filthy enough to knock the softness out of the moment. He couldn’t. Sam’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then lifted again, and Dean saw it. That was what finally pushed him over the edge.

Dean leaned back in his chair, but there was nothing relaxed about him now. “I think Sam here’s got this idea in his head,” he said, dragging his eyes from his brother back to you, “that if he waits long enough and talks soft enough, you’ll just fall right into his lap.” The sentence should’ve sounded like a joke, but it didn’t. It sounded like an accusation dressed up in Dean’s usual arrogance, and Sam’s face went still in the way that meant the comment had hit exactly where Dean meant it to.

You looked at Sam, and Dean hated himself a little for watching your reaction so closely. Sam didn’t rush to defend himself. That was what made him dangerous. He took his time, sitting back with one hand resting on the closed book, his thumb brushing the worn edge of the cover like he was thinking through every possible consequence before choosing the worst one.

“And Dean thinks if he smirks hard enough and calls you sweetheart,” Sam said, voice low and even, “you’ll forget he’s terrified of wanting anything that wants him back.” Dean’s eyes flashed. You went completely still.

That should’ve been the moment one of them backed down. Sam knew it. Dean knew it. Even you seemed to know it from the way your eyes searched both of their faces, no longer teasing, no longer pretending this was just another argument they’d laugh about later. But the truth was already in the room, and neither brother had ever been good at walking away from something once it started bleeding.

“You both sound ridiculous,” you said, though your voice didn’t have enough force behind it to make either of them believe you meant it. Dean’s mouth tugged up at one corner, but his eyes were too dark for the expression to feel light. Sam’s face softened when he looked at you, and Dean hated that too, hated how Sam could make sincerity look like a weapon.

“Maybe,” Sam said, and his voice gentled in a way that made your fingers tighten around the edge of the table. Dean saw it. Of course he saw it. “Or maybe we’re just done pretending,” Sam added, and the room seemed to shrink around the three of you. Dean’s smile returned slowly, but this time there was no humor in it.

The bet came out of Dean because Dean was always better at turning fear into something reckless. He looked at Sam first, like the idea was meant to challenge him, then at you, like he already knew it would make your breathing change. “Fine,” Dean said, tapping two fingers against the table once. “Since we’re all being honest, maybe we settle it.”

Sam’s brows drew together, suspicion flickering across his face, because he knew that tone and almost never liked where it led. You didn’t ask right away, but your attention sharpened, and Dean felt it like a hand around his throat. He stood slowly, chair scraping against the floor, and Sam’s posture shifted at once, not defensive exactly, but alert. Dean didn’t move toward you yet.

He wasn’t that stupid, and despite everything burning through him, he wasn’t about to make you feel cornered. “Settle what?” you asked finally, and the softness in your voice made Sam’s eyes narrow at Dean in warning. Dean’s gaze stayed on you. “Who makes you break first,” he said. The words dropped low, warm, and dangerous, and your breath caught before you could stop it.

Sam heard that breath and felt every thought in his head go quiet. Dean heard it too, because his eyes darkened with immediate satisfaction, the kind that made Sam want to wipe the look off his face. But Sam didn’t move. Not yet. He watched you instead, watched the way you tried to gather yourself, watched the way your gaze moved from Dean to him like you weren’t sure whether you wanted to run from the fire or step closer to it.

“That’s not a bet,” Sam said after a moment, though his voice had gone rougher than before. Dean glanced at him, pleased that he’d managed to drag that much reaction out of him. “No?” Dean asked. “Sounds like one to me.” Sam stood then, slower than Dean had, and the height of him changed the balance of the room. He kept his hands visible, his distance careful, his focus split between Dean’s challenge and your face. You swallowed, and Sam saw that too. Dean saw Sam see it, and the whole thing turned sharper.

You looked like you were trying to decide whether to laugh or tell them both to get a grip, but the flush at your throat betrayed you. Sam’s expression softened again, and Dean wanted to curse because he knew exactly how effective that would be on you. “You don’t have to play along with anything just because he’s being an idiot,” Sam said, and he aimed the words at you, not Dean.

It should’ve made the moment gentler. Instead, it made Dean’s jealousy flare hotter, because Sam’s concern sounded intimate, like he had already earned a place closer to you than Dean had. You looked at Sam for a long second, and Dean’s fingers curled at his side. “I know,” you said, and your voice was steady enough to make both brothers listen.

You shifted against the table, not backing away, not stepping forward, just staying exactly where you were as if you wanted them to understand that the choice was yours before it was anyone else’s. Then your eyes moved to Dean. “And what makes you so sure I’d beg for either of you?” Dean’s smile came back slow and wicked, but Sam saw the relief underneath it. You hadn’t shut the door. You had opened it wider.

Dean took one step closer, stopping with plenty of space still between you, and Sam clocked the restraint with reluctant approval. Dean was reckless, but not careless with you. That mattered, even if Sam was too wound up to feel generous about it. “Because you like pushing,” Dean said, voice low enough to roughen at the edges. “You push and push, then act surprised when somebody finally pushes back.”

His words made your eyes narrow, but your mouth gave you away, parting just slightly before you pressed it shut. Sam watched the reaction with a strange ache in his chest, equal parts want and irritation. Dean had always known how to hit the obvious nerve first. Sam preferred the hidden ones. He took a step too, not toward Dean, but enough that you felt his presence from the other side.

“And because you’ve been waiting for us to say it,” Sam said, quieter than Dean, but no less certain. Your attention flicked to him, and something vulnerable moved over your face before you buried it. Dean saw that expression and realized with a bitter twist that Sam might be right.

The library had become too warm, or maybe that was just the weight of three people refusing to pretend anymore. You glanced down at the table, then back up, and Dean saw the question in your eyes before you formed it.

“So what?” you asked, and your voice came out softer now, not weak, not shy, just honest in a way that made both men stop posturing for half a second. “You two make a bet over me, and I’m supposed to what? Stand here and let you decide who knows me better?” Sam’s face shifted first, guilt flickering there because the question landed exactly where it needed to. Dean’s jaw tightened, and for once he didn’t have a fast answer.

The silence that followed was different from the one before. Less jealous. More serious. Sam looked at Dean, and Dean looked back, both of them understanding at once that the game ended before it began if you weren’t holding the center of it. “No,” Sam said finally, turning back to you. He spoke carefully, every word chosen with the kind of restraint that made Dean grit his teeth. “You decide if there’s anything to decide.”

Dean nodded once, rough but immediate, because whatever else he was, he wasn’t going to let you think for one second that your wanting didn’t matter more than theirs. “You say no, it’s no,” Dean said, and the cockiness had dropped out of his voice, leaving something rawer underneath.

“You tell us to shut up and go back to pretending we’re normal, we do that too.” Sam almost laughed at that, because none of them were normal, and pretending had never saved them from anything. You noticed the faint movement in his expression and looked at him again. Sam held your gaze, steady and open, though his heart was beating hard enough that he could feel it in his throat.

Dean watched that silent exchange and had to force himself not to interrupt it. That was the worst part of loving you around Sam. Dean wanted to be selfish, but he knew Sam would be good to you. Sam wanted to be patient, but he knew Dean could make you feel wanted in a way that burned bright and immediate. Neither of them could hate the other’s wanting when it looked so much like their own.

You breathed in slowly, and the room seemed to wait with you. Dean’s hands were loose at his sides now, but his whole body looked like restraint had become a physical effort. Sam stood a little farther back, giving you space, though his eyes never left your face. You looked from one brother to the other, taking in Dean’s heat, Sam’s control, the jealousy they had been dragging around like a curse they couldn’t bury.

“And if I don’t tell you to shut up?” you asked. Dean’s expression changed so quickly it almost made Sam roll his eyes, that familiar Winchester grin flickering back with dangerous relief. Sam didn’t smile, not quite, but his gaze deepened, and you saw it. You saw both of them.

That was the thing that had always undone them. Dean stepped closer to the table, careful, still waiting. Sam’s voice came from your other side, low and steady, not rushing you. “Then we talk rules,” he said. Dean’s grin widened just enough to make your stomach twist. “And then,” Dean added, softer now, “we find out who you ask for first.”

You stood there for a few seconds after Dean spoke, and the silence felt different than it had before. It wasn't sharp anymore, and it wasn't angry. It felt exposed, like somebody had finally turned on the lights in a room all three of you had been hiding inside for months.

Dean remained near the table, his shoulders tense despite the confidence in his expression, while Sam stood a little farther away with his hands loose at his sides. Neither of them was pushing. Neither of them was moving closer. For the first time all evening, they were waiting entirely on you. Your heart was beating hard enough that you could feel it in your throat, because you had spent so long imagining this conversation that actually standing inside it felt unreal.

You'd imagined Dean admitting he wanted you. You'd imagined Sam doing the same. You had never imagined both of them standing in the same room, looking at you like this. The possibility of it had always seemed too selfish to say out loud. So you wrapped your arms around yourself, partly for comfort and partly because you suddenly didn't know what to do with your hands.

You had fallen for Dean first, though not in the dramatic way romance novels promised. It happened gradually, hidden inside long drives and late-night diner stops and the way he always made sure you were walking on the inside of the sidewalk without even thinking about it.

Dean was warmth and movement and noise. He was music turned too loud, coffee made too strong, terrible jokes after terrible hunts, and the kind of loyalty that frightened you because it was so complete. He made you laugh when you wanted to stay angry. He made you feel wanted in a way that was impossible to ignore. Every time he called you sweetheart, something inside you tightened despite your best efforts.

You noticed the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren't paying attention. You noticed how quickly he became protective whenever another hunter got too familiar. There had been moments when his jealousy flashed so openly that you almost reached for his hand without thinking. You knew Dean wanted you because Dean was terrible at hiding it. The problem was that you wanted him back enough to be scared of it.

Sam had happened differently. Sam had happened quietly, slowly, the way dawn arrived when nobody was looking at the sky. You couldn't even identify the exact moment it changed. Maybe it was the first time he stayed awake with you until four in the morning while you researched a case neither of you could solve.

Maybe it was the way he listened whenever you spoke, like your words deserved his complete attention. Maybe it was how careful he became whenever you were hurt, never treating you as fragile but always making sure you weren't carrying pain alone. Sam made you feel seen in places you usually kept hidden. He remembered little things you forgot saying. He noticed when you were tired before you admitted it.

He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it without ever asking twice. Sometimes he would look at you across the library table with this quiet expression that made your chest ache because it felt so honest. He didn't flirt the way Dean did. He simply stayed close. Somehow that became even more dangerous.

The worst part was that you had realized they both wanted you months ago. Dean's jealousy practically announced itself every time another man smiled at you too long. He became sharper, louder, more possessive in little ways he probably thought nobody noticed. Sam's jealousy was quieter, but you had learned him well enough to recognize it. He would grow still. He would watch.

His voice would become softer in that way it only did when he was trying very hard not to feel something. You had seen Dean glare across bars because someone touched your elbow. You had seen Sam step between you and strangers so naturally that nobody even realized what he was doing.

You knew they both wanted you because nobody looked at another person the way they looked at you without wanting more. The problem wasn't uncertainty. The problem was that you wanted them too. You simply didn't know whether either Winchester could survive hearing that truth.

You had spent months assuming you would eventually have to choose. Some nights, lying awake in your room, you would imagine Dean knocking on your door. Other nights, you imagined Sam staying behind after research and finally saying your name the way he sometimes looked at you.

You never let yourself imagine both of them because it seemed impossible. Dean and Sam loved each other fiercely, but they also competed over everything from pool games to pie. You couldn't imagine either brother being willing to step aside. You couldn't imagine either brother wanting to share something as complicated as feelings. So you stayed quiet.

You laughed off Dean's flirting. You pretended not to notice Sam's lingering looks. You convinced yourself that eventually one of them would move on or find somebody else. Instead, the tension only grew. Sometimes you caught Dean watching you while Sam was talking. Sometimes you caught Sam watching Dean watch you. Those moments made your stomach twist with equal parts hope and guilt.

Dean shifted beside the table, and his voice softened enough to surprise you. "You don't have to answer right now." His eyes remained fixed on you, but there was something gentler behind the heat now. Dean Winchester could be reckless, arrogant, and impulsive, but he wasn't careless with your feelings. That mattered more than he probably realized. Sam nodded slightly from where he stood. "He's right." The agreement between them felt almost stranger than the argument had. You had expected competition.

You had expected jealousy. You had not expected them both to step back at the same time and give you room to breathe. That simple act made your chest ache because it proved what you had secretly suspected all along. Neither one of them wanted to win if winning meant hurting you. Dean folded his arms, looking suddenly uncertain beneath all his confidence. Sam glanced toward the floor briefly before looking back at you.

"I've known for a while," you admitted quietly. Your own voice sounded unfamiliar in the library. Dean blinked first. Sam went completely still. You looked down at your hands because looking directly at them suddenly felt impossible. "Not everything," you clarified. "But enough." Dean let out a breath through his nose. "We're not exactly subtle." His attempt at humour earned the faintest smile from you. Sam's expression softened immediately at the sight of it.

"How long?" he asked. The question was careful, almost hesitant. You thought about it honestly before answering. "Long enough to know Dean gets jealous whenever somebody flirts with me." Dean looked offended for approximately two seconds. "That obvious?" You glanced at him. "Dean, you practically growl."

Dean muttered something under his breath that made Sam smile despite himself. The sight of Sam smiling relaxed something inside you because it reminded you that beneath all the tension, these were still your boys. These were still the men who sat with you during nightmares and brought you food after difficult hunts. Dean rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Okay, fair." Sam looked toward you then, his expression more vulnerable than you had ever seen it.

"And me?" he asked. The question carried genuine uncertainty. That almost broke your heart. Sam Winchester, who could read ancient languages and understand monsters nobody else believed in, somehow didn't know whether you had noticed him looking at you. You met his eyes fully. "You look at me like you're trying not to," you said softly. Sam went quiet immediately. Dean looked between the two of you and sighed dramatically.

"Great," Dean said. "So apparently we're both idiots." His voice carried some of its familiar warmth again, which helped ease the tightness sitting between all three of you. You found yourself laughing quietly, more from relief than amusement. The sound seemed to affect both brothers in entirely different ways. Dean smiled automatically because your laughter always did that to him.

Sam relaxed visibly, his shoulders lowering slightly. "You know what the worst part is?" you asked. Dean lifted an eyebrow. Sam waited. You swallowed before continuing. "I didn't know if either of you would be okay with me..." Your voice trailed off. Dean's expression changed first. Sam's followed immediately afterward. Neither of them interrupted. Neither of them rushed you. The patience of it gave you courage.

"I thought eventually I'd have to pick one of you," you admitted. The confession settled heavily into the room. Dean's jaw tightened slightly. Sam's eyes lowered for a moment before returning to you. "Because I knew how I felt about Dean." You looked toward him briefly.

Dean's expression had gone completely serious now. "And I knew how I felt about Sam." Sam looked almost startled hearing his name spoken like that. Your heart hammered against your ribs because these words had lived inside you for so long that speaking them felt impossible.

"But I never knew if..." You paused again. Dean took a slow breath. Sam remained perfectly still. "I never knew if either of you could handle hearing that I didn't want to choose." The honesty of it left you feeling exposed. Dean's eyes widened slightly. Sam looked almost stricken.

The silence afterward wasn't uncomfortable. It was simply full. Dean looked toward his brother for the first time in several minutes. Sam met his gaze. Whatever passed between them happened quietly, years of understanding condensed into a few seconds of eye contact. You watched them looking at one another, and it hit you again how much you cared about both of them together.

Dean brought out pieces of Sam that nobody else could. Sam steadied parts of Dean that nobody else could reach. You loved their arguments, their loyalty, their ability to communicate entire conversations through glances. You had never wanted to come between them. If anything, the idea terrified you. "You two matter too much to each other," you said quietly.

Dean looked back at you immediately. Sam did the same. "I never wanted to be the reason something changed between you." Dean's expression softened so completely it almost hurt to see. Sam looked like he understood exactly what you meant.

Dean rubbed his thumb against his lower lip before speaking. "Sweetheart, we've been driving each other insane for forty years." The faint humour helped. You smiled despite yourself. Sam shook his head slightly. "You're not ruining anything." His voice carried absolute certainty. Dean nodded immediately afterward. "Seriously." The reassurance settled somewhere deep inside your chest. You had spent months fearing this exact conversation because you assumed somebody would lose. You assumed somebody would get hurt.

Instead, both brothers stood there looking at you with the same impossible tenderness. Their jealousy suddenly made more sense. Their arguments made more sense. The longing looks and tense silences and protective instincts all fit together now. They hadn't only been afraid of losing you. They had been afraid of losing each other too.

You looked between them again, suddenly overwhelmed by how much you appreciated the ridiculous honesty of the evening. The bet itself was stupid. Childish, even. It sounded exactly like something Dean Winchester would invent because he didn't know what else to do with his feelings. Sam clearly knew that too, judging by the look he gave his brother. But beneath the ridiculousness sat something that touched you more than you expected.

Two men you loved had spent months wanting you enough to become jealous. They had noticed each other's feelings because they were both paying attention to you. They had reached a point where pretending no longer worked. Dean wanted you enough to risk rejection. Sam wanted you enough to admit it aloud. That knowledge settled warmly inside your chest. You looked down briefly, suddenly shy in a way that hunting monsters had never made you feel. "The bet is kind of stupid," you said quietly.

Dean immediately groaned. "Knew it." Sam rubbed a hand across his face. "Dean..." The embarrassment on both their faces made your smile widen slightly. You shook your head before either of them could retreat completely.

"No, I mean it is." Dean looked resigned. Sam looked apologetic. You took a slow breath. "But..." That single word brought both their eyes back to you immediately. You could see hope there now, carefully hidden but unmistakable. Your pulse jumped harder. "I appreciate it too."

Dean frowned slightly, confused. Sam looked curious. You folded your arms more tightly across yourself, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you felt. "Knowing that you both want me enough to be jealous." The confession made Dean inhale sharply. Sam's eyes softened again. Neither of them spoke.

Your cheeks had begun warming several minutes ago, but now the heat spread fully across your face. Dean noticed immediately because Dean noticed everything physical about you. Sam noticed because he noticed everything else. The library suddenly felt too quiet again. You looked at Dean and saw all that heat and confidence hiding uncertainty underneath. You looked at Sam and saw all that patience concealing the exact same fear.

They wanted answers. They wanted reassurance. More than anything, they wanted to know whether this conversation was about to end with disappointment. Your fingers tightened against your sleeves. Your stomach twisted hard enough to make you dizzy. Dean opened his mouth like he might speak, but stopped himself. Sam waited. Both of them waited.

You finally looked up, your face warm and your heart pounding, and met both their eyes at once. Dean seemed almost afraid to move. Sam looked like he was holding his breath. The weight of months sat between all three of you. The jealousy. The pining. The late nights. The stolen looks. The fear of saying the wrong thing. You swallowed once, and your voice came out softer than you intended.

"What if..." Dean's expression changed immediately. Sam took the smallest step forward before stopping himself. You could feel yourself blushing now, unable to hide it anymore. Your eyes moved from Dean to Sam and back again. For the first time all evening, you allowed yourself to say the truth exactly as it existed. "What if I want both of you?"

Neither brother answered at first. Dean’s mouth parted, but whatever quick remark had been waiting on his tongue disappeared before it could leave him. Sam’s breath left him slowly, his expression shifting from surprise to something so openly hopeful that you nearly had to look away.

You could almost see both of them replaying your words, searching for some hidden condition or cruel misunderstanding. Dean looked at Sam, and for once there was no challenge in it, only a silent question that carried the weight of everything they had already admitted.

Sam met his gaze steadily, his throat moving as he swallowed. The jealousy between them hadn’t vanished, but something inside it had softened, becoming less like a weapon and more like a fear they finally shared. Then Dean let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh and dragged one hand down his face.

“Both of us,” Dean repeated, testing the words like he wasn’t entirely convinced he was allowed to believe them. You nodded, though the movement was small because your nerves had started making your whole body feel strangely weightless. Sam watched your face closely, careful even now, like he needed to make certain your answer wasn’t coming from pressure or panic. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice rougher than before despite how gently he spoke.

“I’m sure,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze even as warmth spread down your neck. Dean’s eyes moved over your expression, searching for hesitation, and some of the tension finally left his shoulders when he didn’t find any. Sam took a slow breath, the smallest smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then we can work with that,” he said, and Dean turned toward him with his eyebrows raised.

“We can work with it,” Dean agreed, though his tone made it clear he was already imagining several ways to prove that point. Sam gave him a warning look, but there was no real anger behind it anymore. “That doesn’t mean this is going to be simple,” Sam said, looking between you and Dean.

Dean scoffed softly and folded his arms, trying to disguise how vulnerable the moment had made him. “Nothing with us is simple, Sammy.” His gaze settled on you again, his expression losing some of its teasing edge. “I’m gonna get jealous,” he admitted, the honesty sounding almost uncomfortable in his mouth. Sam glanced at him before adding quietly, “So will I.”

“I don’t need either of you to pretend you won’t,” you told them. Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious, but attentive in a way that meant every word mattered. Sam stepped closer to the table, though he still kept enough distance to let you breathe. “Then we talk about it when it happens,” he said.

“No turning it into some competition where one of you has to win,” you added, giving Dean a pointed look. Dean placed a hand over his chest with exaggerated offence, but the faint colour rising along his neck betrayed him. “I have no idea why you’re looking at me.” Sam’s mouth twitched before he said, “And no making decisions for her because you think you know what she wants.”

“And neither of you gets to pull away without telling me why,” you continued, looking at Sam this time. His expression changed immediately because he understood exactly why that rule belonged to him. Dean glanced at his brother, some quiet recognition passing over his face before he looked back at you. “Fair,” Sam said, though the word came out softer now. Dean nodded once, the gesture firm and immediate.

“Yeah, fair.” The agreement settled between you, fragile but real, and the last of the earlier hostility seemed to drain from the room. What remained was heavier in a completely different way, all anticipation, heat, and three people suddenly aware that nothing stood between wanting and acting on it except permission.

Sam moved first, but only by a single step. Dean followed more slowly, circling the edge of the table until the two of them stood on opposite sides of you. You stayed exactly where you were, your palms pressed lightly against the worn wood behind you as your heartbeat climbed higher.

Sam raised one hand, stopping before his fingers reached your face. The restraint in that unfinished movement made your stomach tighten more than confidence ever could. “Can I touch you?” he asked, his eyes fixed on yours. “Yes,” you whispered. His fingertips brushed along your cheek so carefully that the tenderness of it almost hurt.

Dean came closer behind you, near enough that the warmth of him reached your back without his body touching yours yet. “Still okay?” he asked, his voice lower beside your ear, stripped of every joke he usually used to protect himself. “Yes,” you answered again, more steadily this time. His palm settled at your waist, broad and warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.

Sam watched your reaction, his thumb tracing once beneath your cheekbone while Dean’s fingers flexed gently against your side. Being held between them should have felt overwhelming, but instead it felt like the answer to a question your body had been asking for months. “You two are being suspiciously careful,” you murmured, trying to disguise how uneven your breathing had become. Dean’s quiet laugh brushed across the side of your neck as he said, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’re just getting started.”

Sam’s expression darkened at Dean’s words, though the change wasn’t directed at his brother this time. He leaned down slowly, giving you every chance to turn your head or change your mind. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. You answered by curling your fingers into the front of his shirt and pulling him the final inch toward you.

The first kiss was softer than you expected, a careful press of his mouth against yours that lasted only long enough to make you chase him when he began to pull away. Something in Sam snapped at the movement. His second kiss landed harder, his hand sliding from your cheek to your jaw as he tilted your face upward and kissed you with a hunger that didn’t match his usual gentleness. A quiet sound escaped you before you could swallow it, and Dean’s grip tightened instantly at your waist.

Dean pressed closer behind you, his chest finally meeting your back while Sam kept your attention trapped in front of you. One of Dean’s hands spread over your stomach, holding you securely as his mouth brushed beneath your ear. The touch sent a shiver through you, and Sam felt it in the way your fingers clenched harder around his shirt.

“Didn’t know Sammy had that in him, did you?” Dean murmured, his lips grazing the sensitive skin below your jaw. Sam broke the kiss just enough to glare past you at his brother, though his swollen mouth ruined any real attempt at intimidation. “You talk too much,” Sam said, his voice low and strained. Dean smiled against your neck. “She usually likes it.”

You turned your head before Dean could say anything else and caught his mouth with yours. He made a surprised sound that quickly deepened into a rough groan, his hand pulling you more firmly against him as he returned the kiss without hesitation. Dean kissed exactly the way you had always imagined, hot, demanding, and almost impatient, like he had spent too long restraining himself to waste another second.

Sam’s hand remained against your jaw, his thumb stroking over your skin while he watched, the jealousy in his eyes tangled tightly with fascination. You reached for him blindly, catching his wrist and keeping him close so he couldn’t mistake your attention shifting for rejection.

His expression softened immediately, and Dean felt the movement, breaking the kiss with a breathless smile. “Look at that,” he murmured, his forehead resting briefly against yours. “Already making sure neither one of us gets left out.”

“I meant what I said,” you whispered, still holding Sam’s wrist while Dean’s hand stayed firm at your waist. Sam stepped closer until there was hardly any space left in front of you, his body boxing you gently between both brothers without making you feel trapped. “We know,” he said, though the wonder in his voice suggested he was still trying to believe it. Dean brushed his nose against your temple, his breathing warm and uneven beside your face.

“And we meant it too,” he added. Sam’s eyes moved briefly to Dean’s, and whatever silent conversation passed between them ended with both men turning their attention back to you. The jealousy would come, and so would arguments, mistakes, and all the complicated pieces none of you could solve tonight.

But when Sam kissed you again and Dean’s arms tightened around you from behind, you realised complication had never frightened you as much as losing this chance would have.

Dean’s chest pressed harder into your back as Sam crowded closer in front of you, their bodies hemming you in without either brother touching the other. The thin fabric of your shirt did nothing to soften the heat pouring from both of them, and every breath you took made your body brush against Sam’s while Dean’s arms tightened around your waist. Dean’s erection pushed thick and unmistakable against the curve of your ass, his hips giving one involuntary roll before he caught himself with a rough exhale against your neck.

Sam was no better, the hard length of him pressing against your lower stomach through his jeans whenever you leaned into his kiss. “Feel what you’ve done to us, sweetheart?” Dean murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself for a man whose breathing had already gone ragged. You rolled your hips backward just enough to make him groan, then pressed forward into Sam until his jaw tightened and his hand closed around your waist.

Sam caught your chin between his fingers and kissed you slowly, but the controlled pace only made the hunger beneath it more obvious. “Still good?” he asked against your mouth, his eyes dark and fixed on yours. “I want more than good,” you whispered, and both men reacted like the words had struck straight through them.

Dean’s hands slid beneath the hem of your oversized shirt, his palms spreading over the bare skin of your stomach while Sam lifted the fabric carefully from the front. “Arms up,” Sam said, and the softness of his instruction made you obey before you even had time to tease him. Dean helped pull the shirt over your head from behind, letting it fall somewhere beside the table while Sam’s gaze dropped openly to your chest. The shorts came next, Dean hooking his fingers into the waistband while Sam steadied you with both hands at your hips.

“You boys always this coordinated?” you asked, breath catching when the material slid down your thighs. “Only when there’s something worth working together for,” Dean replied, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as you stepped free of the shorts. Sam crouched briefly to guide them over your feet, his knuckles brushing your calf before he rose again with a look that made your knees feel loose.

Your underwear remained in place for only another second before Dean traced the damp fabric between your legs and let out a low, satisfied sound. “Sammy,” he said, voice thick with amusement, “she’s already soaked.”

Heat rushed across your face, but Sam’s expression turned reverent rather than smug as he took in the sight of you standing bare between them. Your breasts rose and fell with every unsteady breath, full and soft beneath his gaze, their weight shifting slightly whenever Dean moved you against him. Your nipples had tightened into hard little peaks from the cool air and the attention, and Sam brushed the back of one finger over the nearest one as though he couldn’t resist testing your reaction.

The light touch made you gasp, your chest arching instinctively toward his hand while Dean cupped your other breast from behind. “Sensitive,” Dean observed, rolling your nipple gently between his thumb and forefinger until your thighs pressed together. Sam’s eyes followed the movement, then dropped lower when Dean slid your underwear down and exposed the wet shine gathered along your folds.

You were slick enough that the inner curves of your thighs glistened, the evidence of your arousal impossible to hide even before Dean spread you slightly with two careful fingers. A slightly unruly patch of pubic hair rested above your pussy, soft and natural, and Dean’s grin deepened when he noticed the way you tried to glance down at yourself. “Don’t you dare get shy now,” he murmured, kissing beneath your ear while Sam said softly, “You’re beautiful exactly like this.”

You turned in Dean’s arms before either man could keep staring without consequence, catching the hem of Sam’s shirt and tugging it upward. Sam lifted his arms and let you strip it away, his broad chest and defined stomach coming into view beneath the warm library light. Dean made an impatient sound behind you, so you reached back and dragged at his shirt too until he laughed and pulled it off himself.

Their jeans were harder to manage with your hands shaking, but you worked Sam’s belt loose first while Dean kissed your shoulder and offered entirely unhelpful commentary. “Easy there, sweetheart, you break the giant and I’m not carrying him,” Dean said, earning a flat look from Sam and a breathless laugh from you. Sam’s cock sprang free when you pushed his jeans and underwear down, long, thick, and flushed dark at the head, a bead of precum already shining at the tip.

Your mouth went dry at the sight, and Sam’s stomach tightened when your fingers wrapped experimentally around his shaft. Dean stepped out of his own jeans beside you, revealing himself just as hard, his cock slightly shorter than Sam’s but heavy and broad, the veins standing out along its length as it curved toward his stomach. “Still think the bet was stupid?” Dean asked, and you answered by stroking them both once, making their teasing disappear into matched groans.

They guided you toward the couch with a hand at each hip, not rushing you but leaving no doubt about where they wanted you. Dean reached it first and dropped onto the cushions on his back, stretching his body along the length of the couch with his legs parted and his cock hard against his stomach. “C’mere,” he said, curling two fingers toward you while his eyes dragged over your naked body.

Sam stayed behind you, one palm sliding down the line of your spine as you climbed onto the couch between Dean’s legs. You settled on your knees facing Dean, your hands braced against his thighs while he watched you with a mixture of hunger and disbelief. “You’ve thought about this,” you accused, leaning close enough that your breath warmed the head of his cock. “Every damn time you wore my flannel with nothing under it,” Dean admitted, his voice cracking slightly when your lips brushed him.

Sam knelt on the couch behind you, his thighs framing yours without touching Dean, and gathered your hair away from your face so Dean could see you clearly. “Show him what he’s been imagining,” Sam murmured near your ear, and the command sent a fresh pulse of wetness down your thighs.

You wrapped one hand around Dean’s shaft and licked slowly over the bead of precum at his tip, tasting salt as his abdomen clenched beneath you. His head fell back against the couch with a rough groan, but he forced himself to look down again when you opened your mouth around the broad head. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed, one hand fisting in the cushion instead of grabbing you before you invited it.

You took him deeper a little at a time, letting your tongue flatten along the underside while your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t yet fit. Dean’s hips twitched upward, then stopped when Sam planted a steadying hand against your lower back and gave him a warning look over your shoulder. “Don’t make her choke because you can’t control yourself,” Sam said, though his own voice sounded strained from watching your lips stretch around Dean.

Dean laughed breathlessly and threaded his fingers into your hair with deliberate care, guiding rather than forcing as you bobbed your head. “Hear that?” he murmured, eyes locked on your face while you hollowed your cheeks around him, “Sammy’s pretending he isn’t dying back there.” Sam answered by sliding two fingers through your soaked folds, and your moan vibrated around Dean’s cock hard enough to make him swear.

Sam stroked you from behind with slow, deliberate passes, spreading your wetness from your entrance to your swollen clit while you continued sucking Dean. Each glide of his fingers made your hips rock backward, your body asking for more even while your mouth stayed full. “So wet,” Sam said, the words almost lost beneath Dean’s ragged breathing.

He pressed one finger inside you, then a second, curling them until your knees shifted wider on the cushion and another muffled cry escaped around Dean. Dean looked wrecked beneath you, his lips parted and his chest rising hard as he watched Sam prepare you without ever looking directly at him. “That’s it,” Dean praised, brushing your hair back from your flushed face, “take what you need from him while you take care of me.”

Sam withdrew his fingers only when your pussy was clenching greedily around them, and you heard the slick sound of his hand closing around his own cock behind you. He rubbed the thick head slowly through your folds, coating himself in your arousal and nudging your clit just enough to make your whole body shake. “Tell me you want it,” Sam said, one hand gripping your hip while the other lined his cock up with your entrance.

You pulled off Dean just long enough to drag in a breath, your hand continuing to stroke him as you looked back over your shoulder at Sam. “I want you inside me,” you said, voice shaking with need, “and I want Dean in my mouth while you do it.” Dean made a broken sound beneath you and guided your face back toward his cock, his thumb brushing affectionately over your swollen lower lip. Sam pushed forward slowly, the broad head of him stretching your entrance before the first thick inch slipped inside.

Your mouth opened on a cry, and Dean used the moment to slide between your lips again, groaning when the sound closed hot around him. Sam paused with both hands firm on your hips, giving your body time to adjust as your pussy fluttered tightly around the length already inside you. “You’re squeezing me so hard,” he whispered, bending over your back to kiss your shoulder while keeping his body carefully separate from Dean’s.

Dean stroked your cheek and smiled down at you with ruined, hungry tenderness, saying, “Look at you, taking both of us exactly the way you wanted.”

Your lips closed around Dean again, swallowing the low groan that tore from his chest when your tongue dragged firmly along the underside of his cock. Dean’s hand slid from your cheek into your hair, his fingers gathering it carefully before he tightened his grip enough to hold your head steady. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he breathed, watching your mouth stretch around him with a look of ruined fascination. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked as you moved, taking him deeper with every downward stroke until the broad head pushed against the back of your throat.

He started guiding you gently, testing the rhythm before giving a slow thrust upward that made your eyes water. Each push of his hips fed more of his cock into your mouth, and you relaxed your throat around him as best you could, letting him feel how willingly you took it. His cock dragged hot and heavy over your tongue while his thumb stroked the side of your face, the tenderness of the gesture contrasting obscenely with the way he used your mouth.

“Tap my thigh if you need me to stop,” Dean reminded you, his voice strained despite the careful seriousness in his eyes. You answered by gripping his leg and sucking harder, making his head fall back against the couch with a broken curse.

Once he felt you settle into the rhythm, Dean’s control began slipping, his hips lifting more firmly as he fucked into the wet heat of your mouth. His fingers stayed tangled in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted while he drew you down until your nose nearly brushed the coarse hair at the base of his cock. He rolled his hips upward again, slow enough to let you breathe between thrusts but deep enough that your throat tightened around him.

You let saliva spill from the corners of your mouth, slicking his shaft and your swollen lips as he pulled back before pressing deep again. Tears gathered along your lashes from the repeated stretch, and Dean wiped one away with his free thumb without slowing. Dean groaned when you swallowed around him, his stomach flexing beneath your hands as the muscles in his thighs tightened.

“You look so fucking pretty with your mouth full,” he praised, his voice turning rougher when you moaned around his cock. The praise made you press backward instinctively, silently begging Sam to give you more at the same time. Sam’s hand tightened around your hip as he understood the movement, and his next thrust drove deeper into your soaked pussy.

Sam fucked you with long, forceful strokes, drawing nearly all the way out before sinking back inside until his hips met the soft curve of your ass. His hips established a steady rhythm that rocked your entire body forward onto Dean’s cock each time he buried himself inside you. The angle had the thick head of him rubbing somewhere deep that made your thighs tremble and your fingers dig into Dean’s legs.

One hand remained firm on your hip, controlling your movement, while the other slid around your body and found your swollen clit. “Spread your knees a little wider for me,” Sam instructed, his breath breaking when your pussy clenched around him. You obeyed immediately, opening yourself farther and giving his fingers more room to work between your thighs.

His fingertips rubbed tight circles over your clit, slick with the wetness that coated you both, while his cock continued stretching and filling you from behind. The pressure built so quickly that your stomach pulled tight, every thrust grinding his fingers harder against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Your moan vibrated around Dean’s cock, making him thrust into your mouth with a groan while Sam whispered, “There she is.”

Sam felt your body beginning to unravel before you could warn him, your pussy fluttering rapidly around his cock while your hips chased his fingers. “Right there?” he asked, already knowing the answer from the desperate way you pushed backward against him. He kept his thrusts deep and measured, grinding into you instead of pulling away as his fingers rubbed your clit faster.

Your knees shifted unsteadily on the couch, and Sam tightened his arm around your waist to keep you supported between them. Dean slowed the movement of your head, giving you room to breathe while still keeping his cock resting heavily against your tongue. He held your gaze as your eyes lifted toward him, his expression softening despite the raw hunger carved across his face. “Cum for him, sweetheart,” Dean encouraged, stroking your wet cheek while Sam drove into you again.

Sam pinched your clit lightly between two fingers before rubbing it with firm, rapid strokes, his mouth pressed close to your shoulder as he praised how tightly you were taking him. The combined pressure of Sam filling you, his fingers working your clit, and Dean’s cock pulsing inside your mouth finally dragged you over the edge.

Your orgasm tore through you with enough force to make your entire body lock between them, a muffled cry breaking around Dean’s cock as your thighs shook violently. Your pussy clamped down around Sam in repeated waves, squeezing him so tightly that his thrusts faltered and a harsh groan ripped from his chest.

Sam swore against your skin, holding himself deep inside you while his fingers continued rubbing your clit through every helpless contraction. Dean pulled his cock back enough to let you gasp for air, his hand still supporting your head while he watched your face crumple with pleasure. You shook beneath Sam’s hands, your hips twitching uncontrollably as slick wetness spread over his cock and down your inner thighs. “Good girl,” Sam murmured, pressing slow kisses along your shoulder while your pussy continued pulsing around him.

Sam kept his movements shallow until the overstimulation made you whimper, then finally stilled and let his hand rest warmly over your lower stomach. Dean withdrew from your mouth completely, his cock shining with your saliva and still hard enough to throb against his abdomen. Neither brother let himself cum, both of them visibly straining against the need because they had already decided they weren’t finished sharing you.

For a moment, all three of you stayed tangled together while you struggled to catch your breath, your body loose and trembling from the orgasm. Dean brushed your damp hair away from your forehead, looking far too smug for someone whose cock was still flushed and aching beside your face. “We’re not done with you yet,” he said, tracing your swollen lower lip with his thumb before glancing toward Sam. Sam eased out of your pussy slowly, watching the way your stretched entrance clenched around nothing once he was gone.

“Swap?” Sam asked, wrapping one slick hand around his cock and stroking himself once as he waited for your reaction. Dean’s grin sharpened while your exhausted body immediately stirred with fresh heat at the suggestion. They moved carefully around you, never touching one another as Sam stepped away from the couch and Dean shifted into a seated position.

Dean sat with his back against the cushions and his legs spread, his erection standing thick and rigid between his thighs. He reached for your hips and guided you around until you were hovering above him with your back facing his chest.

You lowered yourself onto Dean slowly, the broad head of his cock pressing through your soaked folds before stretching your sensitive entrance open again. Dean’s cock sank into you inch by inch, thicker than Sam’s in a way that made your pussy burn pleasantly as it adjusted around him. He groaned into the back of your neck when your ass finally settled against his lap and he was buried completely inside you. “Back against me, sweetheart,” he instructed, wrapping one arm firmly around your waist and drawing you against his chest.

You settled against him, your head resting briefly on his shoulder while his cock pulsed deep inside your still fluttering pussy. Dean planted his feet against the floor and lifted your hips before pulling you down again, making you gasp at the sudden force of the thrust. He thrust upward into you repeatedly, using his arm around your waist to bounce you against his lap as your wetness coated his cock.

Your breasts jiggled freely with every hard movement, the soft weight of them bouncing as Dean drove you up and down over his length. Dean cupped one from behind and squeezed it, rolling your stiff nipple between his fingers while he murmured, “Look at these pretty fucking tits bouncing for me.”

Sam stepped in front of you, towering over the couch with his cock still slick from your pussy and flushed dark from holding himself back. His cock twitched near your face, precum gathering thickly at the tip while he watched Dean make your body bounce in his lap. You wrapped one hand around Sam’s shaft and stroked him slowly, spreading the slickness along every hot inch as your lips parted beneath him. “Open up for me,” Sam said, catching your chin gently and tipping your face upward while Dean continued thrusting from below.

You did, extending your tongue so Sam could drag the swollen head across it before pushing his cock between your lips. Sam used your mouth at his chosen pace, one hand cradling the back of your head as he slid over your tongue and pressed carefully into your throat. Your free hand continued stroking the base of his cock whenever his hips pulled back, twisting your wrist and squeezing firmly enough to make his breath hitch. Dean thrust harder every time Sam pushed into your mouth, making your breasts bounce wildly while his fingers pinched and tugged your nipple.

Caught between Dean’s cock pounding into your pussy and Sam fucking your mouth above him, you could only moan around Sam’s length while both brothers praised how perfectly you took them.

Sam’s cock slid deeper into your mouth as Dean thrust upward beneath you, forcing a broken moan from your throat that vibrated around Sam’s length. Every drive of Dean’s hips lifted your body, making your lips move along Sam’s shaft while your hand tightened around the slick base of his cock. Dean’s arm stayed locked around your waist, holding your back firmly against his chest as he fucked into your dripping pussy from below.

Your breasts bounced with every impact, the soft flesh jiggling uncontrollably while Dean’s free hand squeezed and kneaded one of them. “That’s it, sweetheart, let him use that pretty mouth,” Dean groaned against your ear, pinching your hardened nipple until you whimpered around Sam. You sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks as Sam pushed forward and let the head of his cock press into your throat.

Sam’s fingers tightened in your hair, keeping your face tilted upward while he watched your watering eyes and saliva-coated lips. “You’re taking me so well,” he praised, dragging himself almost completely out before sliding back across your tongue. The sensation of being filled at both ends left you helpless between them, your wet pussy clenching around Dean every time Sam’s cock reached deep into your mouth.

Dean felt every contraction around him, and each tight pulse made his control fracture a little more. He planted his feet harder against the floor and drove his cock upward in forceful strokes, bouncing you on his lap until your ass slapped repeatedly against his thighs. Your slick coated the full length of him, gathering around the base of his cock and smearing across his skin whenever he buried himself completely. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” Dean muttered, slipping his hand from your breast down over your stomach.

His fingers found your swollen clit and rubbed it in rough circles while his other arm continued holding you in place. Your whole body jolted, forcing Sam’s cock deeper as you cried out around him. Sam paused long enough to let you breathe through your nose, his thumb brushing tenderly beneath one of your tear-bright eyes.

“Too much?” he asked, despite the dark hunger in his expression and the way his cock throbbed against your tongue. You shook your head urgently and stroked him faster, making Sam’s restraint disappear beneath a low, ragged groan.

Sam began fucking your mouth more steadily, guiding your head onto his cock while meeting each movement with a controlled thrust of his hips. The swollen head pressed against the back of your throat again and again, leaving you gagging softly while saliva slipped down your chin. His free hand cupped your jaw, feeling the shape of himself through your cheek as your mouth stretched around his thickness.

“Look at me,” Sam instructed, slowing just enough for you to lift your watery gaze to his. You obeyed, sucking hard as he withdrew, your tongue following the sensitive underside until only the tip remained between your lips. Sam’s breath hitched when you swirled your tongue around the head and dragged your fist firmly along the rest of his shaft.

“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” Dean said, his voice rough with pride while he continued pounding upward into you. Dean’s fingers pressed harder against your clit, matching the rhythm of his thrusts until your thighs began trembling around his legs. You moaned Sam’s name with your mouth still full, the muffled sound making his cock jerk against your tongue.

Dean kissed the side of your neck while his cock drove into the deepest part of you, each thrust forcing your body upward before he pulled you down again. Your breasts bounced wildly in front of Sam, your nipples stiff and flushed while Dean’s hand occasionally left your clit to slap lightly against the underside of one breast. The soft impact made your chest jiggle harder and sent another surge of wetness around Dean’s cock.

“These gorgeous fucking tits,” Dean breathed, cupping both breasts briefly and squeezing them together. Sam looked down at your body, watching Dean’s cock disappear into your pussy without directing any touch or attention toward his brother. His gaze stayed fixed on you, on your open mouth, bouncing chest, and the desperate movements of your hand around his shaft.

“You like being watched?” Sam asked, pulling his cock free so you could answer. “I like knowing what I’m doing to both of you,” you gasped, still bouncing helplessly on Dean’s cock. Dean laughed against your shoulder and thrust hard enough to cut your next breath into a sharp cry.

Sam tapped the heavy head of his cock against your tongue, smearing precum over your lips while your hand pumped him from base to tip. “Then look at what you’re doing to me,” he said, guiding your gaze downward to the flushed length twitching in your fist. You licked the precum from his slit before taking him back into your mouth, drawing a curse from him as your lips closed tightly around the head.

Dean’s fingers returned to your clit and rubbed faster, making your pussy squeeze around him so hard that his hips stuttered. “Easy,” Dean warned breathlessly, though he sounded like he was speaking to himself more than you. You deliberately clenched again, earning a strained groan and a sharp bite against your shoulder. “Trying to make me cum before your boyfriend up there?” Dean asked, his tone teasing despite how close he clearly was.

Sam’s eyes darkened at the word, but his expression softened when you reached up and squeezed his cock possessively. “They’re both yours,” Sam murmured, thrusting back into your mouth while Dean answered, “Damn right we are.”

The renewed claim sent a fierce wave of arousal through you, and Dean felt fresh wetness spill around his thrusting cock. His fingers circled your clit relentlessly, occasionally pressing directly against it until your body jerked and your nails dug into Sam’s thigh. Sam kept fucking your mouth while you stroked the portion you couldn’t take, twisting your wrist around the slick shaft each time he pulled back.

Your breathing became ragged through your nose, broken by wet choking sounds whenever he pressed farther down your throat. “You’re close again,” Sam observed, recognizing the frantic trembling running through your body. Dean slowed his thrusts into deep, grinding movements, keeping his cock buried while he rubbed your clit with firm strokes.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” Dean whispered, his lips brushing your ear as his fingers tightened around your waist. “Cum on my cock while you suck Sammy off.” Your pussy spasmed immediately at the command, the first hard contraction dragging a hoarse groan from Dean’s chest.

Your second orgasm built more slowly than the first, gathering beneath Dean’s fingers until every part of you felt stretched tight and unbearably sensitive. Dean kept grinding his cock into you, rubbing deep against your inner walls while his fingertips worked your clit without mercy. Sam pulled out of your mouth so he could hear you, wrapping one hand around his cock as he watched your face crumple with pleasure.

You cried out when the orgasm broke, your head falling back against Dean’s shoulder while your pussy clenched rhythmically around him. Your thighs shook violently, and your breasts bounced from the involuntary movements as Dean continued thrusting through every pulse. “Fuck, that’s it,” Dean groaned, holding you down on his cock while your wetness soaked his lap.

Sam stroked himself faster in front of you, his fist gliding over the slick length while he watched you tremble. Dean’s fingers slowed over your clit only when your whimpers turned breathless and overstimulated. He kissed your flushed cheek and murmured, “You’re gonna make it real hard for us to keep holding back.”

You reached for Sam before the last tremors had faded, wrapping your hand around his cock and guiding him back toward your mouth. Sam groaned at your eagerness, sliding the head between your lips while Dean resumed slow, powerful thrusts beneath you.

“Want my cum?” Sam asked, his voice hoarse as he gathered your hair into his fist again. You nodded around him and sucked greedily, stroking the base while your tongue worked beneath the sensitive head. Sam’s hips jerked forward, his restraint slipping as your mouth tightened around him and Dean’s thrusts rocked you against his body. Dean watched your cheeks hollow around Sam’s cock, his own breathing becoming harsh as your oversensitive pussy continued gripping him.

“Give it to her,” Dean urged, squeezing your bouncing breast as he fucked upward. Sam’s cock pulsed heavily on your tongue, his hand holding your head still while his body tensed in front of you. Your eyes stayed fixed on his as you took him deeper, silently begging him to finally stop holding back.

You knew from the way Sam’s cock pulsed against your tongue and the way Dean’s thrusts had started losing their rhythm that neither of them had much control left. Sam’s fist tightened in your hair, his hips jerking forward as another bead of precum spread across your tongue, while Dean groaned against your neck and buried himself deep inside your trembling pussy.

The thought of either of them finishing where they were made your stomach twist with need, but another image had already taken hold of you. You pulled your mouth off Sam’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging briefly between your swollen lips and his flushed head. “Wait,” you pleaded, making both men freeze despite how close they were.

Dean’s arm tightened around your waist as he fought to keep himself still, his cock throbbing hard inside you while Sam wrapped a desperate hand around his shaft. “What is it, sweetheart?” Dean asked, his voice wrecked and strained as though every second of restraint physically hurt. You looked between them, breathing hard, your cheeks hot and your lips glistening. “I want both of you to cum on my face.”

Sam’s eyes darkened immediately, and Dean made a sound behind you that was half laugh and half groan. “Jesus Christ,” Dean muttered, pressing his forehead against your shoulder while your pussy clenched instinctively around him. Sam’s hand began moving slowly over his cock, but he watched you carefully as though he needed to hear you say it again before he let himself believe it. “You’re sure?” he asked, his thumb dragging across the slick head as he stroked himself.

“I’m sure,” you said, turning your face toward him and licking your swollen lips. Dean eased you off his cock with visible reluctance, holding your hips securely while you climbed from his lap and lowered yourself onto the floor. You settled between them on your knees, naked and flushed, with your thighs still wet and your breasts rising quickly with every breath.

Dean stood beside Sam without touching him, both brothers facing you as they wrapped their hands around their aching cocks. “Look at you,” Dean said, staring down at you with hungry disbelief. “On your knees, asking us to cover that pretty face.”

You tilted your chin upward and opened your mouth, letting your tongue slide out as both men began stroking themselves faster. Dean’s fist moved firmly from base to tip, smearing your wetness and saliva over his cock while his free hand cupped your cheek. Sam’s strokes were slower at first, his grip twisting around the swollen head before dragging tightly down the full length of his shaft.

Their breathing filled the room, rough groans and broken curses overlapping as they watched you wait beneath them. “Stick your tongue out farther,” Sam instructed, his voice low and unsteady, and you obeyed immediately. Dean’s thumb stroked beneath your eye while his hips pushed helplessly into his fist, his cock twitching harder every time your gaze moved between them.

“You want all of it?” Dean asked, his voice breaking when you nodded eagerly. “Yes,” you breathed, leaving your mouth open as your tongue rested against your lower lip. Sam groaned at the sight and stroked faster, his stomach tightening visibly as he reached the edge.

Dean came first with a harsh curse, his cock jerking in his hand as the first thick spurt of cum struck your cheek. Another landed across your nose and upper lip, warm ropes streaking over your skin while he continued pumping himself through every pulse. You kept your mouth open, catching part of the next spurt on your tongue before swallowing it with a soft, satisfied moan. The sight pushed Sam over immediately, his jaw clenching as his cock throbbed violently in his fist.

His cum splashed across your other cheek and chin, some of it landing directly on your outstretched tongue as he groaned your name. You closed your lips around the warm taste and swallowed, then opened your mouth again while Sam milked the final drops from his cock. Their cum covered your face in thick streaks, glistening beneath the bunker lights as you looked up at them with swollen lips and flushed cheeks.

Dean stared down at you like the sight had stolen the last coherent thought from his head, while Sam’s hand drifted gently into your hair despite the hunger still burning in his eyes. You dragged your tongue across your upper lip, collecting what you could reach before swallowing again, and Dean groaned, “Sweetheart, you’re gonna fucking kill us.”

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Dean’s breathing was still uneven as he reached down and brushed his thumb carefully beneath your eye, his ruined grin softening into something warmer when you leaned into his touch. Sam crouched beside you with a towel he had grabbed from the back of the couch, his movements gentle as he began cleaning your flushed face.

“You okay?” he asked, studying you with the same serious attention he gave every injury, despite the obvious satisfaction lingering in his expression. You nodded, still trying to steady your breathing while Dean muttered, “Pretty sure she’s more than okay, Sammy.” Sam gave him a look that should have been annoyed, but the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him.

You laughed softly between them, exhausted and overwhelmed in the best way, and the sound seemed to ease the last of the tension from both brothers. Dean offered you his hand, helping you stand before drawing you carefully against his chest. Sam moved in beside you, one broad palm settling reassuringly at your back.

“You two really held all of that in for months?” you asked, glancing between them as Dean found a blanket and wrapped it loosely around your shoulders. “In our defence, communication isn’t exactly the Winchester family business,” Dean replied. Sam snorted as he sat beside you on the couch, leaving enough room for you to choose where you wanted to settle.

You chose the space between them, curling against Dean’s side while resting your legs across Sam’s lap. The decision made both men look quietly pleased, though Dean was far worse at hiding it. Sam’s hand moved slowly along your calf beneath the blanket, soothing rather than demanding anything more.

“We still need to talk,” he reminded you gently. Dean groaned and tipped his head back against the cushions. “Of course you’d schedule the relationship meeting immediately after.” You nudged Dean with your elbow and told him, “He’s right,” which earned you an offended stare.

The conversation came in pieces, softened by lingering touches and tired laughter. You agreed that jealousy wasn’t forbidden, only cruelty and silence, and that nobody would be expected to hide what they needed. Sam insisted that each relationship had to be allowed to develop naturally instead of becoming part of some competition Dean could keep score of.

Dean complained about the accusation before immediately asking whether kissing counted as a point, proving Sam’s argument for him. You promised neither of them would be treated like a consolation prize, because what you felt for each brother was different but equally real. That answer silenced Dean completely, his expression turning vulnerable before he hid it against your hair.

Sam squeezed your leg and looked down for a moment, swallowing around whatever emotion had caught in his throat. “We’re going to screw this up sometimes,” he admitted. “Probably spectacularly,” Dean added. You smiled and rested one hand over each of theirs. “Then we fix it together.”

Later, Dean carried you toward the hallway despite your insistence that you could walk perfectly well. Sam followed with your abandoned clothes and the sort of amused expression that suggested he knew arguing with Dean would only make him more stubborn. “You’re both ridiculous,” you murmured, looping your arms around Dean’s neck.

“Yeah, but apparently you’re into that,” Dean said, kissing your temple. Sam opened your bedroom door and pulled back the covers while Dean lowered you carefully onto the mattress. Neither brother assumed he should stay, and the sudden uncertainty on their faces made your chest tighten with affection. You reached for both of them before either could retreat.

“Stay,” you said simply. Dean climbed in on one side while Sam settled on the other, their bodies curved protectively around yours without touching each other. As the bunker grew quiet again, you realised you had spent months fearing that wanting both brothers would leave you with neither, only to fall asleep safely held between them.

“Fuckin’ look at you, baby,” Dean grabs your jaw, angling it exactly where he wants. “Prettiest girl in the fuckin’ world. My girl.”

You moan, head lolling. Dean smirks and taps your cheek.

“Look.”

It takes all the praise and coaxing in the world, but you manage. It’s the most sinful thing you’ve ever seen. You, glowing and drooling in Dean’s arms, your eyes lidded and lips swollen from his countless kisses. There isn’t a part of your body he hasn’t marked, an inch of skin that he isn’t teasing or groping. His face is twisted in concentration, his muscles flexing and bulging around you, the shaft of his massive cock slipping in and out of your pussy like a machine.

“See how fuckin’ gorgeous you are?” Dean mutters in your ear. “Prettiest fuckin’ girl in the world, makin’ a mess on my cock.”

And you are. You really are. You can’t look away from the slick, creamy mess where your bodies meet. Dean squeezes your cheeks again, your eyes meet, and it crashes into you like a storm.

He looks at you like you’re a goddess. In his arms, you feel like one.

“Watch,” he hisses, dragging your gaze  back to the mirror, right as he starts to rub your clit in furious tight circles.

You can’t help it. Your transfixed by the sight of you, more beautiful that you ever thought you could be, unraveling in Dean’s arms. He’s quick behind you, slamming home and stuffing you up with hot ropes of cum, fucking you through it with shallow thrusts.

Neither of you move for a while after. You don’t want to. You’re afraid the spell will break.

“Look at you, baby,” Dean murmurs, kissing over your neck. “Never seen anythin’ fucking better.”

And it’s so easy, to believe him. You know it won’t last. But you’re sure that, if you ask him, he’ll be happy to show you over and over again. Until it really, truly sticks.

✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦

✦Author's Note: request! dream situation

The light moves, when he walks. 

You noticed it the first time you met. You’d walked up to the building, shifting on your feet and peer at the buttons, and he’d elbowed right past you with a grunted apology. 

“Sorry, gonna be late- Shit-“

He’d walked right into the glass. 

You like to think of yourself as at least an okay person. The kind that helps someone, when they run into a door like a bird. But you’d still almost laughed, at the dazed expression on his face as he stumbled back. You’d laughed, and you’d caught his arm to steady him. It had made you falter a little bit as well, because he’d been a lot heavier than you expected—even for someone so taller—and you’d sunk your nails into his arm. His bicep had flexed under your hand. 

He’d grabbed your wrist with a grunt, both of you finding footing at the same time, and looked you right in the eyes. 

He’d had the prettiest eyes you’d ever seen in your damn life. His lashes might be longer than yours, the dark green almost hypnotizing, and his face- 

You hadn’t known men were allowed to look like that. You’d been so sure that the face looking at you was from a dream. Full lips and strong features, a slightly crooked nose and, sharp clean-shaven jaw. 

You’d blinked at him slowly. Held on a little tighter, in case this was a dream. Morning mist had bitten at your fingers, but his body had been warm. The haze of it all made it feel like a dream, and you’d leaned a little forward, but- 

There had been ice under your feet. You’d slipped with a tiny yelp. 

He’d grabbed you quickly. Wide eyed with an arm around your waist, pulling you a little closer. Your ankle had hurt—not a dream—and his breath had turned to fog over your face. Only a foot or so apart, something magnetic pulling you closer, something louder in your brain—call it a survival instinct—making you place a hand on his chest to stop yourself from melting into this complete stranger. 

His mouth had curved into a small grin. The light had moved. 

“Hi.”

“Hey.” You’d swallowed. “Are you-“

“I’m good.” He’d shrugged lazily. Still looking at you. “You?”

“I’m fine.” You’d whispered. “It’s- Happened before.”

That had been a lie. You’d never felt anything like this, that made your heart go to your ears and your whole body sing. Light by an electric fire, sparking when his thumb brushed a small line over your waist.

He might’ve seen right through you. His smile had grown. 

“You slip on ice while standing a lot?” He’d teased. 

“You run into glass doors a lot?”

He’d stared at you for a second. You’d bitten your tongue. You didn’t need to be that angry, that defensive, you didn’t even know him and he probably thought you were some kind of standoffish bitch- 

He’d laughed. Loud and clear, the first note of a song you’d been waiting to hear all your life. Your heart had skipped in your chest, and fallen into a beat you’d never felt before. It had felt right. He, with his arm around you and a wide smile on his face, had felt right. 

Then he’d pulled back, grabbing your arms to make sure you were steady on the ground, before coughing and rubbing the back of his neck. Still smiling. Still so close. 

“Guess I don’t. Was just in a rush to get inside, I think I got someone waitin’ on me- Not like that.” He’d added quickly, ears going red. “I live upstairs, and my friend moved in with her girlfriend, and my brother was crashing with his girlfriend but they found a place and now I- Never mind.” He’d shaken his head, making a face that at the time you hadn’t fully understood. 

Even now, you don’t understand. He’s only ever made the face when he’s talking to you. You know, because you watch everything he does.

Just to see if he knows he has your heart. That it’s wrapped around his hands, to pull and play with however he pleases. That he grabbed it when he caught you slipping, and he’d left a depression on your body where he’d touched you so easily. Fit so perfectly. You watch him all the time, because there’s nothing better than just watching someone you love. 

You hadn’t known you loved him then. You’d only known that he’d seemed nervous, and it had been sweet. That his face had been confused and adorable, even if you were able to place why. 

He’d extended his hand, an almost sheepish smile on his face. “Dean Winchester. That’s- My name.” 

You would’ve giggled, if you hadn’t been so busy panicking. You’d heard that name before. It was saved in your phone, along with the ad. 

And when you’d said your own name, you’d seen it hit him too. You’d slip your hand into his, fingers shaking—the cold or nerves, you’re still not sure—and he’d still felt right. So right. His fingers and wrapped, safe and firm around yours, and in another life you wonder if he would’ve pulled you forward into his arms. 

But you don’t live in that life. You live where he needed a roommate, and you needed a place to live, and that was more important than anything else. That wasn’t something you had the luxury to jeopardize, even for Dean. 

And you know now. You’d jeopardize a lot of things for Dean.

“I think you’re supposed to be waitin’ upstairs for me.” He’d rasped, and you’d laughed weakly. 

“I couldn’t get in the building.”

“Oh- Uh- Right.” He’d glanced at the doors. Still holding your hand. 

You hadn’t wanted him to let go. 

“At least you’re not late.” You’d said with a smile, and he’d look back to you. 

His eyes had shined, and in the mist, he’d still looked like an angel. A little more solid and real, but somehow less tangible. A little further away, but right in your hands at the same time. The light had moved. He’d chuckled, and it had moved something deep in your chest. Something final, shifting where it was supposed to be, as you flushed under Dean’s gaze. 

“Yeah.” He’d said. “I guess I’m not.”

You have this whole life, in your head. 

It’s a habit you built when you were a kid. It’s not a good one. Enough ghosted therapist have told you that for you to know. But knowing has never been your issue. 

You know a lot of things. You know yourself. You know that living where no one else can see makes you lonely, and you know that you can’t complain about the silence when you never speak. You know that every time someone asks you if there’s something going on there and you say no, it’s a lie you feel in the pit of your stomach. You know every time you hear soft laughter from his room and smell the perfume in the morning, it makes you so sick you might just vomit your guts all over the floor to see if he’ll clean them up. 

But you also know Dean. And you can’t tell anymore. If that makes it better or worse. 

You know him so well he might as well just be another part of you. You know what kind of shampoo and toothpaste he uses, because you buy it for him at the corner store. You know he likes hot sauce but can’t handle it as well as he claims, because you’ve watched him eat a hundred burritos with a proud smirk, only for his face to go red and his voice to get rough as he pretends he doesn’t want milk. 

You know he wears boxer briefs, because you do his laundry. You know he can’t sing for shit, because you hear him in the shower. You know he’s an amazing cook, because he makes you breakfast, and lunch, and dinner. 

You’ve told him he doesn’t have to do that. He always rolls his eyes, and ignores you, and you’re more grateful for it than you’ll ever be able to say. 

You never want him to stop doing it. It feeds your small little world—the one you entertain at night before you sleep, the one that keeps you going when you walk into the apartment, and he’s on the couch with some random girl with a smile that’s brighter than yours and words that are softer—because they don’t get to have that part of him. 

Not one girl that Dean lets into his bed—the one place in the whole damn apartment you’re not allowed to be, the one place you’d trade anything to be given just a glimpse—gets to stay until morning. They leave with a stomping feet and a slam of the door, and you hug your sheets as you hear Dean shuffle around outside your door. 

He’ll sigh loud enough to be heard through the walls. The shower will run, and you’ll bury your face in a pillow, hiding the shame of your arousal from the ceiling. 

You have no right, to picture him naked under the water. To imagine his broad chest and strong legs, the ripple of his muscles as he stretches to wash his hair with the shit you bought him. How he might bow his head to stare at you, if you massaged the soap into his soft, spiky hair. How close he’d be, how he might lick his lips, how his big hands would land on your hips. 

How you’d sink to the floor, and run a hand up his thigh. How you’d tilt your head, pressing your cheek near his groin, how he might mutter your name and cradle your head as his chest began to rise and fall in an unsteady rhythm. 

No right. You hump the sheets like some pathetic animal, and you muffle moans of his name into your sheets long after he’s back in bed, but you have no right. 

You don’t know how you look him in the eyes, in the morning, but it might be something about how it’s just you. His nightly company is gone. There’s a vulnerability, in how he shuffled around in hot dog pants and presents you with breakfast.

“Pancakes.” He mutters, ears red. “You, uh- Bought all those bananas. I cooked ‘em into it. Lemme know if it’s shit.”

You hum, pulling the plate closer. “It won’t be shit, Dean-“

“Could be. One day I might lose my touch.”

“No, you won’t.” You roll your eyes, and he smirks.

“Stop back talking and eat the damn pancakes.”

“That wasn’t back talking-“

“I’m sharing my fears, and you’re being invalidating-“

“Oh, shut up, I taught you what that word means.”

“That was your mistake.” He grins, leaning over the counter. Eyes locked on yours, hair still messy from sleep. 

The light moves. 

“You gotta know I don’t like lessons, sweetheart.”

You flush, and look down to the pancakes. You never know what to do, when he uses that voice on you. The deep one that makes your face heat, that feels like he’s testing a line you’ve told yourself you’re not allowed to cross. It’s the voice he uses on his company, and you know it’s just teasing, but it feed your dreams. It feeds the world you know isn’t real, that he’s never allowed to see.

“You made these with banana?” You say after a long silence, your face burning. “I love banana.”

Dean coughs, and when you look up, he’s making that strange face. 

“Yeah, uh- I know. I gotta go- Bathroom. Need to piss. And- Shit.”

You blink at him, and he almost takes off down the hall.

“I didn’t need to know that!” You call after him, and he shouts back. 

“Yeah, but I wanted you to!”

You laugh despite yourself, and look back to the pancakes. It’s just food. He’s just cooking for you, which he does all the time, but it’s still something that’s only yours. The smallest part of Dean that you get to keep. 

Food. The only part of him that’s only yours. It’s priceless to you. It’s the most important thing in the world. 

Because you live in your head. And in your head, you dream about a life where he loves you back. Where every time he comes home he walks over to you and picks you up. Kisses you on the counter, then pushes you down and eats you out like you’re the only dinner he’d ever possibly need. Where when you do his laundry, he comes up behind you and kisses your neck. Mutters something about you wearing his shirt, or wishing you’d just leave everything dirty so he could have you naked all the time. 

In your head, you never have to turn on the shower to cover your tears when he brings another woman home. You never have to stare at yourself in the mirror, and pick apart your every feature and expression to try and rationalize why it’s not you. Why you don’t get to have him, why he’s out there touching someone else, what they can give him that you can’t. You give him everything. You’d give him more, if he let you. 

But he doesn’t. And jealousy burns. It scars. It worms its way into your heart and festers, until you’re glaring at his door and curling your fists, fighting the urge to slam on the walls when you hear a high, pitchy whine of Dean through the wall. Some nights, the jealously turns in your stomach and you find yourself over the toilet bowl, literally sick with it. 

The worst part is that he’s not doing it to be cruel. To mock or taunt you. He’s just not thinking of you at all. 

After about a year of living with him, something in you had snapped. He might not think of you, but all you do is think of him, and if you’re going to be suck in the lonely and violent cycle, you might as well even your own playing field. 

Dean doesn’t know it, but you’ve turned it into a sick kind of game. It’s not a healthy one, or one you’re ever going to win, but winning isn’t the point. 

Numbing is the point. Escaping. Being anything but a toy that doesn’t get played with, stuck on the other side of the wall and picking at your skin until it bleeds. 

You start going to bars. Not the one down the street—that’s where Dean goes—but one a few streets up. It’s next to a club made of suffocating heat and too many bodies that aren’t safe—aren’t Dean—but it does just fine. Some nights you go to the bar. Some you go to the club. 

But you always come home with some nameless body attached to your hip. Kissing over your throat and mumbling your name. Touching your skin in a million different ways but never leaving a single dent. You let them sleep in your bed to one up Dean, but kick them out before he’s up. You wash their hands off in the morning, because your skin burns every single place they touched. 

Dean notices. He doesn’t say anything, but you know he notices. His flow of women seems to pick up, but you can’t prove it. 

You stop fucking yours at the apartment. You find beds all over the city, and stumble home in the morning with mess hair and your shoes in your hand. Then you push your way through the door one morning, and find that Dean’s girl from last night- 

She’s still there. Sitting at the counter drinking coffee, wearing his shirt.

“Oh, hi.” She blinks at you slowly. “Um- Dean?!”

“Yeah?” He pokes his head out from the bathroom, damp hair stuck to his brow. 

His eyes find yours. They’re strangely blank. You give him a weak smile, and his nostrils flare, his mouth twitching down. 

“You’re back.” He grunts. “You take the bus?”

You toss your shoes onto the mat. “I walked.”

“You walked-“

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

Dean works his jaw, still staring at you. The girl clears her throat. 

“Sorry, who are you?”

You open your mouth, but Dean beats you to the punch.

“She’s my roommate.” He mutters. His eyes tear away from yours, onto the girl. He looks her up and down, something sour in his expression that she seems to miss. 

“Hm.” She gives you a look of distain that makes you feel small. “I didn’t know you lived with a girl.”

“Wasn’t something you need to know.” He runs a hand over his face, looking down to his watch. “Shit- You eaten yet?”

You and the girl both say no at the same time. She looks like she wants to murder you. You want to run back outside, but your legs are rooted in place, so you just pray the floor will open up and swallow you whole. 

“I haven’t eaten yet, Deanie.” She looks back to Dean, lashes fluttering. “And you really worked up my appetite.”

There it is again. The sickness. You already drank too much, and you can barely remember last night, and you’re going to scream at the floor while all your love spills out with your bile-

“There’s a cafe down the block.” Dean shrugs. “Stop there on your way out. They got good muffins.” 

The girl blinks in confusion, opening her mouth, and Dean slams the bathroom door closed. Leaving you stuck with this woman in his shirt, in your home, shattering the small sanctity you’d built up, the last thread that maybe Dean thought about you enough to keep his nights shielded from your eyes. 

There’s really no reason why he would. He has no idea, that your love for him runs so deep you suddenly can’t stand to be wearing the socks the guy from last night lent you. They feel wrong on your feet. Like bricks, pulling you down, down, down. 

You walk past the furious girl, not meeting her eyes. When you hear Dean out in the hall, saying something to her in a hushed voice, you slip out of your room and into the shower without a glance in their directions. You don’t vomit. You do scrub your skin so hard it burns. 

And you can’t keep up the charade of just fucking around. It doesn’t do what it’s supposed to, when you just spend every night picturing Dean’s hands, Dean’s mouth, Dean’s body. When every voice is blocked out in favor of imagining Dean’s. You’re not built for whatever corner you’ve backed yourself into. It’s going to eat you alive from the inside. 

When you get out of the shower, the girl is gone. Dean’s still in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. You sit at the counter, and try not to feel too aware of the space she’d been in. Try not to wonder if he’s feeling her absence, the same way you look around the clubs and bars, glance up and down every strange hallway and street, and hope that maybe he’ll appear out of thin air and catch you when you’re not even falling at all. 

Not falling in a way he can see, at least. But you are. Further and further, the wind gone from your lungs, your heart beat still drumming that same song. Dean, Dean, Dean. Not yours, not yours, not yours. 

“You want pepper?” He cuts through your thoughts, and you look up at him with a frown.

“What?”

“I made eggs.” He’s not looking at you. His ears are red. “I, uh- I kinda already salted them, but- You always take them with salt. I can start over. If you don’t like it.”

You blink at him. Shake your head slowly. He cooked for you. 

The space where the other girl used to be suddenly doesn’t feel like anything at all. 

“Salt is good.” You whisper, and he looks over his shoulder.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him. His mouth twitches up, and something foolish and unbreakable soars in your chest. “I’m sure.”

He stopped sleeping around. 

And maybe he’s just hiding it better than before, but you choose to believe that he isn’t. That he’s home every night because he wants to spend time with you, rather than a girl he’s going to kick out in the morning. 

You were friends before. You’d become friends the day he helped you move in and he made a stupid joke that you laughed at. He’d grinned so widely it made your gut flutter, and then asked what kind of movies you liked. You’d told him, and made a tradition out of watching at least one movie, every Friday night. 

It was a holy night, Friday night. Even when you’d been forcing yourself into painful shapes to fit in others arms, and he’d been pulling women through the door without a glance in your direction, you’d both still honored movie night. You’d curl up under a blanket together, and switch back and forth between who chose what. Dean would hold the popcorn in his lap, and you’d allow yourself close enough to get drunk on  his leather and spice smell, to absorb the feeling of his shoulder bumping yours and let it all carry you through the week. 

Sometimes you’d yell at the screen together. Sometimes you’d both get quiet, genuinely entranced by the film. But you always ended up with your thighs pressed together under that blanket. Always talk after, for about an hour, before something would shift and you’d both just stare. The dark wasn’t dark enough to hide how handsome he was. The warmth of the blanket became nothing compared to the heat of your face. The heat in your stomach. The haze of the TV made you feel like you were back in that misty dream, and Dean- 

He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed. 

And he never does that. You know he never will. But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave. 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”

“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”

“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”

You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze. 

“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”

You stare at him for a second. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”

“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”

“On a favorite color?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”

You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“

“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”

“I owe you-“

“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”

You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know. 

“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.

“I hate cats.”

“What?” You sit up. “Why?”

He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”

“So?”

“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”

You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”

He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”

“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”

He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm. 

“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”

“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.

“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“

“Make a better one.”

He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.

“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”

“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”

You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. He has no idea. 

That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.

“Reading and eating?”

He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”

“A… Book?”

That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”

Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”

Again. He’s not joking. So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation. 

You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.

“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”

You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying. 

A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. Right next to him on the couch.

And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch. 

Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares. 

You didn’t know he had nightmares. Apparently his mom’s family was kind of crazy, and his dad himself wasn’t much better. He enlisted in the marines to make his Dad proud. Got honorably discharged, after an accident that put him in a coma for a few weeks. 

“You never told me that.” You murmur, staring at your shot glass. He sighs. 

“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”

You swallow, looking up at him. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid. 

Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized. 

If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.

How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep. 

But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”

He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction. 

The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life. 

“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back. 

You mean it. Almost. There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know. 

But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t. 

So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world. 

It hits you at the worst time. The realization. Dean’s not just the hot roommate you’re in love with anymore. 

He’s your best friend.

It’s terrifying. It somehow makes everything better and worse all at the same time. He’ll be in your life for a long, long time. You can’t imagine a world without him anymore, and you think whatever gap he left when he took your heart, he’s filled up so well your body might just stop working if you ever lose him. 

It solidifies what you already knew. You can never tell him, because it might make him walk away.

But one day he’s going to find someone else. They’re going to get married. Maybe have babies. They’re going to build a part of his life that you’re allowed to witness, but never be a part of. It’s going to kill you, but you quickly decide that you’ll let it if you must. You’d rather have him then loose him. 

And at least this way, you can try to move on. And you really try to move on. 

You download all the apps. You talk to people and get ghosted and land a few dates. You tell Dean you have a date—on a Wednesday, because the guy wanted Friday, but you couldn’t bring yourself to agree—and he stares at you like he’s never heard the word before. 

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head, then makes the face. “Alright.”

You swallow. You don’t know what you wanted him to say. You know it was more than that. 

“Can I share my location with you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. “In case he’s like- An axe murder?”

Dean doesn’t smile. “Sure. Have fun.”

You nod, some part of you waiting for him to say more. He doesn’t. The most you get is a quick look after you change, his jaw flexing and body shifting. You offer him a nervous smile and ask if it’s good—trying to at least pretend that you’re not mostly wearing such a short dress for him to see—and he just nods. Looks back to his phone, his voice low and oddly strained. 

“You look amazing.” He grunts. “He’ll have to be crazy not to like it.”

It’s all you get out of him. Not enough to really inflate into something. More than enough to take over your thoughts for the rest of night, to the point that you’re staring at the man across the table and forgetting his name, because all your brain can do is dissect what Dean meant by amazing. 

He turned out to be right. The nameless man wolf whistled when he saw you. Showered you in compliments that only made you smile sheepishly, placing a hand on your lower back and cooing something suggestive you can’t even remember anymore. 

You’d feel worse about how little attention you’re paying to him, if he wasn’t only talking about himself. You’d have some level of guilt, if he didn’t try to get you into his taxi at the end of the night despite having not asked a single question about your life. Daydreaming about Dean turned out to be the most effective use of your time, with how the night went. 

But only this night. Because the pattern repeats. You go on a date. You try—a little hard every single time—and a handful of times, you even make it to a third or fourth date. You sleep with a few of them, two or three a few times. Once, you get far enough with a perfectly nice guy name Jake that you let him come back to your apartment. 

Far enough that he meets Dean. And that’s where it all falls apart. 

Every guy that doesn’t make it past the first date, it’s because you’re too lost in thoughts of Dean. If they do get that second time, it’s because you can squint at them and see him instead. The men you sleep with have builds that are similar. The ones you sleep with twice have voices. 

And with Jake, you only really see it when he and Dean are standing in the same room. When he reaches out with a weary expression, and Dean takes his hand with a scowl. 

“You must be Dean.” Jake says slowly, and Dean nods.

“Must be, huh.” He shrugs, his knuckles white. “Wish I could say I knew who you were, buddy, but I got no damn clue.”

You want to sink into the floor or jump out the window, because it’s so painfully obvious. With Jake. With Michael, after Jake leaves. With Shawn, after Michael gives up. 

Then again, when Shawn—a little slower than the other two—sees it as well. 

“Is there… Something with you and Dean.”

“No.” You mutter, not convincing yourself. “We’re just close friends.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

Shawn says your name, and you hug your legs to your chest. You know what’s coming. You’ve even started hearing it from people who only make it to the third date, when you talk about him too much. From that one guy with a voice that was a little too close, who had to deal with you moaning the wrong name. 

“Yeah?”

Shawn is a little slow. He doesn’t get it on the nose, but he’s more than close enough. 

“You know, you might not see it, but- You and Dean… I don’t like it.”

“Why? We’re just-“

“I swear to god, don’t say friends.” Shawn snaps. “You never look at me the way you look at him! Never smile at me, never listen- You hang out with him more than me, you cancel dates because he asked you to, you just let him toss you around like you’re a toy-“

Your head snaps up, voice going cold. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

Shawn scoffs. “Come on. You have to hear yourself-“

“He’s my friend-“

“I’m sure you think that.” Shawn spits. “But I know. Dean knows. Everyone knows you’re just his bitch.”

You leave. Stand up, and march out the door. When Shawn tries to follow you, you flip him off and tell him that if he ever speaks to you again, you’re going to call the police. 

He scoffs. “Or you’re just going to sic Dean on me. That fucking asshole will probably do whatever you ask, like a fucking dog.”

You punch him, and run. You’re not sure if he’ll chase. You don’t want to find out. Once you’re a few blocks away, you call Dean. He told you to call him, if you ever needed a ride home. You’ve never taken him up on it, because after that morning with the girl, there had been a rotting fear of him seeing you like that again. 

But it’s dark. And you’re cold, and tired. He said he didn’t want you walking home alone. 

He picks up after two rings. Doesn’t ask questions, when you tell him where you are or when he pulls up to the curb. 

He brought a blanket and ice cream. You wrap yourself in it, and give him a weak smile as you slide into the Impala. Your eyes are heavy, your eyes red and fingers shaking, but Dean only looks you up and down, and mutters one soft question.

“You okay?”

You nod, and pull the blanket a little tighter. You are now. He’s here. 

And some small part of it feels good. Shawn was the first guy in a while that you got to break up with. 

All the others left because they realized they were just faded, poorly done copies of Dean. Right down to the flannel and voice. Right down to everything but Dean’s irreparable, impossible smile. Right down to everything but his light. 

“You want me to beat him up?” He asks while you’re stuck at a red light. 

You laugh weakly, and shake your head. “No. Thank you, though.”

“Anytime.” 

There’s a long silence, but it doesn’t ache. Doesn’t feel anything but peaceful. Anything but safe. You keep eating your ice cream. You offer Dean a bite, and he takes it with a small grin. He turns up the music just enough and looks to you for approval on the song. You offer it with a smile. 

Your head slowly drops onto his shoulder. He tenses but doesn’t move away. After a second, his hand finds your knee. Stays there. 

You let out a long, heavy breath. And you know. You’re not going to be able to move on. 

“I need a favor.”

You look up from your cereal with a frown, the spoon already in your mouth. “Huh?”

A little milk dribbles down your chin and you scramble to wipe it, face burning with embarrassment. Dean watches with a smirk, raising his brow when your eyes meet, and your hand slips. The spoon falls into the bowl, splashing over your face. More cereal escapes your mouth, and you whine like a child, trying to wipe with your hands.

“Son of a- Jesus, woman.” Dean passes you a napkin, shit-eating grin on his face. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“I’m not trying to.” You grumble, wiping your shirt. “And no being mean, you said you needed a favor.”

“Well, I’m rethinking it now-“

“Dean.”

He just grins under your glare. Leans forward and laughs like you’re not actively planning his murder.

“You still got something.” He points to your chin, and you stick your tongue out at him as you dab it. He snorts. “You know I’m helping you, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“Not with milk on your face- Fuck-“

His hand had slipped. Landed right in your bowl, sending it flying right at his face. You burst out laughing as he’s drenched in milk and soggy cereal, a sour expression on his face that’s a little less effective than he probably wants it to be. You can see him fighting the smile. 

“Shit.” He groans, running a hand down his face then flinching when he sees the damage on his hand. “Goddammit, this shit is gonna take forever to get out-“

“It’ll be fine.” You push to your feet with a shrug. “Come on, I can wash it.”

You start down the hall, and don’t realize that Dean isn’t following until you’re at the bathroom door. You look back, and he’s just standing in the kitchen. Mouth in a tight line, milk dripping from his hair, eyes wide.

You frown. “Dean, come on. The longer you let it sit the worse it’s going to be.”

You wave him forward, and it’s like you tugged on an invisible rope. He stumbles forward, hands dropping awkwardly to his side, and follows you with an oddly nervous expression. You’re not sure what’s going on with him. It’s just a bathroom. 

“Sit.” You point to the floor next to the tub. “Put your head back, and take off your shirt. I’ll wash it later.”

Dean nods, giving you that strange look before pulling his shirt slowly over his head. He drops it on the closed toilet lid and lowers himself to the floor just as you asked. You kneel at his side, turning on the shower with a sigh. You have shampoo, and a removable shower head. This really shouldn’t be that hard. 

It only hit you when you look back to him. What a massive mistake you made.

Dean’s shirtless. Close enough that, if you just stretched your fingers, you’d be able to touch his chest. His skin, smooth and soft looking. The muscles that shift as he breathes heavily. When your eyes lock onto his, you almost gulp. 

He’s staring at you under hooded eyes. His jaw is clenched, his arms stiff at his side. Waiting for you to touch him. Clean him up. You’re supposed to be cleaning him up. 

You take a deep breath, and force your body to move. You wipe the milk off his face while the water gets warm. Rinse his hair, then steel yourself as you rub in the shampoo. It’s so painfully close. So intimate. You feel like you’re invading on yourself. Like you’re doing something so strangely dirty, just by washing his hair. You’d been right, every time you dreamt about it. It is soft. When your fingers brush against his scalp, his whole body shudders, then relaxes. When you repeat the motion, his hands flex. 

You can’t keep looking at his body. It’s dangerous. You clear your throat, and try to think of anything else to say. 

“What’s the favor?” You mumble, and Dean grunts.

“It’s- Uh- Nothing. Never mind.”

You pause, fingers stilling in his hair. “Dean. What’s the favor.”

“I said never mind-“

“Dean Winchester.”

He sighs, long and labored. Opens his eyes just enough to examine you through his eyelashes, then closes them again. “You can’t get pissed. If you don’t wanna do it, just- Say no. And we’ll forget it. Okay?”

You bite your lower lip, but nod. “Oh- Okay.”

“So.” He coughs. “Y’know how Sammy’s gettin’ married?”

“Mhm.” You focus on his hair, even as your fingers start to shake for no reason at all. He’d called you after his trip to California to help Sam with the ring. Excitedly shown you all the photos after the proposal. You’d been thrilled for him, then sat in this very same tub for an hour, trying not to cry about how that was never going to be you and him. “You want me to water the flowers?”

He chuckles softly. “Not exactly. And those are your flowers, sweetheart.”

“You bought them.”

“‘Cause you were sad about not gettin’ a cat, and- Never mind.” He takes a deep breath. “My thing is- it’s next month. The wedding. I gotta go home for it. And, uh- I was wondering. Just- A thought. Nothin’ you gotta commit to right now, but- Thought I’d ask, even if you didn’t wanna-“

“Dean.” You snap him gently out of the rambling, and he coughs. 

“Right. Sorry. Just- Here’s the deal.” 

He takes a deep breath, and you stop massaging his hair. He looks so painfully tensed, his whole body seized up, his pretty lips in a tight pout. He’s dragged his eyes open again, and they’re fixed so nervously  on yours. He’s grabbed your knee with one hand. Like he’s worried you’re going to kick him, or run away. 

“My whole family’s gonna be there.” He mutters, searching over your face with every word. “They’ll all be on my ass, about Sammy already settling, and me- Not doin’ that.” He coughs. The red from his ears spreads over his cheeks. “And I just figured, if they thought I was gonna settle, maybe… The whole thing would be easier. For everyone.”

You stare at him, the words slowly falling into place in your head. It takes a moment. His hand squeezes on your knee, and it almost knocks them into you. Forces all the meaning into place. 

Your mouth falls open. “Are you asking me to-“

“Yeah. But- Only if you want to.” He gives you a small, boyish grin. “But I’d owe you. Big time. Like- I’d pay the whole rent for two months big time.”

You shake your head. “Dean, don’t-“

“I’m serious, I really need this-“

“I know but, that’s so much money, and-“ You sigh, brow furrowing in a tight line. “I don’t know. I don’t know how to do… that.”

He squeezes your knee again. “We’d figure it out. Together.” Another charming smile. “How about one favor. Whatever you want. No questions, no expiration. You could use it to get a cat.”

You laugh weakly, and he squeezes your knee again. He’s giving you almost puppy-like pleading eyes. You don’t know how you’re going to say no, but- 

All you want is him. A cat would be nice, but all you’ve craved, for so so long, is Dean. And that might be limit of his favor. A limit that might outweigh the toll it comes with. Pretending to be Dean’s girlfriend, for a week, with his family. Having everything you want, and making it all play. All a lie. All fake.

“Why me?” You ask softly, looking back to his hair. It’s filled with suds. You should probably start washing it soon. “I mean, there’s Charlie. Or- An actress, or Pam from work, she’s nice-“

“My mom already knows you.” Dean cuts you off with low words. “Easier sell, than some random chick she’s never heard of.” 

A lump forms in your throat. “Your mom knows me?”

“Yeah. I talk about you.”

You flush. It’s an impressive feat, the way you manage to force your voice into something teasing instead of confused and hopeful. 

“Aw, you love me-“

“Shut up.” He grunts, pinching your knee in the spot he knows makes you squeal. 

“Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins up at you, and he doesn’t sound it. Stupid, perfect asshole. “But- Please, sweetheart. Please. One favor. Anything.”

You really shouldn’t agree. You shouldn’t. It’s going to back fire. The love that’s been gnawing at you since that day on the ice is going to finally grow sharp enough to eat you alive. 

But he said please.

“Okay.” You mutter, and he grins. 

You can’t find it in you, to regret agreeing. It made Dean smile.

“I hate this.” He mutters. He hasn’t sat down since you got through security. You’re a little worried he’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “I really fuckin’ hate this, I- We should go back. Baby’s still in the lot, if we leave now we’ll make it-“

“Dean.” You catch his hand, giving him a firm look. “We already paid.”

“Fuck- What if we call a bomb threat, they might give us a refund-“

“Or we’ll get arrested. For domestic terrorism.” You squeeze his hand gently. Offer him a soft smile. “Just sit down. We’re not even on the plane yet, you’ll have plenty of time to freak out later.”

Dean works his jaw. Looks longingly down the terminal, then back to you. Sighs, and sits with a grunt. You smile, rubbing his back as he glares at the floor. To any outsider, it probably looks like you are dating. 

It should. You’ve been practicing.

“I’m not freakin’ out.” He grumbles, and you smile affectionately.

“Okay.”

He scowls. “I’m not.”

“I said okay.” You hold his glower with a smile. He stares at you—and you could swear his eyes flick to your lips, but you might just be going insane—and slumps down into the seat. 

“I hate this.”

“I know, De.” You move your hand to his hair, running your finger through it gently. Just like you did in the bathroom.

Like he’s been letting yourself do, since you agreed to the fake dating thing. He’s called it training. You touch each other more, you call him De and he calls you baby. You sit closer—although it may just be as close as before, only now you’re allowed to dive right into it instead of inching towards him on the couch—and share food. You’d nailed down a backstory. Negotiated all the small details of your fake relationship, that’s a little too close to the truth for comfort. 

But still not real. In moments like this, when you’re touching him causally and he’s leaning into it, where you’re in the noise of the airport but it still feels like only you and Dean in the world, you have to remember that it’s fake. 

“You’re gonna be okay.” You offer, and he snorts. 

“We’re gonna die.”

“No, we’re not. It’s only a five-hour flight, the worst thing that will happen is they won’t offer any meals.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. He’s pacing and playing grumpy, but he’s afraid. You know he’s afraid. He’d never stood as close to you, as when you were going through security. You’d never seen him so nervous as when you were driving to the airport. You don’t think he even slept last night. 

You’re worried about him. Worried he had one of those nightmares he won’t talk about, worried he’s going to fall over, worried he might actually run. You hook your arm through his, when they start calling boarding. Anchor yourself against him, when you’re the last two people left at the gate, and you have to get on the plane. 

It would be cute how jumpy he was, if you weren’t this worried. You’d tease him if he didn’t stumble down the walkway and freeze when he saw the plane door. 

You know you had to fly. Baby needed extra work after a bad storm that messed with her tires, and Dean had been so swamped at work he hadn’t gotten the chance. He’d been ready to just push her, until you did the math and realized that—even with the earliest you could leave—you’d only get there on Sam’s wedding day and get home after both your time off periods had finished. If he wanted this to work, he was going to have to fly. 

“Why couldn’t they just get married in Kansas.” He whines, and you smile. Buckle him in like he’s a toddler, because he’s shaking too much to do it himself.

“They don’t live in Kansas. And it’s like- Freezing there right now.”

“So? Winter weddings, those can work. Could’ve done, like- Snow photos- Fuck-“

He shoots up, when the plane starts moving. You sigh, and tug him back down by the collar of his shirt.

“We’re just going to the runway. It’s fine. We’re fine.” You pause, then take his hand. 

Really, fully, take his hand. Fingers woven together, palms pressed flat. He pulls on you slightly, tugging your hand with his up over his heart. You give him a soft smile, and he just blinks at you frantically.

“It’s okay.” You keep your voice gentle, and his throat bobs. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced. His breathing stays shallow. But at the very least, he stops trying to convince you to get off the plane. 

You settle in, watching him with a little too much open affection on your face. The sweet old lady in the aisle seat leans over, and asks if your boyfriend needs medical attention. You laugh, and tell her he’s okay. 

If Dean hears it in your voice—how much you adore him—he doesn’t say anything. You’re pretty sure he’s too focused on his panic to hear anything at all. 

He hums Metallica, through the whole take off. Grips your hand so tight you stop feeling your fingers, but you don’t complain. It seems to help. You make it to the air, and he’s still conscious. 

He does make the mistake of looking out the window. You watch the blood drain from his face, and quickly grab it between your hands.

“We’re gonna switch seats.” You say firmly, and he blinks. Nods, clinging to your wrist like it’s the only thing tethering him from a complete panic attack. 

You shuffle around, and somehow manage to switch without Dean ever letting go of your body. You hit a bit of turbulence, and he looks like he wants to punch something. Stares around the plane with glazed over, almost rabid eyes. Looks at you so desperately, it almost breaks your heart. 

Your body moves before your brain can think better. You grab Dean’s head again, and drag it down against your chest. He pauses. You hold your breath, ready for him to push you away and tell that you took it too far.

Instead, his arms shoot around your torso. His face turns to press into your breasts, and he melts into your hold. You swallow. You really hope he can’t hear your heart. How it’s about to beat out of you and into him. Where it knows it belonged. 

“Can you...” Dean speaks into you, the sound rolling through your ribs. “Just- Talk? Please? ‘Bout anything, but-  Please.”

“Yeah. I- Yeah.” You take a deep breath, and your fingers start to comb through his hair. He shudders, holds you tighter. 

And you talk. About anything. About the book you’d been reading, about some random drama at work, about how you’ve been studying his family in preparation to meet them. Studying the flashcards he made you and employing… other methods. 

“I stalked your mom on Facebook.” You say sheepishly, face heating. “I followed her bread blog, too. And- I looked up how to knit, I know she’s into that. I can make a hat now. It’s a shit hat, but I can do it. She follows a birdwatching account, too, so I learned some birds. And- That soup kitchen she volunteers with. That’s cool.” You swallow. You sound insane. “She seems really nice.”

“She is nice.” Dean mumbles. It the first thing he’s said in two hours. “She’s gonna love you.”

“I hope so.”

“She will.” He snuggles further into your body. His fingers have been digging into your hips, and they might leave bruises. You don’t mind.

“She’ll love you.” Dean repeats, his words soft. “Everyone says she’s a lot like me.”

For a second, you just nod, still petting his head. Then you hear what he actually said, and your heart does an Olympic level flip.

“What?” You squeak, looking down with wide eyes. He doesn’t respond. “Dean, what does that-“

A snore rumbles from his chest. The lack of sleep from last night caught up with him. He’s out cold.

You sigh. Resume your petting, even if it’s really more for you now. The old lady leans over, giving a kind small and keeping her voice down.

“You two are a lovely couple.” She whispers. “And I must say, it’s wonderful to see a man who adores his lady as much as this one adores you.”

And you smile in return, even as tears burn behind your eyes. 

“Thanks. He’s-“ You sigh, and smile down at Dean. Dead to the world, and so painfully perfect. “He’s the best.”

It’s another two hours, to get up to the ranch Sam and Jess are renting for the wedding. The moment Dean gets behind the wheel he relaxes, grinning widely and leaning back in the seat. You smile out the window, and hide your flush when his hand finds your thigh.

“It’ll be late when we get there.” He says. His thumb is drawing circles into your skin. “We’ll have time to change, but-“ He sighs. “We’re gonna have to fuckin’ run to dinner. My Dad will shoot us if we’re late.”

You huff a small laugh, just for Dean’s sake. You don’t think he’s joking. 

And as happy as it made you to see his relief when you landed safely, as high as it felt to hold his hand while you walked to baggage, and how good it felt to have him keep an arm around you while you grabbed the rental car, it makes you feel sick to watch him slowly curl into himself, the closer and closer you get to the ranch. 

To seeing his family. To seeing his dad. 

Anything you know about John Winchester is what Dean’s told you. None of it has made you his biggest fan. Not the military shit, not the strictness or casual stories he’s thrown out about John threatening to kick him out, and only Mary being able to talk him out of it. 

But you know Dean admires his Dad. Know how important family is to him in general.

You’re important to him too. Even if he doesn’t love you, you know you’re important to Dean. Important enough for him to stand so close and ask you for such intimate favors. 

Probably not close enough to trump his dad. 

So you don’t say anything, as you watch him get restless. Don’t mention that his leg is bouncing, or how he keeps looking over his shoulder when you pull into the parking lot. Dean grabs your arm and drags you inside, looking at his watch every few seconds with a paler and paler face. You’d gotten stuck in traffic, which wasn’t his fault at all, but you don’t think it’s smart to say that either. 

“Dean.” You say gently when you get to the room. He’s still holding your hand. “I have to go get changed.”

“Uh- Yeah.” He blinks at you, eyes dragging over your body. You press your thighs together, heat blooming from the attention. By a small miracle, he doesn’t seem to notice at all. 

“My hand.” You prompt him gently, and for a second he looks like he really doesn’t understand what you’re saying. “Dean, I can’t change if you’re-“

“Shit. Right.” He lets you go, stumbling back like you burned him. “Sorry. Just- Can you be fast-“

“Five minutes. Promise.”

And you don’t know how you keep that promise—doing your hair, basic makeup, making yourself presentable and nice because it might be fake but it still matters—but you do. You come out to find Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, cleaned up pretty well himself, leg bouncing as he stares at his phone. 

Bed. Single bed. Fuck. 

Dean looks up, and his throat bobs. “Awesome. You ready?”

You nod, and hold out a hand. It’s a small gesture that’s too quickly becoming an instinct. Even worse is how fast Dean takes your hand. Like he’s not really thinking about it either. 

He doesn’t seem to the be thinking about any of this. It’s coming like air to him, how he’s walking you down to the hotel restaurant, standing taller and taller with every step. He keeps you close, so close there’s no way to read it but romantic. When you arrive, he scans over the room with an alert expression, keeping you a little behind him. You see the moment he finds his family. 

He smiles, squares his shoulders, and lets out a heavy breath. You see a blonde woman with his eyes and smile stand up from a table on the far side of the room, and—when you dare to lean a little further over Dean’s shoulder—a man grabbing her arm. A man who looks so similar to Dean—hair a little darker, face a little more worn but still remarkably similar—but doesn’t have his smile at all. You’re not sure this man knows how to smile. It feels like it would be wrong on his face.

“Showtime.” Dean mutters, squeezing your hand, and before you can damn this all and run—not real, but too real, and there’s a ringing starting in your ears—he kisses the top of your head and drags you forward. 

You think he drugged you that. That that single kiss did something to your mind and body, because suddenly you’re stumbling after him and everything is all a fever dream. 

Dean’s hugging his Mom. Exchanging a tight nod and awkward shoulder clap with his dad—who, at the very least, grabs Dean’s arm and nods back—before turning to the impossibly taller man next to the empty seats, and shouting Sammy so loud some of the glasses seem to shake. Sam stands—you’ve never seen him in person, he’s somehow even taller than you thought—and drags Dean into tight hug, muttering something that makes Dean laugh. You smile, because it’s impossible not to when he seems this happy. 

Then Dean looks at you, smiling himself, and the world slows to a beautiful stop. Just you and Dean, the glow of the chandelier light, and the way it bends around him. Makes him look more hero than man again. Makes him look like a spirit from a grove, wandering out of the shadows to carry you into the river. 

Your smile widens. Dean’s reflects it, and maybe he’s just a siren sent to enchant you beyond reason. It’s working. And if you’re drowning right now, he’s already filled your lungs with his scent, his touch, his affection. The whole universe, in this split second, is just the chime of glass and Dean.

But the world speeds up again. He says your name, holding out a hand, and time rushes back into place. 

They’re all looking at you. Staring. The ground is slipping out from under your feet, and you feel over and underdressed at the same time, and- 

“Baby,” Dean prompts softly, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. You don’t know when he got back to your side, but if he leaves it again, you’re going to stab him. “Say hi.”

You look back to his family, and throw on your best smile. “Hi.” 

Mary’s face breaks into a smile, wide and warm, and before you know what’s happening you’re being swept up off the goddamn ground. 

“Oh, it’s wonderful to meet you.” She says. “Dean’s told me so much, and- You’re even more gorgeous than he made you sound, which is really a high bar.”

“Mom.” Dean hisses, and Sam snorts. You barely even hear. You’re too busy staring at Mary. 

She’s touching your arms and face like a blind woman trying to memorize something you can’t see. She’s examine you almost like a slab of meat, and all you can do is stand there and wait for her to conclude. Her voice had a quaintly to it that’s so similar to Dean’s you almost laughed. It’s musical, but in the way of a battle cry. Has a rhythm, but more like war drum. 

And looking into her eyes, you can see why people say she and Dean are similar. There’s a stubborn fire that you know too well. A little less playfulness, but not none. You know Dean said she had a hard life, before she met John. You wonder if she has nightmares too. 

“Hey, woah-“ Dean pulls you back as Mary tries to turn your head. “That’s enough. Don’t scare her off.”

“Yeah, I think that’s your job, Dad.” Sam drawls, and the beautiful blonde woman next to him elbows his gut. “Ow, Jess-“

“Don’t argue with your future wife, Samuel.” John grunts. His voice is deeper like Dean’s. But apart from that, there’s nothing the same. “Don’t make that mistake this early.”

“Yeah, Samuel.” Jess smirks, and Sam bows his head like a scolded dog. 

This whole family might just have the most dangerous puppy eyes you’ve ever seen. You know Mary has them, when she convinces John to switch seats so she can be next to you and Dean. You’re not sure John would be capable of them—he’s got more of a glint like a hound dog, that you’ve only ever seen on Dean when he’s angry—but Sam’s seem to be perfected to the point that he mumbles an apology to Jess, and immediately gets a smile and sweet touch of his face. 

And suddenly, this feels so wrong. You’re a liar. You’re an intrusive, foreign liar, weaving into their ranks and masquerading, because they all seem to love each other—even John, mostly silent but still smiling at Mary every few moments—and you’re just some girl-

“So.” Mary blinks at you, and you might not be breathing anymore. “Dean says you’ve been dating for how long? Six months?”

“Um- I- I- Yeah.” You take a ragged gasp for air, and your hand grabs at the tablecloth. Trying to find something that will keep you together, something to either hold you down to get you through this or pull you away into space- 

Dean catches your hand. Holds it tight. You look over, and he offers you a tiny smile. You swallow, then smile back. He nods—mostly to himself—then turns back to the table.

“Don’t interrogate her, Mom. She spent the whole day dealing with me on the plane, she’s exhausted.”

“The plane?!” Sam’s mouth falls open. “I- I thought you were joking about Dean, Jesus, you actually flew?”

“It’s just walking then sitting, Sammy.” Dean’s voice is awful lofty for someone who looked like he was going to piss himself all day. “It ain’t nothing to be dramatic about.”

Sam looks to you. “Did he piss himself again?”

“Sam-“

“No.” You say loyally. “He was fine. Only tried to run away from me twice.”

Sam laughs, and Dean reaches over you to hit his chest. Pauses when he leans back to brush his fingers over your cheek. Tuck some hair behind your ear. You swallow, and smile up at him again. Your lashes flutter, your hand moving of its own accord to adjust the cuff of his sleeve.

You didn’t know you were capable, of getting this shy and nervous just from someone looking at you. Didn’t know, until you met Dean. 

But he makes you do crazy things. Things like pretending to be his girlfriend, and wanting to kiss him in front of his family. Like your mouth parting in a public place, your body leaning forward as your legs shift. 

Dean sees it this time. His eyes dart down and flash with shock, but his grip on your chin only tightens. It’s all fake. You must just be going insane-

Sam coughs loudly, and you and Dean break apart. Whatever that little show was, it seems enough to quell his family. Mary smiles at you, Sam grumbles something about trying to eat, and John stares at you in a way you’re really trying not to think about too hard. Something prickles over your skin, and you have a horrible feeling that he can see right through you. 

But he doesn’t say anything. Dean starts to talk with his Mom and Jess about wedding decorations and choices, and he has a lot more opinions than you thought he would. You listen with a hopelessly dreamy smile that Dean seems too absorbed in his wedding talk to see, and almost jump out of your skin when Sam says your name.

“Sorry.” He smiles at you gently. “Just wanted to ask- Dean says you’re a teacher?”

“I, um-“ You take a slightly shaking breath, then nod. “Yeah. I am. But it’s only Kindergarten-“

“Only Kindergarten.” Dean snorts, and you blink at him. “She’s being humble. They adore her. Last spring they did this secret appreciation thing, where they all drew her and wrote her card. Pictures weren’t shit. I put one on our fridge.”

The table falls silent, and Dean takes a large bite of his spaghetti, completely oblivious to the bomb he’d just dropped. 

Sam knew you lived together. You’re pretty sure Sam knows about the whole charade, because he’d met you a while ago over the phone as Dean’s roommate and friend. But Dean told you that his mom just thought you were friends. That he’d been avoiding the roommate thing, just because she’d assume you were dating if you lived together.

In your cover story, you don’t live together. But he just said the truth. And like the handsome fucking dumbass that he is, he’s just eating his spaghetti. 

“Our fridge?” Mary echoes. “Do you… Live together?”

You almost laugh at the expression on Dean’s face as he chokes on the spaghetti. “We, uh- I- Mom, we’ve been-“

“We moved in together like a month ago.” You take a small amount of mercy on him, grabbing your napkin and reaching up to dab at the sauce on his face. You use it as an excuse to give him a death glare. Let me handle this.

He nods, expression still panicked, and you turn back to Mary with a soft grin.

“He was going to tell you later, but I guess he got excited. It’s just still new enough, we wanted to be sure.”

Mary nods slowly, looking suspiciously between you and Dean, and you sit a little taller. She’s a lot more intimidating than John. You won’t cave. Not when you’ve already come this far. 

“I was wondering, how did you guys meet?” Jess asks causally, poking at her own plate. “Sam hasn’t actually told me.”

You peer at her, because you’re pretty sure that’s a lie. Dean says Sam tells her everything, and that it’s really freakin’ annoying. But she’s smiling at you so innocently, and… You think she’s giving you a way out. 

Dean beats you to taking it. He clears his throat and sits up taller, like he’s ready and proud to tell the story you’d agreed on. You were at a bar. He walked over, and tried to hit on you, you turned him down. 

“But you were already soooo in love with me,” he’d said while you brainstormed, his words slurred from drinking. “And you were obsessed with me, and you kept tryin’ to make me notice you again until you gave up, and just knocked on my door. Confessed your love in the rain-“

“I can’t knock on your door and be in the rain at the same time, De.”

“Well, then you were wet from the rain.” He’d winked. “Then I told you I’d been secretly in love with you the whole damn time, and I made you wet in other places-“

You’d thrown a pillow at his face, half because of the stupid joke, and half because he was citing straight from your dream world. Where he’d done that exact thing, in at least fifty different variations.

“Why didn’t you just chase me, if you started by hitting on me.” You’d sprawled on the floor, Dean sitting over you, and poked holed. The story needed to be perfect. 

He’d shrugged. “’Cause maybe I’m a good guy, sweetheart. And I took your no to mean no.”

“Ah. The lowest bar.”

He’d rolled his eyes, and you’d smiled sweetly.

For a second, you’d just stared at each other. When he’d spoken again, his voice had lost its edge. 

“What if I was just in love with you. We became real friends after you kicked my ass at pool, and you’d been seein’ other people, so I backed off, then I showed up in the rain and did the confession.”

“I’m bad at pool.” You’d whispered. He’s smiled.

“Then we just won’t let you play, sweetheart.”

You’d nodded. It was all you could think to do. It had been a good story. You’d workshopped it when you were sober, and now it was almost flawless. 

That’s the story you were supposed to tell Dean’s family. It’s not the story Dean says. 

“I was running around in a parking lot,” he drawls, reaching his arm around the back of your chair. “Looking for someone, not paying attention to where the hell I was going. Ran right into her, then ran into the fuckin’ door. I hadn’t stopped to apologize, but she helped me anyway. Then she slipped, I helped her. She was grabbing my arms and all mouthy, but the prettiest damn thing I’d ever seen, and I was still late but I couldn’t move my damn feet.” He smiles down at you. “Realized I’d found what I was looking for. Just ended up takin’ me a few years to ask to have it.”

You stare at him, your heartbeat in your ears. It’s real. Too real. It’s a better lie than you came up with, but you don’t know why he would possibly choose that over your agreed upon backstory. Why he would remember it in such great detail, when it was so long ago. 

You remember it. Of course you remember it. You love him, and you’d spent countless nights imagining what if. What if you hadn’t been there for the roommate interview, and he’d asked you for coffee. What if you’d been braver and taken the moment, told him you didn’t care about the complications, and asked him out. What if Dean had decided the moment was worth holding onto, and tossed aside safety and the. chance of a roommate to bring you to dinner. What if you ended up moving in anyway a while down the line because one of you had stood up and decided that it was worth the risk.

There’s some small chance that it was only you who felt something, in that moment. When you’d grabbed him and snapped, and he’d taken a chance on you out of desperation. 

But what if he did feel it too. And it faded when you moved in, but he’d felt it. 

What if it hadn’t faded. Why does he remember. 

Not real. You have to remember it’s not real, but Dean’s still smiling at you. His arm is draped around, his fingers lingering on your upper arm in such a sweet, casual gesture of possession that isn’t real, but sure fucking feels it- 

“And you’re a teacher.” John cuts through your thoughts, and you rip your gaze away from Dean to find him examining you again. 

You flush, but force your voice to stay even and strong. “Yes, sir.”

“Hm.” John narrows his eyes, and Dean’s grip tightens on your shoulder.

“Dad, c’mon-“

“I’m not sayin’ anything.” John grunts. “Just thinkin’. Teaching doesn’t pay much, does it.”

“No, but- I’m lucky. And I get- Donations.” Your fingers are pulling at your cloth napkin. “Sometimes families give me things for holidays, and- Once a girl made me a stuffed bear-“

“A six year old made you a stuffed bear.” John says, obviously unimpressed, and you swallow. 

“She was five. Her mom helped, and- It came with chocolates.”

“So you’re plannin’ to live off stuffed bears and chocolates for the rest of your damn life?”

“Dad.” Dean snaps, and you don’t know when he grabbed your hand, but you’re squeezing it tight. 

This isn’t real. You’re not Dean’s actual girlfriend, you don’t need to impress his parents, but- You do. It’s an itch over your skin that refused to be scratched, you need to impress John and Mary, they need to buy what you’re selling, they need to like you enough that you’re not just driving yourself insane dreaming of a life with Dean, that you’re watering your own secret little garden and can tell yourself that maybe if it was different, you might actually have something.

But John doesn’t look impressed. He just looks bored. “You work hard, son. I’m trying to make sure she’s got a bigger plan than just donations and low pay you’re gonna have to support-“

“You helped support Mom when we were kids.” Dean holds John’s glare, and Sam coughs. You focus your energy on the food in front of you. It’s an odd, washed-out shade of black, but that might just be your vision clouding. 

“Dean,” Mary says gently. “I was raising children, and- Your father is just trying to be careful-“

“Careful of what, that someone’s gonna steal my million dollar salaries.”

Sam snorts at that, Jess elbows him again, and John just shrugs.

“You get paid well for the shit you do. Relationships need to be balanced, look at Sam and Jess, lawyer and doctor-“

“Pre-med.” Jess mumbled, and Sam gave her a tight smile before glaring at John.

“Dad, don’t use us for this.”

John rolls his eyes. “Fine. But my point is, Dean, it can’t be one-sided. I won’t let you fall into something where you’re doin’ all the work, people are always gonna have cars that need fixin’-“

“People are always going to have kids that need teaching.” Dean raises his chin, and you blink at him. “And yeah, I get paid well, but until she showed up I’d been balling up all my laundry and didn’t know who Robert Moses was, so I think we’re doing fine.”

The table falls silent, and you keep staring at your plate. Your head feels a little light. You’re not his real girlfriend. He didn’t need to defend you. Your eyes are watering and your mouth is dry, but they’re never going to see you again after this weekend, so it really doesn’t matter- 

“It’s a noble profession.” Mary murmurs, her hand landing over John’s. “I still remember the boy’s kindergarten teachers. They were good women. One of them just had her fourth child and got something published in one of those big magazines, and- You remember Miss Garrity, Sam?”

Sam nods, his mouth full of ravioli, and Mary smiles. 

“Her eldest just had their first. And I heard she was honored with an award last summer.” Her smile turns to you. “There’s a good life, in teaching. Right, John?”

John grunts. You don’t think he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t seem thrilled by any of this. 

Mary nods in approval. “And it’s good how much you’re making, Dean. Just like me and Dad, when she needs to take time off for your children, you’ll be able to keep everything stable-“

“Who wants dessert?!” Sam shouts, loud enough to make you jump, and Dean presses your still intertwined hands down into your lap. Just managing to keep you from jolting the table. 

You’re pretty sure Sam just saved your ass. The way he exchanges a look with Dean’s red face—the way Dean’s palm is sweating in yours—makes you almost certain that he did. From a conversation with Dean’s mom about a future you’ve dreamed of, and are never going to actually have. From Dean hearing you give real answers to questions Mary wouldn’t know are fake. From the conversation after, where he’d carefully half-joke that you had the answers real well loaded, and you’d have to just laugh like you hadn’t spent so long refining them to fit your dreams. 

Instead, you just silently eat your chocolate mousse and listen to Sam and Dean talk about their different kindergarten experiences. Dean remembers having a crush on his teacher, and he squeezes your leg as he says it, and your whole body floods with heat. 

It’s still a small torture. The idea of a little Dean bouncing around on a playground, wearing an oversized firefighter hat or hugging a stuffed animal. It’s a little cruel, how fast your brain can twist that into what Mary was implying. A little combination of you and Dean, with his smile and your eyes, all his energy and sweetness, hugging your legs and sitting in Dean’s lap while he reads with a bunch of silly voices, and you feel kind of sick-

“You tired?” Dean mutters in your ear, and you turn to find him examining you. There’s a deep furrow in his brow. 

He’s rubbing your leg now. Slowly up and down, soothing and igniting all at once. Not real. So unfairly not real.

You nod, and he sighs. Leans forward to kiss your brow gently, and your eyes flutter. He’s just putting on a show. Just putting on a show. 

He excuses you both, you hang off his arm as he leads you upstairs and back to your room. Neither of you speak, but Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. You risk leaning forward and pressing your head against his back. It’s firm. Safe and warm. You never to be anywhere else again. 

You think Mary hugged you good night. You might’ve shaken John’s hand. You really can’t remember at all. It’s been a really long day.

You shower again, letting the hot water drain your frantic thoughts and nerves down the drain. You stare at the fogged-up mirror until it clears, and dress slowly. This was a really bad idea. When you agreed to this, you really should’ve thought more about how in love with Dean you are, and how that was going to color the whole stupid thing.

You’re not going to back out. You can’t, when you promised him. But you still feel sick. And this might break a tiny part of you that you’ve tried so hard to keep safe. You don’t have a name for it. You just know it’s made of maintaining a facade, a friendship, a reliable dance that you’re not in love with Dean, and even when you are it’s okay that he doesn’t love you back. 

You have to remember that he doesn’t love you back. 

But he’s still up, when you step out of the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in his pajamas, frowning at his phone but looking up at you with the softest smile. Not real. i

“I’m sorry. About Dad.” He says as you shuffle across the room. “He means well, I swear, but- He did the same thing to Jess, when Sammy finally brought her around. I’m gonna talk to him in the morning-“

“Dean.” You give him a small smile, crawling onto the bed. “It’s fine.”

He twists around, mouth in a tight line. “No, he shouldn’t have said that shit to you-“

“I know.”

“Right, so I’m gonna talk to him-“

“You really don’t have to. I know- You’ve told me how he is.” You scoot a little closer, covering Dean’s hand with your own. “You really don’t need to fight with him. Not for me.”

Dean’s jaw flexes. His eyes dart down to your hand over his, then back up to meet yours. He lets out a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna.”

“Dean-“

“No. He doesn’t talk to you like that.” He looks back to his phone, then tosses it into the bags. “You did awesome, though. Mom loved you.” He shoots you a small grin. “Told you she would.”

You laugh softly, and his words echo in your head. She’ll love you. She’s like me. 

“They all loved you.” Dean mutters, his thumb wrapping around to the back of your hand. Dragging small circles, a habit he seems to be building fast. “You fit in.”

That makes you laugh for real. “I wanted to throw up.”

“Yeah, I saw you makin’ the face.”

“And you didn’t do anything about it?”

“Hey, I pulled you out of there.” He grins, flipping your hands so yours is under his. “A thank you would be welcome, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not thanking you for saving me from the viper pit you shoved me into.”

“But it was such a heroic rescue, I’d call it my best-“

“I wouldn’t.”

“You’re a critic.” He smirks. “And you still love me, so I’m callin’ it a fair save.” 

You flush, and whack his hand away. Too close to the truth again. Too intimate. “Shut up.”

Dean’s eyes sparkle. “Aw, you callin’ it off with me? When you just met my family? That’s low, baby-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat, tired look. You don’t want to joke about this. It hurts too much. “Your mom was seconds away from asking me about babies and marriage.”

He shrugs. “And? I’m guessing Dad’s gonna ask that too, when I talk to him.” He frowns at the air. “Make it real fuckin’ clear, that I’m serious. He doesn’t say that kinda shit to you.”

You sigh. “I said you don’t have to do that-“

“And I said I’m gonna.” 

“Dean, it’s not- It’s just me.” You give him a desperate look. “You don’t have to. Not for me.”

He stares at you. His hand tightens in yours, his mouth twitching, and he shakes his head.

“Is it so hard,” Dean drawls, twisting fully around. Moving forward, as he speaks. “For you to believe that I actually just wanna defend your honor?”

“I- I don’t-“ You stare at him, crawling back as he approaches. He can’t get too close right now, when you’re so exhausted your mouth might not listen to your brain. You’re going to say something true. “I don’t have honor-“

“Yeah, you do.”

Your back hits the headboard. “Dean, you know I don’t-“

“Nah. I don’t know anything.” He’s over you. Over your legs, his arms braced around your body, his face only inches away. 

You breathe out shakily, and he licks his lips. 

“I know you.” He mutters. “Know you real well, sweetheart. And you’re worth defending.”

His voice is so low it seems to vibrate through you, and your thighs clench. 

He sees it. His eyes dart down and darken, his shoulders heaving as he takes a heavy breath. Dean looks back to you, something glinting in his eyes that only stokes your own fire.  Your hand shoots up to press against his chest, but you don’t shove. Dean grabs your wrist, tracing one of those small circles, before moving to touch your face. 

Brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. Fingers playing with a loose strand of hair, then dropping down to hold your chin. Keeping your gaze trapped on his, as he traces your lower lip. Your mouth falls open, and his throat bobs.

He stares at you, the tip of his thumb resting right between your lips. His breath is ragged and warm on your face, his gaze searing into you, the light bending around him. But it’s not another dream. His chest is flexing under your hand, and this is so impossibly real.

Dean mutters your name, and your legs fall open. Offering him more space, offering him whatever he wants, just so long as he keeps looking at you like that- 

There’s a knock on the door. Sam’s voice calls from the other side, and the spell breaks. 

Dean scowls, and drags himself away like it takes real effort. He stares at you with that impossible face, then shakes his head.

“You can have the bed.” He grunts. “Gonna sleep on the floor.” 

“Dean-“

“’S fine.” He gives you a small grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m trying to be a gentleman, sweetheart. Let me have this.”

You stare at him, then nod slowly. Dean’s mouth twitches, and for a second it looks like he’s going to move back. 

Then Sam knocks again. And Dean stands with a heavy sigh. Leaving you on the bed, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, head still spinning. You don’t know what the fuck just happened. Your voice can’t seem to remember how to ask. 

And you pass out. Not even under the covers, sleep drags you under. You wake up tucked in. Dean’s snoring on the floor. No real proof that last night happened at all. Only your memory, and the absolute certainty that it was real. 

Whatever it was, it was far, far too real. 

The hotel is on the edge of the town Sam and Jess dragged everyone up to. It’s attached to the ranch, giving them plenty of space for the wedding, but it’s a ten minute to get through the brush fields and small wood to anything else. 

You’d been hoping you wouldn’t have to go see it. That you wouldn’t have to do much at all. You’d gotten away with it the first day, just lounging around the room and hiding from reality while Dean moved in and out.

“You good?” He’d ask every hour or so, even just poking his head in without grabbing anything else. 

“Mhm.” You’d mumble, tucked under the covers. 

He’d frown. “You sure? We can go for a walk-“

“No, thank you.” You’d pull the blankets tighter, and he’d sigh. Stare at you for another moment. 

Then Sam would call his name, and he’d shuffle away. Neither of you had spoken about last night. At rehearsal dinner, he’d started off touching you a little less than before, and you’d plastered a wide smile on your face, trying not to let it affect your show. Hands still held, but without fingers woven together. Elbows touching while you sat and ate, Dean offering you some of his whine and you adjusting his tie, but no casual stroking of his hair or secret laughter. 

He’d given a sweet toast that made you smile at him stupidly. No matter how strange things were, you still adored him. 

You’d glanced down the table and found John staring at you. Eyes narrowed, posture stiff. Dean must have talked to him. You’d looked back to your plate and bitten your tongue, hoping any tears that pushed through just looked like an overemotional reaction to your boyfriend’s speech. 

He’d looked at you when he finished it. You’d smiled back, and something had flashed in his eyes. His hand had come up to touch your chin. Just like in bed. 

You’d swallowed, and grabbed his wrist. The crowd has read it as romantic. You’d meant it as a silent, panicked plea for him not to play with you like this. But you don’t know how he read it. Dean had just sat down when he was done, wrapped his arm around your body, and kissed the side of your head. 

It had been the first hole, punched in the dam. Now, in the morning, you can still feel the tattoo of his lips on your skin. 

You’d wiped some sauce off his cheek with your thumb, then sucked it clean. He’d kept his arm around the back of your chair. You’d both drank, relaxing slowly. A few people came up to you. Spoke mostly to Dean, no matter how he tried to include you in the conversation. He’d started to get tense about halfway through the night. 

You’d taken a risk. Placed your hand, right on his thigh, and rubbed gently. He’d jerked slightly, and you’d started to move away.

He’d stopped you. You’d looked at his handsome, slightly flushed face, and he’d offered you the first real smile of the night. You’d smiled back, and that had been real too. 

Such small parts of this—getting a little too drunk together, picking out people in the crowd of Sam and Jess’ friends to make fun of, stumbling back to your room at midnight and watching something you can’t remember, but made both of you giggle like teenagers—are so real. So real it feels like you’re back at home, and you’re going to wake up to Dean in the kitchen, presenting you with the worst muffin you’ve ever tasted in your life—he’s been trying to bake, and he’s really not good at it—before offering a sandwich to make up for the disaster. 

Instead, you wake up with your head on Dean’s shoulder, the TV still playing neither of you under the covers, his shirt missing and draped over your body like a blanket. It smelled like him. 

You’d shoved it under your pillow like a dragon hoarding treasure, and watched TV until he woke up. 

The plan had been to waste the day the same way as before. Dean runs around doing wedding things. You sit here and fester in your own guilt, indulging in your secret world where all of this was real. You tried to tell Dean that was your plan, when he got up. 

He’d made the executive decision that it wasn’t. That town wasn’t that far, and if he had to go out with Jess and Sam, you did too.

“But they know, we don’t have to sell it-“

“Yeah, but I want you to come. Just to hang out.”

“I want to stay in bed-“

“C’mon.” He’d said your name, giving you a winning smile. “We’re still friends, right? Friends hang out, and support other friends when they gotta go shopping with their brothers.”

You’d narrowed your eyes. “Friends do each other favors, like fake dating for a wedding.”

Dean had sighed. Winced, like you’d actually hit him, then retreated with a muttered agreement. And you had been right. You’d almost gotten away with staying in bed, and Dean wasn’t going to push you. 

But he’d looked so sad. And he wanted you there. All you ever want is to be wanted by Dean.

You’d gotten changed, shoved on your shoes, and stomped out into the room with a scowl. Dean had said your name in surprise, and you’d grabbed the keys out of his hand.

“I wanna drive.”

His face had split into a wide, open grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s a ten-minute drive into town, and you really have to learn how to resist Dean’s puppy eyes. You feel out of place again, trailing after them and smoothing your clothes whenever they stop to talk about something. You’re staring at the pavement, out of place in their lives, counting the cracks and trying to find an excuse to stay home-

Dean links his arm through yours. Doesn’t even look down, just holds you at his side and drags you into the conversation.

You smile to yourself. Let yourself lean into his side, and decide it’s for the small amount of guests you’ve seen milling around the town as well. Not because, just for now, you’re allowed to have him and you don’t want to waste a single second by letting go. 

“Do you like flowers?” Jess asks, leaning down to look at some pots on the street.

You shrug. “I mean, I guess.”

“You guess?” She rises back up. “Well, what does your boyfriend get you.”

Next to you, Dean tenses. You glance up, and he’s still deeply engrossed in a conversation about horses or something with Sam. You shake it off, and turn back to Jess.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” You shrug, fixing your gaze on a bee buzzing near the pots. 

“Really?” Sam says suddenly, and you blink. “I thought Dean told me you were seeing this guy named- Uh- Steve? Right?”

He looks to Dean for confirmation. Dean looks at him like he’s plotting a murder. 

“It was Shawn.” You offer, placing a light hand on Dean’s bicep. “And we broke up a while ago.”

“Oh.” Jess exchanges a look with Sam. “Well, what did he get you?”

“Um- He didn’t, really. He wasn’t- It didn’t mean that much.” 

Jess frowns. “That much.”

“Yeah. You know. Flower much. But-“ You glance back over to Dean, who’s started glaring at the sidewalk. “I have some flowers that Dean grabbed for our place. Those are nice, I just- Dean, what are they called-“

“Hyacinths.” He grunts, hand flexing on the table, and squeeze his arm.

“Okay. I like those.”

His eyes flick up to yours, nostrils flaring, and he wipes his mouth with a tight, controlled movement. You offer him a smile—he’s so tense you’re worried he’s going to have an aneurism, even if you don’t understand why—and his lips twitch. 

Jess clears her throat. “How long were you and Shawn together?”

“Like, three months?”

“Oh. Hm.” She shoots a look at Sam. “I just thought- Never mind. Why’d you break up?”

You stare at her, your brain suddenly fogged and moving too fast all at once. A demand to know why she’d think you and Shawn were together for a while—it had barely been a month—almost spills out like vomit, but it’s blocked by the lump rising up in your throat. The thick, tense reminder that Shawn called it off the same reason they all do. The same reason you never get to flowers. 

It’s Dean. It’s always Dean. Still rigid and silent next to you, but also still holding you right against his side. Your fingers have started mindlessly tracing his bicep, the sunlight moving around him and narrowing the whole world down again, and Jess asked you a question, but- You can’t answer it in front of Dean.

You could just lie. The halo forming around Dean is hypnotizing. You can’t stop staring at him, and can’t remember how to lie. 

He’s looking back at you now, brow furrowed, and you’ve been silent for way too long. But his eyes are shining, and you don’t know why he’s this close, but you really don’t want him to move away, and this is another thing that’s too real. Dean’s looking at you like he’s trying to work out the answer, but it’s written all over your pathetic face for him to see, and the heat from his body is going to melt you into something sweet for him to either devour or kick into the gutter- 

Sam coughs. Neither of you look away.

“So, uh- While we’re talking about exes, and everyone’s in a good mood.” Sam takes a deep breath. “Lana’s coming. To the wedding.”

Dean’s eyes shoot away from yours, wide and burning, his jaw ticking the way it does when he’s really angry. His grip on you tightens, and it somehow douses you in ice-water as the moment is broken, all while rekindling a different, tighter heat. He’s holding onto you, so, so tight. Reaching around to grab your further arm as he glares at Sam, and you’re really not sure what’s happening, but it takes a titanic effort not to give into the hazy fever of his proximity, and drop your brow on his chest.

“Sam.” Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “What the hell-“

“It was Dad!” Sam protests, and you glance back to see him retreating fast. Literally hiding behind Jess with his hands raised in surrender. 

“Dad? You’re willing to push him, Sammy, we both know you got no problem with that, but Lana is where you cave like- Like a fuckin’ pussy-“

“He’s still friends with her dad, Dean.” Sam whines, and Dean’s lips curl like he tasted something sour.

“And you’re carin’ about that over me?”

Sam winces, looking like a kicked puppy, and Jess sighs.

“Sam did try to push, but your dad was really aggressive about it.” She offers. “You know how he is, and we did what we could. She’s in the back of the room. You won’t even see her.”

Dean glares between them, still holding you tight, then gives the tiniest shake of his head. 

“Whatever. C’mon.” He squeezes your arm tightly, still glaring at Sam. “They got Italian ice cream down the block.”

You blink at him, stumbling slightly as he starts to pull you down the street. “You- You mean gelato?”

“Yeah.” He steadies you, not breaking pace. “That.”

Sam calls after you, and Dean flips him off over your head, never releasing your grip. You shoot Sam an apologetic look, but don’t fight Dean as he half-carries you away. 

You end up sitting in the small parlor, Dean beating up his gelato with a spoon while you open and close your mouth, trying to think of an acceptable way to ask what the fuck that was about. His knee is pressed firmly against yours, his attention flicking up every few seconds before dropping back down with a deeper scowl. Something starts to wither in your chest the longer the silence goes on. You look down to your own gelato with your lips pressed tight, trying to swallow down that painful lump and breathe through your nose until your head clears. 

The world is blurring a little bit. There’s dusty light swirling around the parlor, and it makes Dean look like an angry polaroid photo, and you feel a little sick as pointless tears prick at your eyes-

“Lana’s my ex.” He grunts suddenly. “Wasn’t even that serious, but still ended like shit. Used to be that every time I dropped home, we’d hook up.”

The lump grows. “Oh.” 

Dean’s silent for another moment, and you can feel something worse than the silence burning under your skin. It’s seeping in, toxic and hot, rushing through your blood to your head, an ugly feeling twisting in your chest, and-

“Stopped doin’ that last year.” His voice is a little stronger. He looks up at you with that strange expression you can’t read. “When I headed back in August. Remember, I called you to tell you about running into my math teacher at the bar?”

“Yeah.” You smile despite yourself. “You were wasted, you spent fifteen minutes telling me about your crush on her. And your teacher kink-“

“Hey, hey-“ He kicks you lightly under the table, the light creeping back into his eyes. “That was a secret, sweetheart, don’t shout it for everyone to hear-“

“You never told me it was a secret.”

“It’s a fuckin’ kink, smart ass. I don’t run around shouting about all of yours-“

“You don’t know mine.” You shrug, and that was the wrong this to say. 

Dean’s eyes glimmer, something dark crossing over his face that you’d been trapped under that first night on the bed. There, it might’ve been a trick of the night. A little too much drink and stress from dinner, real but in the same was of smoke and mirrors. 

Here, it’s inescapably real. And you can’t bring yourself to look away.

“You think that.” He drawls, leaning over the table. “Don’t you.”

“Um-“ Your voice is getting weirdly high. “Yes?” That was weak.“Yes. I do.” 

“Hm.”

You frown. “Hm?”

Dean shrugs. Smirks at you, as he takes a large bite of his gelato. “Hm.”

“You- You don’t-“

“Don’t I?” He teases, and your mouth falls open. 

“No. You- I’ve never told you any-“

“Words aren’t everything, baby.” Dean pokes your gelato cup with his spoon. “Eat up, we gotta get back to Sammy and Jess before they start manhunting us.”

You blink at him, he smiles back—wide and charming and doing nothing to help the haze in your head—and you start to eat your gelato slowly. Dean waits for you to have one bite, then two, and smirks. Presses his knee further against yours, dropping his voice to something low and dangerous and hot.

“Good girl.” 

The spoon slips out of your hand. Your eyes widen in embarrassment, panicked shame wrapping around your heart, but Dean’s smirk just widens. He keeps eating his gelato, an almost innocent expression on his face, and you might’ve imagined it. Maybe your fantasies and the strange, blurred lines of this week are getting to your head. Maybe it’s the heat, and you’ve started to hallucinate. 

But you’re sure that it was real. 

And there’s no faking Dean’s arm wrapping around your low back when you leave the shop. His hand splayed on your hip, his posture relaxed and grin wide again. When you find Sam and Jess again and Dean doesn’t try to throttle anyone, they give you looks like you drugged him. You just grimace and smile weakly, because you don’t know what happened either. He was mad and sullen, then you were jealous, and now you’re… Here. 

Drinking in a bar, Dean’s smile wide on his face, his body around yours as he fails to teach you how to play pool for the millionth time. His lips brushing over your ear as he speaks, sending a shiver up your spine that he seems far too smug about. He squeezes your hip too close to your ass, when you draw the cue back. It makes you grind back into him like some wanton whore, and he makes a deep sound from his chest, and you feel like you’re going insane. 

You’re a little tipsy—everyone started drinking the moment you got to the bar—but this is real. All of it is real. Whatever had been bothering Dean about Lana is gone, and he seemed to have taken your own worry with it. 

She was the kind of thing that should’ve freaked you out. That would’ve freaked you out, if he told you back home. It would’ve sent you out to the club a year ago, would’ve locked you in your room to cry last week. 

But Dean’s gaze isn’t wandering from you for more than a moment, and all you can think about is his smug expression from earlier. How it hasn’t wavered all afternoon, how he’s teasing you the same as always, but slowly crossing boundaries that have always been open to him. 

He kissed the side of your head, when you sunk a ball at the table. Let you go back to the bar with the single victory, but squeezed your hand before you walked away. He’s still looking for you through the crowd, every few moments. He smiles when he sees you, and you don’t know what’s happening. 

“He talks about you.”

You blink over at Sam, who’d been silently sitting next to you for a while. “What?”

“Dean.” He shrugs, taking another sip of his beer. “He talks about you.”

“We… Live together.”

“Yeah. You do.” Sam watches you strangely in the shadows of the bar. “He didn’t talk about Charlie, though. I mean, he’d tell me stories about stuff they did. But he didn’t talk about her.”

You frown. “That’s the same thing-“

“No. Not for Dean.”

“No, like, semantically, it’s the same thing-“

“No.” Sam says firmly. “It’s not.”

“Sam-“

“It’s- Look. When he and Lana were dating, I never heard about her. He’d say he was going out, say he had a date, tell me that she didn’t like things or wanted Dean to do something. Can I tell you the first thing he said to me about you?”

You nod weakly, and Sam sighs. Smiles slightly, like he’s fond of the memory.

“He said she likes my waffles. I did them with the strawberries. Think I’m gonna try banana next.”

“I- That’s-“ You frown at him. “Why do you remember that?”

Sam takes another long drink of his beer, making a face like he’s thinking far too hard about what should be a simple question.

“Ask Dean what the first thing I said about Jess was.” He says finally, something shining in his eyes. “He remembers that.”

Dean’s supposed to stay with Sam tonight. Something about keeping him on lockdown, the night before the wedding. 

The room feels bigger without him. Even if he would’ve only slept on the floor, the bed is colder. You pace for an hour, still lost in the events of the day, still turning Sam’s words over in your head. 

You hadn’t asked Dean. There hadn’t been a good time. You’d gotten back to the hotel, and he’d gone with Sam. Kissed your forehead, then gone with Sam. And that might’ve been for the show of it. There had been a few cousins and family friends in the lobby. It had barely been a graze of his lips over your hairline. 

But his hand had also squeezed your hip. And he’d smiled at you so softly after, and Sam’s claim was still ringing in your head. He talks about you. 

Dean talks about everything. Sam said that like it meant something, but Dean literally never stops talking. It doesn’t mean anything. 

None of this is supposed to mean anything. Not to him. It means everything to you, but you’re in love with him. You’ve spent hours turning him over in your head, fantasying about the way he’d feel and taste, about a world where you just get to hold his hand, and life where you fall asleep with your head on his shoulder and he smiles at you like you’re sharing a secret. Where he doesn’t even think about other girls, because he’s too busy with you, the same way you’ve never been able to really think about another man. 

A life like this week. But it’s not real. It still feels real. And that’s nothing, but it’s everything, and you’re so confused. 

You have the room to yourself. Your legs get tired from pacing, so you take a hot shower. You pull on one of Dean’s shirts and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to make sense of anything in your own head. Most of your usual daydreams are blurring with reality, and it’s almost all to jumbled to lead anywhere but more confusion.

Almost. One thing is burning through the rest. 

The heat. Dean’s voice drawling good girl like he knows. His hand on your hip, your lower back, your stomach. His crotch pressing against your ass, his weight around your shoulders, pinning you to his body. His lips brushing over your skin, teasing and so hot. 

Your core aches, and you realize your body has started to move of its own accord. You’re grinding into the sheets, one hand under your shirt to palm at your breasts. You pinch your nipple and a soft moan leaves your mouth, your fingers slipping between your thighs. Your underwear is soaked. Your body shudders, when you press your clit, and a soft moan escapes your lips. 

“De- Dean…”

The sheets still smell like him. You roll over, pressing your face into the mattress, and start to hump into your hand like an animal in heat. It’s so easy to pretend that it’s his big, rough fingers slipping into your pussy. How they’d fill you up, scissor you open as he pressed behind you like at the pool table. The pad of his calloused thumb swiping your clit back and forth, his deep voice right in your ear as he’d kiss up your spine. 

“Good girl, baby, so fuckin’ pretty, takin’ my fingers so good, gonna be nice and ready for my cock-“

You moan again. Louder this time, barely muffled in the pillow. Your ass rises higher into the air as you try to get a better angle, the sheets sliding off your body, and you’re so close- 

There’s a soft knock on the door, and you freeze. Flip onto your back, sitting up in a second, brushing your hair from your eyes as you take short, breaths. 

“Ye- Yeah?” Your voice wavers, your thighs still rubbing under the sheets. 

Dean calls your name from the other side of the door. His voice is so strangely soft. Almost nervous, and it clears your head fairly fast. You push to your feet, mind narrowing down to only Dean, and making sure that he’s okay. 

You open the door, and find him slouching in the hallway. His head is bowed, expression open and vulnerable, eyes drooping. The low light of the hotel makes the shadows on his face seem longer, the red on his face clearer. 

“Dean?” You whisper, your hands itching to reach out and touch him. Just trace his face, make sure everything is in the place it’s supposed to be. “Are you okay?”

He’s silent for a moment. His gaze slowly drags up your body, the red of his face deepening, and you forgot to put on pants. You swallow, wrapping an arm around your stomach, but still smile softly when his eyes meet yours. His throat bobs, tongue flicking out over his lips. He shakes his head.

“Yeah, uh-“ He shakes his head. “Yeah. Just-“ His throat bobs, and he takes a step back. “Never mind. I’m gonna- Sorry-“

“Wait, Dean-“ You grab his hand, and he freezes. 

Stares at you like a cornered animal, his chest rising and falling too fast. 

You drop his hand. “Do you wanna… Come inside.”

He’s silent for another moment, then gives the tiniest nod. You step to the side, and he stares at you. Looks into the room, face twitching strangely, then back to you.

“If you- You’re busy-“

“I’m not.” You say quickly. “And- It’s your room too. You don’t have to knock.”

It’s a good thing he did knock. But right now, your own at wearing his shirt and nothing else save for soaked panties doesn’t outdo your worry for how fucking tired he look. And those words make him smile tightly, makes something relax in his shoulders, so you’d call it more than worth it. 

He shuffles over to the bed, but just stands at the edge of the mattress. You grab his hand, and gently guide him to sit down. He doesn’t resist you. Almost molds over you, the moment you have him down. Leaning against you, his head carefully angled away from your body, and you’re so worried. 

You slowly pull him closer. He lets you. Watches you in the dark with that same, vulnerable expression. His body curls over your lap, his legs tangled in your own. His arms wrap around your stomach when you guide them there. His head rests on your chest, between your breasts. He lets out a ragged breath. You brush your fingers through his hair, and his body shakes. 

“Nightmare?” You whisper, and he nods. 

He doesn’t seem to be willing to move from your body, not even enough to speak. You sigh, and rub his spine.

“Okay.”

You lean down, and kiss the top of his head. Dean makes a low, sad sound like a wounded animal, and holds you tighter.

Time passes slowly, or quickly, but it doesn’t really matter because nothing matters more than Dean in your arms. It could have been five minutes or three hours, and it all feels the same. You keep touching him gently, and his body slowly relaxes. His breathing evens out. You’d think he was sleeping, if he didn’t shift every few moments with a heavy sigh. 

When he rasps your name, you only hum. You don’t want to risk breaking the moment, or spooking him away.

“You ever dream?”

You pause. “Dream? Like- Instead of-“

“No, not like-“ He sighs, hand splaying on your back. His face presses further into your body, words vibrating pleasantly over your skin. “Like- The future. Ever think about the future.”

“Oh.” More than he can imagine. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. I, um- Yeah.”

Dean’s silent for a moment. “Like what?”

“I don’t know.“ You laugh nervously, tipping your head back against the headboard. “A lot of things, I guess. What does anyone think about, with that? What do you think about?”

“Family.” He answers so fast, it makes you look right back down. 

He’s staring at you in the dark. Eyes lined with red, drooping but fixed on your surprised expression. 

“Family?” You echo, and he nods. You swallow. “Like what?”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “You know. What it’ll look like for me. Who it’ll be. That kinda shit.”

“And-“ You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to hold back the words. “What does it look like?”

“Hm.” He sighs, thumb drawing small circles on your back. “You really wanna know?”

You nod, a little too frantic, and a smile ghosts over his face.

“I like my job. Pays better than it should-“

“You work hard-“

“I make money for a hobby.” He corrects, and you frown.

“It’s not a crime to like your job. I like my job.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, but you should make more than I do, but- if you like it.” He sighs. “Guess it’s good I make so much. Keeps us afloat. Makes it all easier.”

You blink. “I- I guess-“

“And I got better insurance. Better in the long run. Plus, it’s gonna save a lot on certain costs, like when the kids need their own cars.”

“The- The kids?” You whisper, and Dean nods. Yawns, and turns his face back into your stomach. 

“I’d like five.” He mutters. “But I’ll go down to three. Four, if I can pull it off.”

Your mouth falls open. “Four kids-“

“They’re gonna look like their mom.” He mumbles, and you carefully try to move his face. Try to get a good look at him, to work out if he’s fucking with you. 

But when he turns, he’s just staring at you strangely under long, pretty lashes, his eyes slightly glazed. Tired, still clearly a little drunk, face more open than you’ve ever seen it. 

And that expression. It’s almost reverent.

“We’ll need a bigger house.” He mumbles, and you swallow.

“We don’t own a house, De.”

“Yeah. Shit.” He yawns, mouth pulling into a smile. “I’ll work on that.”

“Work on… A house?”

“Mhm. I’ll make sure we got a backyard. And- Big room. Big bed. Lotta space.”

“Do you want space?” You whisper, and he hums.

“Nah, but in case you get sick of me.”

“I- don’t. Ever.”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes shining on yours. “Yeah?” He finally rasps, and you nod.

“Never. I- I don’t think I could.”

He smiles again. Wide and affectionate and real. “Awesome.”

“Dean…” Your heart is beating in your throat. “Can- Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” He mutters, and it’s so sincere it almost splits you in half.

“What was the first thing Sam told you about Jess?”

He chuckles, then yawns, turning his face back into your stomach without an answer. “Weird question.”

“I- I know, just- Can you answer it. Please?”

Dean nods, but still doesn’t speak. His hands are wandering over your body, slowing down to a drag, his breathing growing deeper. 

“Dean-“

“She called me sweet.” Dean murmurs. “Said she liked the book I was readin’, then called me sweet.”

“Oh- Okay.” You blink, tearing burning behind your eyes. “And- Why do you remember that?”

“‘Cause.”

“Cause why-“

“Sammy’s my baby brother. I know ‘im.”

“I know, but-“

“Never heard him in love before.” Dean mumbles, and your breath catches. “Was nice. Gonna remember it.”

You can’t think. Can’t speak. Can barely breathe. 

In love. Dean’s first snore rips through the air, and he’s out in your arms. You take a shaky breath, and press your head back, lips pursed tight.  

In love. The words ring in your ears, until you fall asleep. In love. 

The day moves too fast. You’re starting to get trapped in your own head. 

Dean’s up before you are. Wiping his eyes and groaning as he comes out of the bathroom, running a hand through damp hair and giving you a sheepish grin as you blink at him. 

“Gotta go get Sammy ready.” He says. “You can go back to bed, you got time.”

You nod slowly, scanning over his face to try and test if he remembers anything at all. If it meant anything at all. 

He’s out the door before you find the words to ask. You’re left sitting alone, the sheets tangled around your body, wide awake as the days start to play back in your head. A broken record you’re trapped in. A world you’re not even sure is real, because it’s far too close to everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’d been so certain you’d never get to have. 

Dean spoke about the future like it was for you. He touched you like he was for you. Smiled at you and kissed you and it can’t have all been for the show—there wasn’t even an audience to perform for—but it being for you feels far too good to be true. 

He said keep up afloat. He said he wanted kids, said the kids like they’d be yours too, said he’d get to work on a house, and in love, and this was such a bad idea. You should’ve told him no, when he asked. Shouldn’t have given into your instinct to please him, should’ve held your ground for the sake of your sanity, let him come here alone so you could wallow in bed about a future you’d never to have- 

A future he might want. With you. There had been no one for him to say that for, but you. In love. 

And if you’d let him come alone, he’d be alone with the ex that he has sex with. Stopped having sex with. Seemed to stop thinking about all together, when he started teasing you. 

You take a shower, hoping the water will wash away the spinning in your head. It doesn’t. You just end up smelling Dean’s shampoo and thinking about him in this same shower a few hours ago. How the water might’ve ran down his bare chest. How he might’ve smelled your shampoo, how his broad frame would take up so much of the space, how he’d crowd you if you shared the water. 

How he’d hold your hips like yesterday. Hold you against his chest. Brush his mouth over your neck, and whisper low praise as you writhed on his hand. Good girl. 

He said that. Actually said that. It wasn’t just another fantasy your mind conjured up, those were words that left Dean’s mouth. 

You stare at yourself in the mirror for half an hour, before the reminder alarm goes off on your phone, and you actually have to get ready. 

He picks you up in his suit. His eyes gleam as they take you in, and you flush under the attention. You don’t even remember getting ready, but suddenly you’re here and Dean’s smirking at you like you’re a something lewd.

“You look awesome.” He says with a wide grin, and you swallow. 

“You- You too.” You whisper, because he really does. He always does, but right now it’s like the world is finally just tunneling down to Dean, and he’s the last fixed point that keeps the world from slipping out from under your feet. 

He fills out the suit in a way that makes your mouth water. His tie is a little crooked, and he grins down at you when your fingers shakily adjust it.

You blink up at him. “Hi.”

“Hi.” His tone is a little mocking, but not mean. Just bright and clear and comfortable. The rest of the world is just shadows, compared. “Ready?”

You nod weakly, and Dean folds his fingers through yours. Swoops down and kisses your cheek, before herding you out of the room. To the wedding. 

And you might be blacking out. All you’re certain of are moments where Dean’s hand is in yours. He kisses the back of it, then lets go to stand with Sam at the alter. You’re sure the wedding is lovely, but you can’t remember a single detail but Dean’s eyes, burning into yours as Sam and Jess say vows. Your heart thunders in your ears and drowns them out. All the sunlight seems to bend into Dean, until the world is truly only you and him, staring at each other through the whole ceremony. 

It’s too easy to think about what it would be like if he was right across from you. If the small smile on his lips was because it was your wedding. The one you’ve dreamed about in your head, so many times. The one that drags you away from the moment, until people are cheering and Dean looks away, and suddenly you’re at the wedding party. 

Dean’s holding your hand again. You don’t look anywhere but him, as he leads you around through the crowd. He’s introducing you to people. You can’t hear yourself when you speak, can’t really focus on anything but his presence at your side. 

You dance together. Dean holds you like you are his, but you’re not. You are in the eyes of the crowd, but it’s just a lie, but it doesn’t feel like a lie, and it’s somehow more confusing and clarifying than anything else. 

He tells you that you’re beautiful like a secret he wants to keep to himself. You smile. The cool lights of the party are moving around him, making him look like one of your countless dreams, and you just drop your face into his neck. He sighs, and keeps guiding you through the dance. You’ve had this dream. 

It’s not a dream. Dean smiles at you, his nose bumping yours but without a single kiss, and it’s so real. How he holds you. Looks at you. Makes a soft joke that you giggle at, even if you feel like you’re getting high and crashing down all at once. 

In love. That strange look. He looks at you like he’s in love, and the world is crumbling around you.

Mary corners you after the speeches and dinner. You smile at her sweetly. Hold Dean’s hand so tight it hurts, and he pulls you close. Rubs your back, as he talks to his mother about work. 

“Did you get any ideas?” She asks you. “For your turn? I mean, I love the winter wedding in a sunny place, but Dean- I’ve always pictured him getting married in the fall.” She laughs to herself. “Probably because that’s what John and I did. And he gets my mother’s ring, which goes with fall the most. But it’s up to you, honey, right? Are you thinking of the fall?”

You’re not. You’ve always pictured the spring. But you can’t speak. Not even on auto pilot. Not about wedding, to Dean, like it’s real and not something you’ve sworn to keep confined to your head and the walls of your bedroom, and- 

“Jesus, Mom.” Dean cuts in for you, and you blink at him with a desperate expression. “Let me propose first, you’re gonna spook her.”

Mary laughs, and says something about you not seeming like they type to spook easy. You stare at Dean. 

He looks back, worry furrowing in his brow at your slack expression. 

“You good?” He murmurs as John wanders over, saying something to Mary your brain doesn’t care to process.

You nod weakly, and his frown deepens. 

“You wanna go for a walk?

You shake your head, and he looks really worried now.

“Sweetheart-“

“Hey, Dean?” Sam appears from nowhere, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder and giving you a small grin. 

You don’t smile back. You just stare at Dean, who seems to be trying to stare back, but keeps getting distracted by Sam. He’s dragged away to talk about something allegedly important, and tries to take you with him, but Mary grabs your shoulder and says something about bonding.  

You black out again, the moment Dean’s arm leaves your body. You might tell her about your idea of the future with Dean. The one you’ve sworn not to tell anyone, but pours out of you with every question, because your skin feels like it’s about to fly off your body. Your every nerve is wired and buzzing and raw. You’re running on a thin, fraying line of electric, and if you’re touched, you spark. 

Maybe you tell Mary you love Dean. You don’t know. 

Then, suddenly, you’re alone in the middle of the room and everything is dark. You’re swaying on your feet. Lost at sea, the only lighthouse the same siren that lured you here, and now you’re confused and sweating and alone- 

Someone says your name, in a voice you don’t recognize. It’s cold, and mocking, and when you turn it’s like you’re in a waking nightmare. 

You’ve never met this woman before, but she’s all too familiar. You’ve seen her, a million times before. Inverted in the mirror, glowing with a confidence you’ve never been able to find. Smiling not softly, but like a beautiful monster that knows it’s got its claws in something. Put together like she rolled out of bed like this, her every feature swallowing and casting the shadows. 

She’s every girl you heard Dean fuck through the walls, every girl you pretended not to care about, everything you’ve craved to be while never being able to figure out how. 

She doesn’t need to introduce herself. You already know who she is.

“Lana.” You say, your voice faraway. She smiles. 

“He’s told you about me.” She holds out her hand, and you can see yours moving to shake it. Your skin burns at her soft touch.

“Sam did.”

“Hm. Sam.” There’s something cold in her voice. “He’s always so annoying, isn’t he. Has he told you’re not good enough yet? This family, I swear-“

“No.” You breathe out. “Sam’s been nice.”

Something venomous flashes across Lana’s beautiful face. “Hm.”

You smile at her, but it makes your face hurt. You shouldn’t have worn heels. It would’ve been easier to run.

Lana’s still holding your hand tight in hers. When she lets go of it, she wipes her hand on her elegant dress. Like she knows the foul, selfish things that go out in your head, and they’re leaking all over her perfect skin. 

“So you’re the new toy?” She looks you up and down, lip curling. “Dean’s lowered his standards. Or maybe he just… hit his head. Would explain why he turned me down last time.” She sniffs. “For you.”

You blink at her. His name cleared your head a little. Those last words make everything sharp.

“He what?”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. This sweet little bunny routine doesn’t work on me. He might think he’s loyal right now, but he always thinks that. Then he gets sick of it, and comes back to me. It’s just taking a little longer this time.”

“He-“ You take a deep breath. Loyal. For you. In love. “Lana-“

She smirks. “Aw. You say it like Dean does.”

Your eyes narrow. This is something that would’ve folded you in a second, just a few days ago. Before all the touches and whispers and slowly stripped away veil. The light that might still be warping the world, but at least isn’t blinding you anymore. 

It’s helping you see. He turned her down last time. Months ago. For you. 

“What exactly.” You take a large step forward. “Did Dean say to you about me?”

Her nose twitches. She raises her chin. “Doesn’t matter. He’ll come back to me-“

“If it doesn’t matter.” You counter smoothly. “You should have no problem telling me.” She recoils, and you raise your voice. “Did he turn you down for me, last time?”

Lana scoffs. “Like you don’t know. But you were worse than I was, just stringing him along. At least I love him-“

“I didn’t even know who you were.”

She blinks like you slapped her, and you take a step forward. Things are falling into place too fast, a perfect storm that’s going to sweep you away in a moment. But right now, the sky is clear. Your head is quiet. 

And you have no doubt about which parts are real, as you hold Lana’s gaze.

“He’d never told you about me, until this weekend.” You say softly. “And I do love him. I love him, and I like him, and- He won’t get sick of me. But he seems a little sick of you.”

Lana’s eyes narrow. Her tongue flicks over her lips, and you hold her gaze. But her lips twitch up. Cruel and hateful. Her voice cold. 

“It’s so sweet that you think that.” She coos. “But girl to girl, I should tell you I was trying to warn you. About how he thinks he’s loyal.” She takes a step forward, voice dropping to a hushed taunt. “But he was in my room last night.”

You blink at her, the words ringing in your ears, and it’s like she pulled on a single thread. It unravels fast, the whole world going with it. Months and months of doubt, of fear, of the reality you’d taught yourself to pick apart and dissect, suddenly merged with your fantasy, unspooled into your greatest fear. 

You take a step back, eyes wide, and Lana’s smirk grows. Dean isn’t there to ground you, as the world slips from under your feet. And you-

You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. You can’t be here anymore. 

The pillows still smell like Dean. It clears your head, after a few hours of crying into them. 

You hadn’t had enough strength to just run. You’d stumbled out of the wedding and back to your room, mostly just trying to get away from the flashing light, noise, and sound of Lana’s voice. Your intention had been to leave. To pack your bags, text Dean that you needed to go home, and leave. Instead you’d found your clothing mixed with Dean’s and your knees had started to feel weak. You’d collapsed on the bed with shallow breaths and tears streaming down your face. 

It had smelled like Dean. So you’d ripped the dress off your body, buried yourself under the covers, and sobbed. 

It helped. It usually does. Dean couldn’t have gone to Lana last night, because he was with you. He wouldn’t have go to her first after a nightmare, especially because he’s told you that you’re one of the only people that knows he had them. It’s you, Sam, and his mom. 

And you trust him. You really do. He wouldn’t do that. Not after being so disgusted just by Lana’s name. She’d just wanted to hurt you. Something you understand. You’d like to hurt the other girl’s you’ve seen with Dean too. 

But now you’re the girl. The one he danced with, and brought to his brother’s wedding. Who he crawled to in the dead of night, and ran out the moment she got scared. 

You mostly just feel stupid, now. You’d felt stupid for trusting him, then not trusting him, then stupid for hiding and stupid for being so confused over something so dramatic, stupid for caring, stupid for crying, stupid for being unable to do anything but cling to him all night, and stupid for hugging his pillow to your chest like some lovesick teenager. 

And stupid for falling back into old patterns. Because you have this habit, when you’re upset. It’s another part of that secret world in your head. 

You think of Dean. Imagine him comforting you the same way he’s done before, but in bed instead of the living room. His arms around you, voice deep and soothing in your ear, hands tracing your body in a gentle remind that he’s here. He’d brush his lips over yours, before kissing the space between your eyes. Mutter that everything was going to be okay, then kiss your cheek. 

Hold himself gently over you, blocking you from the pain of the world, and smile gently. Say something stupid to make you laugh, and get those crinkles by his eyes when you try to hide your face. 

And you’re going to be ashamed of this later, but not now. Now, you let your thoughts run wild, alone in bed. Let them carry you where they always do, when you think of Dean. 

His lips on yours. The heat of him pressing down, the low grunts that would leave his chest, how his muscles would flex and hips would roll when you dragged your nails over his chest. Working yourself up fast, whining his name as he knee pressed between your thighs. 

The heat is starting to build. You whine his name into the dark, and he’d chuckle to himself. 

“So needy already.” He’d whisper in your ear. “Don’t know what you’re askin’ for, baby. I’ll make you forget all about those pretty tears.”

You bite your lip, and let your hand wander between your legs. Your hand fists the sheet, a soft breath escaping your lips as your fingers start to tease your folds.

“Such a dirty girl. Thinking of me touching her, still fuckin’ crying about. You can be a real brat sometimes,” he’d kiss your cheek, a smirk in his voice. “Get real dumb, for how smart you are. You think I’d ever want anything else? When I got this perfect fuckin’ pussy-“ He’d pinch your clit, and you’d squeak. “Soaked and ready for me whenever I want it?”

“Yes.” You whimper. “Ready, Dean- So ready-“

“Hm.” The Dean in your head drags his thumb down, pressing it over your slick entrance. “Look at you, crying for me everywhere. Jesus, you’re really this desperate for it, huh? Need my cock so bad I could bend you over at a damn bar and you’d beg me to take you.”

You nod at the air, trying to cover your mouth with your free hand as you start to fuck yourself with your fingers. It’s so so easy to imagine they’re Dean’s.

He’d press them into you fast and rough, unforgiving and brutal, all while teasing his thumb around your clit. Keep your mouths attached until your eyes were rolling back, lightheaded from the pleasure and lack of oxygen. He’d whisper filthy things, call you his slut and his perfect girl in the same breath, watch as you came undone below him from barely anything at all. His hand flying back and forth over your pussy as he dragged your orgasm out, your mouth falling over in a cry of his name- 

Dean says your name. Not the Dean in your head. The real Dean. 

You shoot upright, your face burning, and he’s standing in the shadows near the door. His face is red, your head still spinning from your orgasm—the thrill and embarrassment of being caught only making your stupid, traitorous body more aroused and needy—but you have enough of a mind to know you should’ve ran. Should run right now. Should jump out the fucking window, because he caught you.

It was all supposed to be a secret. Something you died with, a love that burned inside of you until it made flowers bloom over your grave. He was never supposed to know, but this another thing that’s real. Too real. Dean really caught you calling his name as you came. You’re really still shaking with desire like a feral animal. 

Dean gapes at you, his eyes raking over your body. It’s mostly hidden under the sheets, save for your tits. 

His eyes linger there, on your hardened nipples and swollen breasts. He takes a ragged breath, his tongue flicking over his lips. You pull the sheets higher, and his eyes snap to yours. 

“Dean-“

“I thought you- I was worried. Just lookin’ for you, and you- You were shoutin’ for me. Through the door.”

“I- Oh.” 

His throat bobs, voice dropping lower. “Thought you needed me.”

You blink at him, and maybe it’s the aftermath of the orgasm, but your every nerve feels like it’s lit up. Like he’s touching you, without a single hand. You open your mouth. Close it. Dean’s eyes flash.

“Do you?” He prompts softly. “Need me?”

You stare at him. Your back is completely bare, and the cold air pricks at your sweaty skin. Just uncomfortable enough for this not to be another fantasy. It’s not in your head. 

Dean takes a slow step forward, his hands fisted at his side, and it’s not in your head. He’s here. 

There’s a bulge in his dress pants, straining through the fabric. That’s not in your head either. 

“Do you need me, sweetheart.” He almost growls. “‘Cause I need you.”

Your mouth falls open. Your legs spread under the sheets, like his voice alone pulled them apart. You nod, and Dean’s eyes flash. 

“You-“

“Yes.” You breathe, rising up a little on your knees. Trying to get closer, but not daring to move and ruin this. “Please.”

He swallows. Takes one step forward, than another, then- 

Dean yanks his jacket off, and almost runs to the bed. Grabs your face between his hands and dragging you up into a long, rough kiss. 

A kiss. Not lips casually or teasingly on your skin. A real, deep kiss.

Sloppy and open-mouthed, as he angles himself over you. His hands fisting in your hair, body towering over yours, consuming your every sense. He tastes like champagne and cherries from dessert, feels warm and strong over you, smells like the spicy, warm cologne he saves for these special occasions. His tongue presses over yours, and you rise up to try and meet him a little closer. He groans, and the sound vibrates through your body.  

You grab his wrists, and his knee lands on the mattress, letting the kiss deepen. One hand drops to your bare waist, and you arch into the touch. 

Dean lays you slowly down on the silken pillows and sheets. Your legs spread wide in invitation, your pussy on full, wanting display, and you gasp when his clothed crotch presses over the aching nerves. He grinds himself against you, mouth working against yours until you’re gasping for air between kisses. 

“De- Dean-“ You grab his shirt, trying to drag him closer. “Yes- Fuck-“ You hump against him, lips spreading in a wide, stupid smile. “Dean-“

“Jesus,” he groans your name, rising up over your body. You whine at the loss, but one massive hand finds your breast, and it’s like a drug. 

Dean’s attention is fervent. Unyielding and hot, as one hand plays with your breasts, and the other keeps you pinned down with his palm flat on your stomach. You writhe into the torturous touch, but there’s nowhere else you’d ever want to be. Not when his fingers pinch and roll you nipple, dragging a high sound from your throat you didn’t know you could make. 

His eyes flash, and he repeats the movement. Over and over until you’re squirming and fucking up into his crotch, clawing at his chest for just a little more pressure. You’re already sensitive from the first orgasm, already raw from the emotions of the night. You need more. 

“More, Dean- Please- Oh-“

He stops playing with your breasts, and drags his hand down your side. The touch is light and teasing, making a soft giggle escape your lips. You look up at him with open adoration, some part of you still convinced this is another fantasy. That you can look at him like this, and there won’t be any consequences. 

Dean swallows, another low noise rumbling through his chest. He moves his hand to trace your face, and you lean into him with a happy hum. His thumb brushes over your cheek, over a tear still stained on the soft skin. 

He frowns slightly, eyes scanning over your parted, swollen lips and glossy eyes. You know how you must look. You’ve seen yourself in the mirror after crying often enough. 

You smile at him hopelessly, hoping you’re a hot enough mess that he’s not changing his mind. He swallows, and lowers down over you with a heavy sigh.

Kissing you slow and gentle, the hand on your stomach dragging down. 

Cupping right over your bare, dripping sex. 

Dean groans, rubbing back and forth. He’s not changing his mind at all.  

“I’ve got you, baby.” He murmurs against your lips, arms wrapping around your thighs. “Gonna make you feel good, pretty girl. So fuckin’ good.”

You moan, trying to lean up and chase his lips as he pulls away again. But once against the brief moment of cold is more than worth it. 

Dean folds you up. Pushes your knees up to your chest, fully exposing your pussy to the air. You reach for him, and he catches your arm. Presses it over your head with a wink, before dropping his gaze down to your glittering, puffy cunt. Already leaking for him, squeezing around nothing in anticipation. He blows on it, and you shudder below him. 

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Even damn prettier than I thought, sweetheart. All wet and ready for me.”

“For you,” you breathe out, head spinning with desire. “Just you, Dean, please-“

You moan loudly, as he snakes his hand around to rub your clit. His eyes are fixed on your slack expression, as he rubs tight circles. His jaw tight, as you flush and turn to boneless, pathetic putty. 

Dean smirks, drawing back for a split second, then slaps your pussy. Not harsh. Just enough to see if you like it. 

You go completely limp below him, a slurring sound of need leaving your lips. 

“More,” you manage to whimper, and Dean nods. Slaps your pussy again, then again, eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Dean- Fuck- Dean, please-“

“This what you were thinking about me doing?” He grunts, pressing his hand firm against your sore, throbbing core. “When you were touchin’ yourself, callin’ my name?”

You nod pathetically, and he moans.

“You do that a lot, baby?” He lands another hit, and the pleasure darts through your every nerve. 

“Yes, yes- All the time-“

“Knew it.” He mutters to himself, slapping you again, watching the way your whole body reacts to the single touch. “I fuckin’- Thought I was going crazy, seeing what I wanted, but- Shit, look at you-“

He lands one last, rough slap, and you moan. “Dean-“

He presses forward, somehow folding you into a little ball you didn’t know your body was capable of becoming. It seems to reshape itself, though, to whatever Dean needs it to be. He kisses you, deep and softer than before, almost loving. Like you’re not a wanton, messy wreck in his arms. 

“Can I show you what I think about?” He murmurs against your lips, far softer than before. “Please?”

You nod, too busy trying to get drunk on his kisses to use your words and respond. Dean smiles, kisses your nose, then draws up. He grabs your wrists again, but pulls them down onto your stomach. Lets your sink your nails into his knuckles and palms, squeezing gently back as he kisses your inner thigh. 

Sucks a little mark on it, before kissing it again. Kisses over your clit, open-mouthed and wet. His tongue swirling. Driving you out of your mind, before switching to the other thigh. Sucking another little mark, then licking that one too. 

Licking a thick, long stripe up your pussy. Then another. Pressing his tongue into your weeping pussy, before traveling back up to flick your clit. 

His eyes never leaving yours. He gets faster and faster with every motion. His tongue presses on the sensitive skin between your pussy and ass, then swipes right up. Taunts your clit with the lightest touch, before dragging back down. Over and over until your breathing is shallow and desperate. 

“De- Dean- Fuck- Dean-“

He moans against your pussy, and you try to buck off the bed, but his body presses forward, pinning you easily back down. He chuckles at the desperate look on your face, his mouth never leaving your clit, and you might be about to explode. 

Then his plush lips wrap around your clit, and his tongue starts to work fast. Tiny, controlled little flicks that build you into a frenzy, his eyes still locked on to your, a soft pressure lighting you up as he sucks- 

You cum without warning, every nerve in your body lighting up as your pussy remains trapped against Dean’s face. You try to wiggle away, the feeling overwhelming, but he drags you back with a moan. He’s hard, against your back. Hard and big, rutting slightly like this is getting his off, and that just sends you over the edge all over again. 

You’re trembling, by the time Dean finally lets up. He gathers you up in his arms, humming gently, and hauls you up into his lap. Kisses your neck, then you cheek, then your lips. His shirt is gone. You’re not sure when that happened. But his pants are still on. 

You paw at him. Whimper and grind, giving him a pouting, hopeful expression. He’s so hard, and you want him everywhere. Pounding into your cunt, no matter how sensitive it already is. In your mouth, in your hand, between your breasts, release hot over your skin, whatever he wants. 

Dean just sighs, gently guiding your wrists away. “You were crying, baby-“

“Don’t care.” You whisper. “Dean, please, please, please-“ You rise up, pressing your brow against his. “I need it, please.”

Dean swallows. His tongue darts over his lips, and he rubs with mouth with a worried brow. You think he’s going to tell you no, for a terrible and long moment.

“Alright.” He murmurs, hand moving to his belt. “But- Can you promise me we’re gonna talk in the morning. Please?”

“Mhm.” You nod, your eyes fixed on his crotch.

He’s big. Thick and big, and your mouth is watering. 

Dean chuckles. “You’re drooling, baby- Jesus-“

You’re climbing fully over him, something feral taking over your brain. You need him. Need him bad. You must be moaning it, because Dean holds you close, and doesn’t waste time. 

Strong hands find your hips. Pick you up, then guide you back down onto his cock. You moan happily, your arms wrapping tight around his neck. He groans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Fuck... You feel good, baby, so fuckin’ good-“

You smile to yourself, rolling your hips, and Dean moans. 

“Shit- Hell yeah-“ He leans back against the headboard, hands lazily wandering your body as you grind back and forth on his cock. “There you go, pretty girl, take what you want- Jesus-“

You squeeze around him, and Dean head falls back with another sinful moan. 

“Don’t- Fuck-“

You squeeze again, and his hands grip your hips tight enough to bruise. 

“Playing fuckin’ game, baby- Fuck- Keep doin’ that and I won’t-“

You giggle, and squeeze again. Dean’s eyes flash, his hands freezing.

“You think this is fuckin’ funny?”

“Maybe.” You whisper, lowering your lips to inches from his. “Hi.”

His eyes drop to your lips. You squeeze again, and he moans. “Shit, I’m warnin’ you, baby- Fuck-“

There’s something dangerous in his voice that you need to hear more of. You test the waters. 

Dean snaps. He rolls you over, flipping your positions, and starts to piston his hips. The bed squeaks from the force of it, your mouth falling open as he drags you so perfectly apart, and he smirks. 

“Yeah, there you go. Not so fuckin’- Christ-“

Dean drops down, his brow pressed against yours, eyes fixed on where his cock is slipping in and out of your pussy. It’s a lewd, enchanting sight. The way he’s transfixed by it almost makes you cum again. 

“Look at us.” There’s a soft awe in his voice, for how he’s destroying you. “Take me so well, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for this cock-“

“Dean…” You whine, and he looks back to you with a smirk. 

“Yeah, that’s it. That’s my girl.” He kisses you deeply, thrusts pushing every thought but his name from your head. “That’s my good girl, take it, fuckin’ take it-“

You moan, and he doubles his efforts. Groans, his dirty talk slipping into moans and grunts of your name, his mouth barely leaving yours for more than a second. 

When you cum, it’s all consuming. Your vision goes white, toes curling and body arching off the bed. Dean shouts your name, yanking out and beating himself into his hand, cum spaying over your thighs and pussy. You’re gushing with your own release, mixing with his, and when he drags his fingers over your pussy, a tiny orgasm shakes you like an earthquake. 

Dean helps you clean up. Guides you through the motions, even if your brain is still hazy from the overstimulation. Takes care of you like you’re his. 

He said you were. And none of that was a dream.

Dean doesn’t sleep on the floor tonight. He curls up with you after changing the sheets, tangling your legs together, breath hot on your neck. 

“In the morning.” He whispers as sleep pulls you both under. “We gotta talk in the morning.”

You hum, too drunken on his everything to really hear. And you fall asleep peacefully, and dream of things that are, for once, within reach. 

My girl. Dean called you my girl, last night. He wanted to talk in the morning. But he’s gone when you get up.

You touch the mattress, and it’s still warm. You get dressed with your thighs still aching, and poke your head into the hallway. He’s not there either. 

Your hand slips. You take a stumbling step forward, accidentally pulling the door closed, and it closes behind you. Leaving you locked out. 

Something in you wants to cry, but something else doesn’t feel like you deserve it. You fell into the fantasy. You let yourself get swept away. 

Maybe he’s just getting something. You cling to hope, instead of fear. For once in your life, you try to look at what’s in front of you, instead of your head. 

You walk downstairs, because if he’s not there, at least you can get another keycard. The lobby is busy. The line at the desk is long, so you sigh, and step fully outside. Into fresh air. 

And suddenly, you’re back at the beginning again. 

Dean calls your name from behind you, and he’s shoving his through the crowd. So fast, he doesn’t seem to notice the glass door closing behind you. Your mouth falls open as he slams into it, and he stumble back with a groan. 

You swallow a laugh, rushing forward to help him. He grabs you in an instance, his hand over his brow, groaning at the impact. 

“Fucking, Dean-“ You guide his hand away from his face with a sigh, running your fingers over his brow. “What was that?”

“Thought you were getting away.” He mumbles, eyes locked on your face. “You ran last night, just- Worried you were doin’ it again. Wanted to catch you.”

“I was looking for you.” You mutter, and he winces as you find the bump. “Shit, sorry-“

“’S okay.” He catches your hand, pulling it slowly down. Rasps your name, squeezing lightly. 

You swallow, and look into his eyes. He’s wearing that strange expression. The one you finally learned how to read. 

Love.

“I was getting you breakfast.” He mutters. :And I kinda talked to my Mom last night. She saw you with Lana. Said you looked upset. I was- Comin’ to talk to you about that. Last night.”

You flush, glancing around the milling crowd. “Can we- Do this later-“

“No.”

His voice is firm, and you look back to find his face set. Determined. 

You might’ve protested, if he wasn’t right. 

The way the light bends around him, there’s really no one else in the world.

“I don’t know what she said to you.” Dean mutters, thumb tracing over your knuckles. “But- I broke up with Lana ‘cause I didn’t like her. I wanted to be with someone I liked.”

“Dean-“

“You told my Mom you love me.” He says quickly, and your eyes widen. “And you asked if she’s ever gotten sick of my Dad. And- She says that you told her you never get sick of me.” He swallows. “I don’t know how to do laundry, sweetheart. You gotta sometimes be sick of me.”

You shake your head, voice soft. “But- I’m not.”

Dean takes a ragged breath, and you force the question out. 

“Are you? Sick of me?”

He shakes his head, mouth twitching. “Never. I- Hold on-“

He lets go fumbling in his pocket for a second before pulling out his phone. He swipes back and forth with a tight frown, then lets out a heavy breath. Turns the screen for you to see.

He’s showing you a photo of a ring. It’s elegant. Classy and expensive looking. 

You frown. “What-“

“It’s my grandmothers.” He rasps. “Mom gave it to me when I moved out. Kept it in storage, ‘till I- I met you. ’S why Sammy had to know we weren’t fakin’. He asked for it for Jess, day after he met her. I had to remind him that I told him I grabbed it for you. After you-“

“Liked your waffles.” You breath, eyes pricking with tears. “Dean…”

“I was in love with you then.” He says, voice low. “Sammy thought I was crazy. Maybe I was.” He takes a deep breath, searching over your face. “Am I, sweetheart? Crazy.”

You smile. Look at him, and smile.

“No. You’re not.”

He chuckles, shoulders relaxing. “Awesome.”

“Yeah. I love you too.”

“Even better.” 

“It is?” You tease, because you can’t help it. 

Dean smiles. “Yeah. It is."

Castiel -

Castiel worries for you at first. He doesn't really go for an sexual activities that do't bring you pleasure directly, and this is no exception. The thought of you gagging hurts him, because he despises anyone or thing that could ever bring you pain, including himself. He'd turn down every time you asked, not wanting to say no to you but desperate not to hurt you. Eventually he'd ask why you want to do this so much, and you simply tell him you want to make him feel good. He insists that you do, you've made him feels worlds beyond his knowledge, you've shown him so much with just touch touch and it amazes him, but then you lean in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear - "I want to taste you, Angel" - and he feels something tighten inside, his cock and his heart joined together with a little string you tug on every day. When he finally lets you get on your knees, seeing you in the position he's grown to favour himself, it's like his first time all over again. You lead him gently, not pushing or rushing him at any point, careful and sweet with him like he's fragile. He lets out a completely unangelic moan the moment your lips wrap around him, and he tries to hold out, but he cums fast, pulling you up and checking you over after, worried he might have hurt you when you're just counting down until you can taste him again. He still prefers to cum inside you, favouring the closeness and trust that provides, but from time to time, he's happy for your mouth to give him everything he needs, as long as he can give you the same treatment of course.

Dean -

He goes nuts when your hands splay over his hips. Dean's a needy little thing, so when you decide to take your time, licking and kissing all over his cock but not taking him fully into your mouth, the moment you do, his hips buck. It's involuntary and he's just about to apologise when your nails dig into the soft skin of his waist, using all the force you can muster to pin his hips to the bed, getting back to work. And if he whines too loud when you told him to be quiet, when you said he needed to shut the fuck up for once because Sam was in the next room over, you bare your teeth. It's nothing too painful, you just let your teeth graze up and down the length of him and that only makes him louder. High, broken whimpers leaving his lips, tears slipping past his hairline as he lays there, falling apart beneath your touch. You flick your eyes up to him when you can tell he's close, letting him know it's okay, and his hands grip your hair, holding you down as you release your hold on him, letting him buck up into you, spilling down your throat with your absolute favourite sound. When he lets you go, slumping back against the mattress, your palms find his thighs, sliding down his skin, soothing gently as you pull off with a little pop, lowering his legs carefully, not wanting the muscles to strain any more. You always clean him up with a tender, loving touch, wrapping your arms around him as he weakly shifts, trying to move down the bed to repay you, but you stop him with a soft touch, telling him there's plenty of time for that later, now, you just wanna hold him as he drifts off to sleep, warm and satisfied.

Sam -

Sam is obsessed with you. In a general sense, but especially when you're on your knees for him. He tells you that it's okay, you don't have to, but after the first time, he's addicted. The way your mouth feels around him is nothing short of divine, so warm and welcoming, almost always ready to take him. He always threads his fingers through your hair if possible, never pushing, just moving with you, needing to hold. He lets out the sweetest little sounds when you gag around him, soft, high whimpers that shoot through your eyes, spurring you on. You once recorded his whines, not to taunt and tease, but to keep for yourself. To listen to when you were far away from him and desperate to hear the sound of his voice, the noises you pull from deep inside him with nothing but your mouth. He's always gentle after though. He feels so guilty for "making" you do this, despite it being your idea. He gets you water, pulls you into his arms and holds you close, whispering soft praises and 'thank you's against your temple. Until you tell him. "It's okay, Sammy. I'm okay. You can relax now" He lets out a breath when he hears those words, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his arms curl around your waist, sleepy and soft, sure to repay the favour for as long as you can bare it in the morning, and maybe a little longer just as an extra thank you.

What theories will the boys have for purple?

Colour Theory Series Taglist - 26

@i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @tincar87 @sweetbabyangeldoll @casanddeanswife @mortluvr

@cvntyvampi @scandalscontained @alasdecas @c1eepypas1a @hopelessbrain

@deadpooltrash @cvelolesttt @ph0ebejeeb1es @strawberries-n-dreams @anqeliical

@serawinchester @haloduck0 @multiversefanfics @spectralgalaxygauntlet @spyder-byte11

@whatstruthgottodowithit @lovergirlfinalboss @plaanet-pluuto @a-froot @enchantedtomeetcoffee

@angelvvitch

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you feel stable enough that dean starts missing you before he’s finished being mad. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam is weak against your steady loyalty, especially when you come back ready to repair things properly.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you make him laugh while he’s still trying to perform righteous indignation, which is deeply inconvenient for his argument. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ you can talk circles around the real issue, and sam notices when charm starts replacing accountability.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you embarrassingly easily ๋࣭ ⭑ dean can withstand anger, danger, and demons; one wounded look from you and suddenly his entire emotional justice system is compromised. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ your remorse feels so sincere that sam starts comforting you before he has fully explained why he was hurt.

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ he tries to stay mad, but your warmth is one of his favorite places to stand, and dean has never been good at denying himself for long. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam struggles when your pride makes an apology feel conditional, especially if he had to drag the real feeling out of you first.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ dean can handle being criticized until your words land too close to the things he already secretly hates about himself. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam understands your intentions even when your delivery cuts, so he keeps translating your sharp edges into care.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you approach him gently, make the apology feel warm instead of humiliating, and dean loses every intention of staying angry. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam wants peace with you so badly that he sometimes accepts a graceful apology before the real issue has been touched.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ you know exactly where dean is vulnerable, and if you weaponize that knowledge once, he never fully forgets it. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam can tolerate conflict; what he can’t tolerate is feeling exposed by somebody he trusted with the darkest parts of himself.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you far too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ you disappear after the fight, come back with an apology and a ridiculous story, and somehow dean’s laughing before he remembers he had a point. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam finds it difficult to forgive the way you leave when the conversation starts asking something uncomfortable of you.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ your restraint looks too much like indifference when dean’s already afraid he matters less than he hoped. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ sam respects your loyalty so deeply that one serious apology from you carries more weight than ten dramatic gestures ever could.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ your emotional distance activates every fear dean disguises as irritation, especially when you refuse to chase him after a fight. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ holds a grudge ๋࣭ ⭑ sam can respect your need for space, but not if detachment becomes a way to avoid caring openly.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ forgives you much too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ dean sees your guilt, immediately starts protecting you from it, and somehow ends up apologizing during your apology. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ forgives you too easily ๋࣭ ⭑ your empathy reaches him before his anger can settle, and sam starts understanding your side before he’s finished expressing his own.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 5 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you keep him alive too many times for him to accept a world where he fails to do the same for you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 2 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re the one who notices everything, including the parts of him that are breaking, and sam would unravel fast if he couldn’t save you back.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 7 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you make the world feel less ugly, and dean would hate himself for even thinking about letting that softness disappear. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 8 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ sam would ache over it, but he’d try to hold the line because he knows deals made out of love still end in blood.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 3 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you know the darkest parts of him and stay anyway, so dean would start bargaining before he’d let the universe take you for that. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 4 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you understand the parts of sam he’s most ashamed of, which means losing you would feel like being condemned all over again.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 6 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you make him feel free, and if that freedom got ripped away, dean would do something reckless, stupid, and painfully romantic about it. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 10 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ sam loves the way you make life feel bigger, but he wouldn’t want to trap your memory inside one more cursed winchester sacrifice.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 10 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ dean respects your strength too much to decide for you, even if every part of him would be screaming to make the deal. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 3 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re loyalty, restraint, and survival beside him, and sam would be dangerously tempted to trade anything before watching you fall.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 12 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re too independent, too impossible to possess, and dean knows selling his soul for you would feel too much like betraying the freedom he loves in you. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 11 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ sam would want to save you desperately, but he’d know you’d never forgive him for turning love into a cage with a countdown.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 4 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you look at him like he’s still worth saving, and dean would destroy himself before letting that kind of faith die in front of him. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 6 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ your softness gets under sam’s skin too deeply, but he’d hesitate because he knows how easily sacrifice can become another kind of violence.

♈︎ 𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 8 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you scare the hell out of him because you run toward danger like survival’s optional, but dean would still try every violent alternative before letting a demon think it won. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 12 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ sam loves your fire, but he’d fight you and fate itself before making a deal, mostly because he knows you’d haunt him for choosing sacrifice over strategy.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 9 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you feel too steady for dean to imagine losing, but he’d trust your stubborn soul to hold on while he tore the world apart looking for another way. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 1 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you’re peace, home, and the kind of love sam barely lets himself want, so if losing you was the price, his morals would start shaking fast.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 11 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you mean too much, but dean would convince himself you’re clever enough to survive anything, right up until your voice stopped answering him. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 7 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you make him feel awake, understood, and less alone in his own head, which means he’d consider the deal longer than he’d ever admit.

♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗

𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ 2 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you care for him so gently that losing you would feel like watching the last good room in his life burn down. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ 5 / 12 ๋࣭ ⭑ you make sam feel safe enough to be human, and that’s exactly the kind of thing he gets terrified of living without.

“Why are we going to a record store in the first place?” Sam sighs. 

Dean insisted upon going out of his way to a music store off the highway, tens of miles away from their last hunt. The drive has everybody feeling restless, even the driver in question. 

“Last I recall, you were the one who kept complaining about hearing the same songs over and over,” Dean huffs, shooting his brother a look. “I’d say I’m being rather courteous to go pick out some new tracks.”

“What a gentleman,” you snort from the backseat, leaning forward. You grasp the front bench, right behind Sam’s neck, and he feels your fingers graze his collar. He swallows thickly — not that you notice. “Let me guess: you’re gonna make all the decisions and we don’t get a say in it, right?”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Dean says, flashing you a smug grin. “My car, my rules. Take a hike if you don’t like it.” 

You stick your tongue out at Dean — childish, yes, but it’s effectively vexing for his fragile ego. He huffs when he turns his attention back to the road.

Sam laughs, giving his brother a look. “You’re such a jerk, man.”

Dean is quick to follow up with: “Whatever, bitch.”

Blessedly, the Impala does eventually park outside the record store. You climb out before the Chevy has even finished rolling to a stop, much to Dean’s chagrin. Sam grins at your antics, and a minute later, he climbs out to find you stretching outside the store. 

“C’mon, yoga master,” Sam teases, strolling up beside you with his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Stretch your legs when we’re inside.”

After playfully shooting the younger Winchester some side eye, you follow him into the music store. Dean has already made it in, eagerly flipping through cassettes and gawking at the plethora of options. One of the workers strolls by to talk to him in a friendly, customer-service appropriate tone — a tall, brown-skinned brunette with shiny coiled hair — and Dean turns up the charm while he chats her up. Sam wrinkles his nose at the sight, and you roll your eyes, turning around to flip through the many, many bins of vinyl records. 

Sam hovers behind you, idly flipping through covers without any particular interest. You, however, take your time pulling out records, inspecting the cover art and the contents with a thoughtful hum. Sam keeps taking a peek at you from the corner of his eyes, smiling when your eyes flash with recognition.

“Oh, shit. I wish I could’ve brought my record player,” you sigh wistfully, holding up Weezer’s self-titled album. The bright blue cover shines under the buzzing fluorescents overhead. 

Sam glances over from the section behind you. He squints, nodding absentmindedly. “Weezer, huh? Are they any good?” 

The immediate, utter shock that crosses your features nearly makes him wince. 

Gently sliding the record back into place in the bins, you turn to fully face Sam, arms crossed. “‘Are they any good?’ They’re Weezer, Sam. They’re amazing.”

An embarrassed laugh puffs out of him. He shoves his hands in his jean pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sorry. My knowledge starts and ends with Island in the Sun.”

You gawk, jaw dropping halfway to the floor. “Are you serious? You really don’t listen to Weezer?”

Sam shrugs, wearing a shy smile that makes him look somehow even younger than he is. “I’ve only heard a little. Dean’s more of a classic rock kinda guy, so.”

You squint your eyes at him in accusation. “So you only listen to what you brother makes you listen to?” With a huff, you shake your head, already reaching into your jacket pocket for your precious iPod. “C’mere. There’s no way I’m letting you get away with this.”

A brow lifts, and Sam slowly crosses the few feet that separate him from you. If there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that you guard your iPod with your life. Dean once tried to borrow it for a few hours while the three of you did research over a particularly tricky poltergeist, but you threatened to skin him alive and feed him to a pack of werewolves. The intensity of your reaction was enough to ward the brothers away from your beloved MP3 player like salt to a spirit. 

Sam hovers over you as you shuffle through your music, eyes darting over the names and albums that fly by. You scroll with one hand, using the other to plug your earbuds in, expertly unraveling them from a knot — all whilst you ramble. 

“I can’t believe you don’t listen to them! Island in the Sun is good, yeah, but you need more exposure than that. I mean, I’m definitely putting you on to the rest of that album later, but whatever. They just came out with Raditude — it’s different from their usual stuff and, like, way more pop-y, but I think you’d like it,” you say, offering Sam an earbud. 

His head tilts much like a curious puppy when their owner rustles a bag of treats. “Only if you say so,” he muses. He takes the earbud from you, fingertips brushing against yours. He tries to ignore the sharp zap of electricity that ripples through him under that brief touch. Oblivious to his slightly flustered state, you land on the album in question, clicking the button on your iPod to begin playing the first track.

Your eyes flit up to catch Sam’s reactions as the first quick strums of a guitar ping through the earbuds, opening up the song to a steady tempo. He’s looking down at the tiny iPod screen, squinting at the leaping dog on the album cover. The upbeat kick of drums and Rivers Cuomo’s soft, whining voice gives way to a catchy chorus, filled out by call-and-response background vocals:

Then I said, “Girl, if you’re wondering if I want you to  (I want you to) I want you to (I want you to) So make a move (Make a move) ‘cause I ain’t got all night.”

Without noticing, Sam inches nearer to you, encroaching on your space. The longer the track goes on, the more he finds himself stealing glances at your expression: your head bopping to the beat, lips upturned and mouthing the lyrics, eyes sparkling. The energy is infectious; he smiles at you fondly, averting his gaze back to the screen every time he catches himself staring for too long at a time. 

Unbeknownst to Sam, you’re stealing glances at him, too. He’s smiling — thankfully — so he must like the song. Whether he realizes the subliminal messaging you’re sending his way is another story entirely. 

By pure coincidence, you finally happen to look up at Sam at the exact moment that he looks your way. Eyes meet, but neither of you turn away. Time slows down, crawling along so even Weezer isn’t at the forefront of your mind anymore. Despite the song blasting through your eardrums, everything narrows down to you and Sam alone. 

Of course, it’s only now that you realize just how close Sam is. His arm brushes against yours, hair hanging in his face as he leans in to meet your height. He’s near enough that you could reach up and touch him — kiss him, even — but you’re still waiting for Sam to catch on and make the move himself. 

He’s hesitating, though, as per usual. Sam wouldn’t be Sam if he didn’t overthink every minute interaction. He leans in close, slanting his body in your direction, but he’s tight-lipped. What if he’s misreading the signs? What if he’s right but something terrible happens to you because he’s cursed? Sam can’t help but imagine you pinned to the ceiling, bloodied and on fire or dying some other miserable death all because his doomed touch fell upon you. But there you are, entirely oblivious to the worst of his shame, and he can’t stop staring at your mouth in spite of it all. 

“Alright, don’t start suckin’ face in public, now,” Dean interrupts, removing the illusion of choice altogether. Sam jumps away from you so fast that the earbud falls out, swinging toward you like a pendulum. You blink, finally looking up to see Dean, who’s looking awfully smug. He lifts up a plastic bag full of new cassette tapes, rustling it in your face. “Off we go, kids.”

“Shut up,” Sam huffs under his breath, flustered and annoyed by the suggestion in Dean’s words. He walks fast, hurrying ahead of you and Dean to get even a second to collect himself. Beside you, Dean wiggles his brows, bumping shoulders with you. 

“You might not be gettin’ lucky, but I am,” he jives, flashing his receipt in your face, where the cashier from earlier apparently wrote her number. “Sucks to suck, huh?”

If you could, you’d shank Dean here and now, but he bounces off to the Impala before you get the chance, whistling a chipper tune. At least one of you is getting laid.

. . .

Dean fucks off to “interrogate the locals” (read: sleep with the girl he met at the record store), and you’re being studious by doing research at the local library. Sam is left to fend for himself at the motel, given the fortune of a rare break as he flicks through the TV channels. He lets them play for a second each before popping to the next one, then the next, then the next. Sam’s thumb scrolls to the next channel on autopilot, bored out of his mind, until he lands on MTV. Miraculously, the channel is airing a Weezer music video. 

Sam knows you’re busy and all, but he’s also missing your company. He’s alone, he didn’t even find any decent porn to keep him occupied, and his cellphone is just an arm’s reach away. He dials your number before he can think about it for too long and psyche himself out of it.

You pick up on the second ring, your voice soft and tinny in his ear. “Hello? Everything okay?”

“Hey,” he greets, watching the television. “Weezer’s on MTV.”

There’s a pause. You’re knee-deep in searching for leads on any new cases, jotting down possible references for later. If Sam is calling you about what he’s watching at the motel, of all things, he must be bored as all hell. You laugh, rubbing your strained eyes — you’ve been staring at the computer for way too long. 

“Yeah? Which music video?”

Sam leans back against the headboard, cushioned by cheap, lumpy pillows. “Buddy Holly.”

“Oh? That’s a good one,” you muse, clearly enthusiastic. “They didn’t use CGI at all for the video, if you can believe it.” 

“Really? That’s cool.” Sam’s chest gets all warm from hearing your voice crackling through his phone, sharing your little bits of trivia. He’s still a little flustered and pent up from trying to jerk off a half hour ago, and your hushed tone sounds more seductive than you intended. He swallows, shifting on the bed and desperately attempting to ignore his growing hard-on. “Have you found any leads?”

Sam’s voice sounds a little funny — like he’s straining to keep his voice even — but you blame it on your imagination or the shotty cell reception.

“Nothing much,” you sigh, lips pursed as you flip through the notes you’ve compiled so far. “Some weird stuff in Oklahoma, but I don’t know if it’s our brand of weird. I figured we could go over it later.” You glance up, lowering your voice further when one of the librarians turns her head in your general direction, no doubt hearing the noise. “You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“A little bit,” he admits, smiling even though you can’t see it. Weezer are still bopping their heads to their own music, footage from Happy Days spliced into their performance. He wishes you were here to watch this with him, even though you’ve probably seen this music video a hundred times by now. He wishes he could feel your weight in the bed beside him, the heat of your body. Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment, pretending you’re leaning into his side — the hand on his thigh isn’t his, but yours, warm and heavy upon his worn denim jeans. 

You click your tongue, oblivious to Sam’s wandering hand back at the motel. “Well, maybe you should have come to the library with me, nerd. The research stuff is supposed to be your thing.” 

“Hey, you’re the one who volunteered to do it,” he huffs, cock twitching beneath his jeans. Your playful disapproval stirs up an unexpected wave of heat in the pit of his stomach that rushes downward. He starts to graze his hand over his crotch — no pressure yet, just the slightest weight dragging up and down the inner seam. His voice starts to drop in pitch. “You could’ve just stayed at the motel. You know I’d have let you use my laptop.” 

Your eyes roll. “Mhm, sure. For five minutes, maybe,” you tease, mindlessly scrolling through an article on the library’s computer. “You have control issues, babe. You’d probably hover over my shoulder the whole time.” 

The casual pet name that slips from your lips has Sam sucking in a sharp breath. He swallows, finally pressing the heel of his palm down against his jeans. They grow tighter, his cock straining to break free from the layers separating himself from his hand — the hand that Sam is still imagining as yours. 

“I wouldn’t hover,” he insists, though he hardly sounds convincing. “I’d let you do your thing.” Even Sam knows it isn’t true; he’s just arguing to hear your whispered, fluttery voice in his ear. If he tries hard enough, he swears he can almost feel your breath on his neck. 

“You are so full of shit,” you mutter; the grin in your voice is obvious. “You act like you’re hiding nuclear launch codes on that thing.” 

You lean forward on the desk, lightly tapping your fingers over the keyboard. The longer you sit here talking to Sam, the more you regret not staying behind at the motel; you’re in a hell of your own personal making, really. You could have done the usual thing and hung back with Sam while Dean fucked whatever poor girl he came across. Sure, you’d be stuck acting like a lovesick idiot all night, but at least you wouldn’t be the loser that chose to be all responsible instead of spending the day with the guy you’ve had a crush on for damn near a year. 

Sam doesn’t respond for a minute. He’s too busy unzipping his jeans, sliding his hand down the front of his boxers. His fingers follow the shape of his cock, brushing them lightly over himself like he imagines you might do for him. When he grips himself through the thin layer of fabric, he bites his tongue, hips jerking forward instinctively. 

A prolonged silence follows. You check your phone to make sure you’re still on the call; it hasn’t cut out at all. When you press your cell back to your ear, you can hear a bit of rustling and shallow breathing. 

“Sam?” Your tone is hesitant, prodding. “Still there?” 

He’s leaking precum, tenting his boxers. Sam swallows, and it’s audible through the phone.

“Yeah,” he grunts, cursing himself for how rough his voice comes out. He tries again, hoping to sound somewhere in the ballpark of normal. “Yeah, I’m still here.” 

He really shouldn’t be doing this — if you find out that he’s jerking off to your voice, he’s royally fucked. He flubs every attempt to ask you out on a date, he goes red when you mindlessly flirt with him or call him a pet name — yet here he is, acting like a fucking pervert while you’re doing something important. Even Dean would call him a freak for acting like this. At least Sam has enough self-restraint not to take it a step further and start smelling your clothes — he’s not that stupid. Despite the thought crossing his mind, he wouldn’t risk cumming all over your underwear or whatever just to get off. 

That still doesn’t justify his current predicament, though. 

You hum, sensing that something strange is afoot. “Is Weezer still on?” 

Sam completely forgot about the TV. When he peeks his eyes open, the image has shifted to showcase an entirely different band. He doesn’t know who they are or what the song is; his attention is far from the music right now. 

“No, not anymore,” he murmurs, grinding against his palm. He tips his head back on the creaky wooden headboard. A sigh brushes past his lips before he can think to cover it. 

For a few beats, you say nothing, shifting your cell phone to the other ear. You lean back in your seat, listening closely to Sam’s breathing; even over the fuzzy quality of the speaker, his sharp, baited breath crackles through clear as day. It makes you feel warm all over, thighs pressing together unconsciously. Your eyes dart around the library; you lower your voice even more, ducking behind the privacy dividers that separate the computers. 

“Sam,” you murmur — and oh, if you knew what your saying his name like that did to him, you’d be on your feet right now. “What are you doing?”

He chokes, hand freezing over his erection. “N-Nothing.” A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Even he knows that wasn’t even remotely convincing. 

You huff in amusement, licking your lips thoughtfully. “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” you say, shifting in your seat. The heat between your legs is flaring up quick, spreading like a wildfire. “Are you… enjoying yourself?”

If Sam had any doubts about whether you knew what he was doing or not, that teasing question confirmed the truth. You know exactly what’s happening, and you’re toying with him like a cat to a mouse. His skin burns with a blush that explodes from head to toe. He removes his hand from his crotch in an instant, running it through his shaggy hair instead. He sputters into the phone, feeling like a complete fucking idiot loser creep. What kind of sicko gets off like this? To a person he’s not even dating, no less? It’s not like you’re some stranger — you hunt with him and Dean, you’ve known them for years, you’re a friend. He must be truly psychotic if he’s actually dumb enough to start jerking off to someone who’s basically his coworker, someone he’ll have to see in close proximity for the foreseeable future. 

“I’m not— I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t let me stop you.” Your voice cuts him off, and Sam doesn’t dare to move an inch, convinced that he hallucinated the words. 

“Wh… What?”

You roll your eyes, forcibly shutting down the computer and grabbing your bag from the floor beside your feet. “Keep going,” you reiterate. “I’ll be over soon.”

“What?” Sam sputters intelligently, only for the call to abruptly end. He sits up, eyes wide as he stares down at his cell phone. His hand goes slack, and it bounces off the bed and to the floor. Swallowing harshly, he shifts against the sheets, turning his gaze to the obvious tent in his pants. 

You told him to keep going, but Sam isn’t so sure he can do that. If this goes how he thinks it’s going to go, he’s going to bust in his hand only to proceed to struggle to get it up again by the time you make it to the motel. He sinks back, groaning, clutching the sheets and humping the air — the only semblance of relief he’ll allow himself.

But the minutes drag on. Realistically, he knows it won’t take long for you to return to the motel room, but he was already so close to cumming from the sound of your voice; he’s barely holding on as it is. 

Sam takes deep breaths. His jeans feel absolutely suffocating. It wouldn’t hurt to just relieve some pressure, right? That’s all he can do to keep from cumming in his pants, after all. With shaking hands, Sam reaches down, popping the button of his jeans, then slowly pulling the zipper down. The interlocking teeth break loose, and he lets out a sigh when his cock has a bit more room to breathe. His boxers are still too tight, but the cotton at least has some stretch to it that doesn’t make this so unbearable. 

Just then, you finally bust through the door, breathing heavily. Sam jolts upright, startled by the sudden intrusion. He swings his legs to sit on the edge of the bed, hitting his skull on the headboard in the process. He scrambles to look normal and totally inconspicuous, even though his jeans are unzipped and his damp boxers have a very obvious tent in them. 

“Hey,” he chokes out, taking in your appearance — frazzled, jacket slipping down your shoulders, chest heaving. He squints. “Did you—?”

“Run here? Yeah,” you confirm, kicking the door closed behind you. Your bag is haphazardly tossed on the desk near the window. It’s impossible to keep your eyes from drifting down to Sam’s clothed erection; you nod towards him, already shrugging your jacket off, draping it over the desk chair. “You didn’t finish.”

Sam is starting to think he’s on another planet. How you can be so casual about all of this is equal parts concerning and reassuring. 

“No, I didn’t— I couldn’t…” He trails off, and despite how embarrassing this all is, it only gets worse when Sam blushes. He wipes at his cheeks like it might somehow remove the redness from them, but it stubbornly remains. 

Your head tilts. “You couldn’t?” You approach slowly, crossing the short distance between you two until you’re standing between his legs. “What, you need help?”

Sam stares up at you. His cock twitches, straining painfully against his boxers. He almost wishes he could die on the spot to escape the shame of it all. 

“I… This is so weird,” he sighs, laughing dryly to himself. He looks down, starting to cover his erection, but you get closer, nudging his knees further apart. 

“Don’t do that,” you say — not scolding, exactly, but deeply dismayed by his lack of confidence. “You’re the one who seduced me with Weezer over the phone.”

Even though your words are in jest, Sam groans, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Yeah, that’s the weird part.” 

He’s retreating in on himself before you’ve even gotten the chance to touch him yet. That won’t do, not when you ran here, sweating for twelve minutes straight just to jump his bones. 

“Well, maybe I like weird,” you huff, reaching out to tip his chin back. He finally looks at you, guided by your hand; his brows are upturned, eyes all big and glinting and puppy-like. You bite your tongue to keep from telling him all the aggressively fond (and downright filthy) thoughts that press against the forefront of your mind. 

“You… liked that?” He asks tentatively. Sam is half-convinced that he’s about to wake up from a wet dream, that he’ll wake to find that he’s perspiring through his clothes for a whole different reason.

His question almost makes you laugh, but this is clearly a sensitive subject — Sam is deathly allergic to realizing his own attractiveness, as you’ve long since deduced — so you nod, leaning in.

“Yeah,” you breathe, mouth hovering over his. “I like it, Sam. I like you.”

You take the leap and kiss him so hard that he nearly falls back against the bed. He sucks in a sharp breath, pulling back for a split second as if to convince himself that you’re actually here, actually wanting this. When you don’t show any sign of stopping, he finally turns his brain off and pulls you into his lap. 

Teeth click together as you both fall against the bed, kissing sloppily. It’s like a switch has been flipped, because suddenly, Sam isn’t the shy, gentle giant you’re used to talking to. He sucks at your bottom lip, surprising you with the eagerness behind it. You brace your hands against the sheets, holding yourself upright as Sam’s hands grip your waist, already pushing your shirt up to feel more skin. 

With your legs slotted alongside his, you’re able to press your knee against his erection while you grind on his thigh. Sam groans, hooking a finger through the belt loop of your jeans to guide your hips. The feeling is dizzying — even more so when he parts his lips, licking into your mouth. 

Everything is escalating fast. The motel room feels hot; you couldn’t stand another minute in your clothes if you tried. Thankfully, Sam has the same idea, because he hastily tugs your shirt up and over your head. He helps you with your jeans, next, hands fumbling over your hips and thighs; you climb off of him for just long enough to shimmy out of the denim, kicking it to the floor. 

Once you’ve crawled back into his lap, Sam yanks you closer, rolling over to lay on top with you below him. He hovers over you on the mattress, the springs squeaking under your combined weight. His mouth lands on your neck, spreading wet kisses across your skin while he shoves his jeans all the way down with one hand, kicking them off his ankles. 

Sam works his way further up, kissing behind your ear; your breathing gets increasingly heavy as his tongue starts to drag up that sensitive strip near your hairline. You’re still sweaty from running all the way from the library to the motel — definitely from this, too — but Sam moans when he tastes the salt on your skin. There’s a moment where he stops kissing you to press his nose against your damp skin, inhaling deeply; he could spend forever with his face buried against your neck like this, smelling the familiar musk of your sweat. He pants heavily, the hot air making you shudder and sigh. He tugs you closer by the hips, and that’s when you feel his cock twitch against your thigh. 

You start to reach for it without a second thought, gravitating towards the bulge as if compelled by some higher, hornier power. You bite your lip as your hand lands against his erection. Sam groans, his sounds unkempt as you palm him through the thin layer of his boxers. Emboldened by the noise he makes, you curl your fingers around his length, tracing the shape of him. The sizable wet patch from his precum is soaking through the cotton, making your hand damp along with it. 

Sam’s mouth lands over your ear, and he licks the outline of it. Unexpectedly, it feels good. A weak whimper escapes you under the attention, your spine tingling when his hot tongue swirls around the soft appendage. You briefly forget that you were touching him, too busy melting into the sheets. When your eyes flutter shut, Sam groans again, tracing down your arm to find your hand. He gently guides you to his waistband — letting his desires be known for once in his life — and you remember exactly what you were getting to. 

Your fingers break past the elastic of his boxers. The happy trail leading down to his cock is sparse; even without giving it a proper look, you can feel that he’s neatly trimmed all around. Sam’s hand leaves yours to push his boxers further down, and you wrap your hand around his length before it can spring out and hit your thigh. It’s thick and heavy, flushed at the tip from all the blood rushing south. Sam’s breath hitches in your ear as you work your fingers to the head of his cock, circling your thumb over the tip before spreading the precum down the length of him. 

“Fuck,” Sam sighs, unable to help himself; he rolls his hips into your open hand. Pride swells up in your chest, and you wrap your fingers completely around him, slowly guiding your fist up and down his cock. He gives up on tonguing your ear for a minute, dropping his forehead against the bed, moaning and thrusting his hips forward. Your free hand slips around him to slide up his back — that stupidly tight shirt still on for reasons that make you want to tear it off — until your fingers card through his hair. 

“When’s the last time somebody touched you?” You ask, voice low and breathy in his ear. It clearly triggers something in him; he bucks into your fist, gripping at the sheets. 

His reply is shy, ears blazing red. “Can you, ah, not ask that?” 

It takes a Herculean amount of effort not to grin. “I’m just asking. You’re so sensitive.”

Sam all but whimpers, shoving his face against the crumpled bedsheets. “Feels good,” he mutters, muffled against the mattress. “...Been a while.”

You lick your lips, slowing the rhythm of your hand. He huffs and puffs, trying to make up for it by canting his hips faster, but it’s of little use. He’s on the verge of begging you not to stop when you speak again: “It gets better than just my hand, you know.”

You’re lucky that you survive after saying that. 

Sam pounces on you, forgoing all attempts at restraint and conveniently forgetting his own shyness. His mouth presses against yours in a hungry kiss, devouring you like you’re his last meal. You finally tug at his shirt, and — to your immediate relief — he pulls it over his head, carelessly tossing it to the floor. 

Sam finally makes a move for your underwear, greedily slipping his hand under the waistband. He only gives you a brief glance to check that this is okay, that you really want more, but your hand finds his and guides it down to answer without words — just like he did for you. Sam flashes a small, grateful smile, letting his middle finger swipe through your wet folds. You moan, but the sound is quickly swallowed up by his mouth in another kiss. His long fingers experimentally run over the heat between your legs, applying gentle pressure to see what makes you tick. 

Every part of you feels sensitive; you’re practically gushing all over his fingers already, and he’s barely even massaged your clit yet. He leaves teasing swipes, his hand getting stuck between your thighs when you close them around his wrist. Sam doesn’t mind at all; he still manages to slip a finger inside you despite your closed legs, and ironically, that has your legs falling open like a door off its hinges. 

Sam’s kisses turn sloppy as he divides his attention between your mouth and your fluttering cunt. He pumps his finger inside you whilst using his thumb to lightly press against your clit, massaging it with tight circles. A second finger joins the first, stretching you open, and you choke on a moan. Your hands fly up to grab his bicep — which is unfairly huge — as your hips finally give up and impatiently buck against his deft fingers. He pants against your mouth, briefly reeling back to watch as you cum. It happens fast — his fingers are slipping through your folds, drowning in the release that spills onto his digits. He works you through your orgasm, rubbing his nose against your jawline while your walls pulse around his fingers; Sam only removes his hand when your legs kick against the bed, sensitive from the overstimulation. 

You lay against the mattress, sighing deeply. Your arm covers your eyes for a moment, and Sam watches you breathe through it. He can’t help but tear his eyes away, trailing his gaze down your body, watching your chest rise and fall with every exhalation. He looks down at his own fingers, now shining in the light, slick with a thick layer of your cum. 

Sam doesn’t give it a second thought: he lifts his hands to his own mouth, tasting you. His cock recovers quickly, springing up to nudge against your thigh, and you remove your arm to find him blissfully licking your cum off his fingers. It gets you hot all over again. He looks far too happy to lap you up like that; but you don’t know how many times he’s woken up from a wet dream about you, imagining you like this or with his head between your legs or your lips around his cock. 

When he remembers to open his eyes, you’re already looking at him. He’s still savoring the taste of you when you tug him back down, dragging him into another kiss. Sam feels suddenly, terribly impatient after waiting so long to get off; he reaches for your thigh, pushing it up to spread you open, and he lines himself up with your glistening center. He presses the head of his shaft between your folds, smearing your wetness up and down his length, watching you squirm beneath him. His breath hitches, and he finally can’t take another second of waiting. He’s so hard it hurts, and he hasn’t gotten to cum once, but he’s determined to last long enough to fit himself snugly inside you. 

His cock finally pierces into you, and your eyelids fall shut. He fills you up completely when he bottoms out — and even then, he’s so big that the full length of him doesn’t fit all the way inside of you. There’s still another inch hanging out, but he doesn’t try to force it in, not when you’re already being stretched thin. 

Sam hovers over you, gripping the sheets beside your head. His long lashes flutter as he rolls his hips nice and slow, mindful enough even now to let you adjust. You sigh and tremble beneath him, squirming under his weight. Your hands reach around his body, fingers crawling up like spiders to grip his back. The pressure of your touch encourages him to pick things up, to go at a steady — but not distasteful — pace. He’s trying so hard to be a gentleman; he doesn’t want to get too carried away, not after he’s already spent so long pining after you and praying he might get to touch you. Sam isn’t selfish. If he’s going to get you in bed, he wants you to feel good before anything else. 

You lay under him, breathing heavily, and slide your hands down to his lower back. He falters from the feeling of your possessive tug, so you raise your hips to meet his next downward thrust. He’s holding back — you can tell. His brows are upturned, eyes squeezed shut — all of his features twisted up in concentration. It’s sort of cute how courteous he is, but you’re determined to whittle him down to the shape of his desires. 

“Sam,” you breathe, “you’re thinking too hard.”

Sam opens his eyes. His expression is still a little tense, his pace still dreadfully polite. He swallows harshly, fingers twitching against the bunched up bedsheets beneath your head. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he manages to say, cheeks burning. 

You tip your head at an angle, staring up at him with a fond, lightly exasperated expression. “You won’t,” you assure him. “Please, Sam. Don’t make me beg. It’s not really my thing.” 

He huffs out a flustered laugh, always so easily amused by you. He leans down to steal a kiss from you, sucking in a breath and offering a dangerously deep roll of his hips. Your hands tighten your grip on his back, pulling him closer still, and he groans into your mouth. With renewed confidence, Sam tips in to his own needs, thrusting harder, making the bed shake. 

It’s not enough, not for either of you. Sam pulls out, letting his hard, leaking cock spring back against his navel. Before you can complain or ask questions, Sam turns you on your side, laying behind you. He slides one large hand between your legs, gripping your inner thigh and lifting it up. He spreads you out, using that same hand to guide the head of his cock back inside you. The tight drag of his cock through your walls — every vein and ridge — is delicious. His hand quickly returns to hold your thigh up, and he takes you from behind, groaning against the back of your neck. 

The angle has Sam dizzy with want, possessing him to finally stop giving a fuck and take you the way he’s always dreamed of. He spreads you out, rocking into you viciously, punched-out moans filtering past your parted lips. He kisses behind your ear, digging his hand into the meat of your thigh while the other keeps him upright on the mattress. Underneath you, the bedsprings squeak and strain, and the heat in the dingy motel room nears a boiling point. 

Sam feels his orgasm coming before he has the sense to warn you. It’s a wonder how he even managed to make it this far, given how close he was just listening to you on the phone — but now he’s about to cum inside you if he doesn’t get his shit together. He bucks his hips a few more times before beginning to reel back, carefully guiding himself out—

“Don’t,” you say quickly, reaching down to catch his wrist against your thigh. “It’s okay. Don’t move.”

If Sam could, he’d probably marry you on the spot.

Sam bucks his hips forward, sharper than before, and you gasp. He hangs his head, pressing his nose against your neck and panting like a dog. Damp skin slaps together as he nears his release. Sam can feel how you squeeze around his cock, and if your desperate whines are any indication, you must be close, too. 

Pushing himself up, Sam moves to hover over you, keeping you on your side. The hand on your thigh slides up to the back of your knee, bending it as he fucks into you at an angle. You moan, close to drooling against the damn pillow as he drives you into the mattress; his own sounds grow louder, unkempt and unashamed, until Sam feels his balls tighten. He groans aloud, his free hand practically tearing a hole in the sheets as he cums inside you. His release is hot and thick, filling you to the brim.

The heat that fills you is almost enough to have you tumbling over the edge yourself. Sam is still thrusting into you, hand flying to your clit to massage it with tight circles. You choke on a moan, cheek buried in the pillow as your walls suck him in one last time, squeezing tight, before bursting open with your release. Sam lets out a shuddering breath, watching you whimper and tremble beneath his weight. His hand leaves your clit, moving back to your thigh; he squeezes it lightly, staying inside you until your breathing evens out. 

Sam finally slides out of you, moving to lay by your side. You roll onto your back, shoulder to shoulder with him. His skin is warm and sticky from sweat, blotched red from his flush. Sam stares at the ceiling for a good, long while, as if expecting your body to float up and be set aflame at any moment. 

But nothing happens. No demons, no fires, no mercy killings, no death. He turns his head to look at you, and you’re still right where you were minutes ago. Sensing his stare, you loll your head to the side, opening your eyes to find him already looking at you. Relief tugs at the corners of his mouth, his expression melting into its usual boyish tenderness. You squint at him, a smile of your own steadily growing. 

“You look happy,” you muse. “Proud of yourself?”

He snickers, searching your expression. “Something like that,” he rasps. There’s not a hint of regret to be found. He lays on his side, draping an arm across your waist to pull you in. You sidle up to him without hesitation, caressing his forearm affectionately. How many months had you spent hoping for this? Praying you could get even a smidgeon of courage to get close to him? If this is a dream, you’d be a fool to pinch yourself awake.

Sam’s cell phone starts ringing, startling you both from the peaceful silence, and — with a disgruntled sigh — Sam rolls over to fish for his phone on the floor beside the bed. He sits on the edge of the mattress and flicks it open with his thumb, pressing it to his ear. 

“Hey,” Dean greets from the other line, sounding mysteriously serious. “Have you gotten laid yet?” 

Sam blanches, staring at his phone as if his brother might be able to sense the glare Sam is trying to send his way. “What? Why would you—?”

“So you did,” Dean says proudly. “I have a sixth sense for these things, man. Forward my congratulations or whatever. I’ll let you have some extra alone time, you seem like the girly pillow talk type.”

“Dean—”

“Deuces, brother.” 

Dean abruptly hangs up. You sit up in bed, the sheets rumpled beneath your form. With a wrinkled nose, you lean towards Sam. 

“He knows, doesn’t he?” 

Sam sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. He tosses his phone on the nightstand, nodding gravely. “Apparently.”

You click your tongue, rolling your eyes. “Figures,” you mutter. “He has a sixth sense for these things.” Sam is still sitting on the edge of the bed, his back turned to you. With a low, thoughtful hum, you shimmy closer to him, laying a hand against the ridges of his spine, propping your chin up on his shoulder. “I mean, if he already knows, we could always go again. While we have time and all.”

He freezes, a renewed blush covering him from head to toe. Sam releases a wheezy laugh, running a hand through his hair and glancing your way. Your eyes are sparkling, mischievous and wanting. Sam is a weak, weak man — he turns to face you again, his confidence returning like the tide. 

“Yeah? You want to?” He asks, already climbing on top of you. 

Falling back against the sheets, you laugh, tossing your arms around his neck. “I want you to.”

> masterlist. > main.

He felt it in an instant, the first time he saw you on that back row, his cheeks flushing slightly, his pants tightening as he stood at the pulpit and tried to recite the sermon Sam wrote for him. He struggled through, trying not to look at you, trying not to think about everything he wanted to do to you.

And now you're here. Next to him.

"It has been four weeks since my last confession."

And his pants are tightening all over again.

"Go ahead." He coughs slightly, trying to pull himself together.

"I- is Father Michael coming back anytime soon- I was really hoping to talk to him."

Dean leans back, letting a slow breath out his nose, "I'm sorry, he's on his pilgrimage for a few more weeks. I thought he'd be back by now, but I guess this town will be stuck with me for a while longer."

"It's only- I don't want to bother you with this-"

He smiles. He can barely see you through the confession screen, but he can see your chest rising and falling on every small breath, the innocent little church dress suddenly looking more scandalous in this low light.

"Please, there's nothing you can't say to me, I'm here to listen."

He sees you give a small nod, playing with the hem of your dress, "I- uh- I've been having indecent thoughts."

He swallows hard. This can't be happening. "Indecent, how?"

"They're... lustful."

Dean tightens his fist, trying to make himself seem put together, the hairs on his neck standing on end. Why is this so hard? Why do you have to look so cute?!

You take his silence as a prompt to continue, "I think of... Men... A man... Touching me."

"You're thinking about sex?" Dean can't stop himself, he says it before he even realized what he's done.

You let out a small breath, caught off guard by his frank words, "I- yes- yes I am."

"Good sex?" He tries to smile, he feels like his cock might break through the fly of his pants.

You chuckle slightly, thankful for his tone, "Yes."

"Is this real sex or just- thoughts?" This isn't how a confession is supposed to go. Sam taught him how to do it right- Forgive me Father yadda yadda, I'm very sorry yadda yadda, I absolve you from your sins in the name of yadda yadda yadda. If he was honest with himself he'd say he was actually pretty good at them by this point. So he knows he's not supposed to be asking this many questions. But he can't help himself.

You smile, looking down at your dress, "Thoughts, Father. I've never..." You trail off, "This man- he wouldn't want me anyway."

"Who wouldn't want you? You're gorgeous." Dean knows he's fucked up as soon as he says it. That's definitely not part of the script.

You glance at him, you can probably see even less of him than he can see of you, but still, there's an outline there, "What?"

He looks away, "I- you're a god loving woman, surely any man would be lucky to court you."

"This man- he has other matters on his mind."

Dean holds back on another comment. Whatever man you're pining after in the middle of Fuckoff, Nowhere better start appreciating you quick.

You keep talking, "I just- I need forgiveness, Father. I've been trying not to think about- trying to stay pure- I need god to forgive me for these thoughts."

He just can't help himself, "It's just thoughts?"

"Father?" You're playing with the hem again.

"Just- thoughts? There's nothing more you need forgiveness for?"

There's a beat. Air thick. You look over at him, then down again, "I've- I've behaved immodestly."

He wets his lips, "You've touched yourself?"

You don't reply, but he sees you nod through the screen.

"You've avoided confession for three weeks- avoided telling me for three weeks- why?"

You don't look up, the moment draws on, then you speak again, quieter, "I- I've been thinking about... you."

Dean's dead. He's dead and he's in heaven and some angel has served you up on a silver platter because there's no other way he actually just heard what he thinks he heard.

You let out a meak sound, "I'm sorry, Father- I know it's sinful-"

Maybe it's chivalry - he can't leave here knowing a pretty girl's tearing herself apart because of something so natural.

Maybe he's just horny- his pants so tight, cock so hard, he's loosing blood to his brain.

Either way he can't help himself, "How can it be a sin to make yourself feel good, huh?"

You seem to take his words as a test, "The bible says-"

"You're not hurting anyone- you're certainly not hurting me- it's not a sin to...", he sighs, he's already pushed it too far, "Does it feel nice? Do you enjoy it?"

"Father, should we really be-"

Fuck. He wishes you'd stop calling him Father. It's scrambling his brain in a way he can't quite understand, "It's a simple question. Do you enjoy touching yourself?"

He hears you suck in a small gasping breath at his words. There's silence, then your quiet voice, "Yes."

"You use your fingers, I presume?"

You glance at him, there's really no reason to be asking this, surely you know that, but you answer anyway, even quieter than before, "Yes."

"And you touch your..." He's pretty sure there's no godly way to say sweet, innocent cunt so he trails off instead.

"Yes."

Dean's already going to hell- he's already gone to hell- this moment isn't going to shift any tides, what he does now really won't make a difference in the grand scheme of his life, "Do it now."

You don't say anything, but he sees you look up, staring at him through the screen, trying to understand what he just said.

"Touch yourself, here, for me. Let me hear you."

You don't argue, maybe it's what you've been waiting to hear, maybe it's what you've spent every night thinking about.

He hears you shifting, quietly. He tries to catch the light, seeing what you're doing- spreading your legs apart, hand moving between your thighs, head tilting backwards. He stops breathing, stops moving, desperate to hear any sound he can from you.

There it is, a tiny little whimper, fingers pushing into a soaked pussy, a gasp like you're holding back.

God he's gonna blow his fuckin' load. He palms his cock through his pants, looking for some kind of relief as he listens intently.

You moan- it's quiet and reserved, hidden, but he still hears it, still has to slam his head back against the booth to stop himself from cursing.

"F- Father please-"

He can't stop himself, he's standing before he knows what's happening, barrelling out of the flimsy wooden door with his cock aching and his forehead covered in sweat. He slams open your side of the confessional, his eyes glazed as he stares down at you.

Your legs are parted, dress pushed up your thighs, fingers hidden under your panties- biting down on your lip so hard Dean things you might draw blood. You react quickly to his presence, moving your hand and closing your thighs, trying to stutter out some excuse like this isn't exactly what he was asking for.

He sinks to his knees without a word, parts your legs like a man possessed. Your panties are soaked, he practically drools at the sight, so sweet and vulnerable and all for him.

He leans in, pulling your panties to the side and pressing his tongue to your slit in one move. You gasp, hand flying to grip his hair, hips bucking into him. Dean knows sin, this could never be a sin. You taste like heaven.

He pulls at your hips, tugging you into him so he can press his whole mouth against your pussy, pushing your thighs over his shoulders. His eyes flutter shut, the feeling too much for him, your arousal coating his cheeks and chin. His tongue finds your clit, circling it before he sucks it into his mouth, hearing you moan in response.

He pushes his tongue into you, one hand still on your hip, the other curling around your thigh, his fingers digging into you to keep you still. Your head rolls back, your ankles locking together behind his back as you pull him in closer.

He's so close his nose is rubbing against your clit as he laps at your cunt, your taste sending him into a frenzy, your thighs twitching as they rub against the stubble on his jaw.

"Father-" you gasp, gripping his hair tighter.

His cock twitches, he's gonna cum in his pants. He doesn't care, he's never felt this desperate for anything.

He pushes his tongue back into you, drags it out to suck on your clit. Your tiny gasps sound like a hymn, his fingers grasping at your flesh, his teeth grazing against your swollen pussy lips.

"Father- please- I'm going to-"

You don't even need to say it. He can feel your cunt clenching, your thighs shaking. You draw in a ragged breath as he moves over your clit. Your hips curve into him, your legs strained as you pull him in, your head rolling back in a loud moan you have no way to conceal.

Dean cums. He cums without a single touch as you topple over the edge, your orgasm twitching through you, your body on fire as he pushes you through it. He laps at you like a man starved, still letting you coat him, still grabbing at you like he can't let you go.

Your hips keep bucking, your breath still tight, your moaning still impossible to hide. He feels as your body starts to melt, relaxing back against the seat, twisting away as pleasure turns into sensitivity. He pulls back slightly, still slowly tasting you, his tongue softer.

He finally moves away, staring up at you, his eyes glossed, his face still wanting. You suck your lip into your mouth as you look down at him, silence pounding in both your ears. He reaches out, adjusting your panties to cover you back up- to stop himself from going in all over again.

You swallow hard, "F- forgive me Father-"

He moves back, jaw clenching. He can feel his own cum, wet against his groin, "Don't. Don't. You have nothing you need to be forgiven for."

"I tempted-"

"You didn't- I promise you, you didn't. I've wanted to do that from the moment I saw you."

You suck in a small breath, nodding as you stare at him, wide eyes.

He stands, he hopes you don't notice the patch on his pants, "You- you get going now."

You nod again, staying silent as you slip past him.

He almost lets you go without another word, but he can't stop himself, catching your wrist, "I expect to see you in church on Sunday."

☾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

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