Sweet Like Cinnamon~

♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔

7 / 12 ⭑ your warmth draws him in, but your drama occasionally makes him stare into the middle distance for help. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas likes your loyalty. he likes your courage, your generosity, your way of making people feel chosen. the issue’s that you can be a little theatrical, and cas doesn’t always know when he’s supposed to respond seriously or simply let you sparkle. you call him “angel” with flair, and he takes one long, grave pause before saying, “yes. that is accurate.” you adore him. he’s trying his best.

♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔

1 / 12 ⭑ you make sense to him: precise, helpful, observant, and quietly devoted. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas loves useful people. not in a cold way—in the sense that he understands love when it becomes action. you notice details, organize chaos, research thoroughly, correct mistakes before they become disasters, and offer care through competence. he’d trust your judgment quickly because you don’t waste words. you say what you mean. you fix what you can. to cas, that kind of devotion is practically holy.

♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆

5 / 12 ⭑ you make human interaction look graceful, and cas studies you like a field guide. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas likes the way you move through people. you can soften a room, calm an argument, charm a witness, and somehow make everyone feel less strange. he doesn’t fully understand the mechanics, but he respects the result. you teach him social cues without making him feel stupid, and that earns you a special kind of trust. he may still answer your teasing compliments with alarming sincerity, though, so proceed carefully.

♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔

6 / 12 ⭑ he trusts your depth, but he isn’t fooled by how much you hide. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas sees the shadows in you and doesn’t flinch. that’s why you work. he likes your loyalty, your intensity, the way you don’t waste affection on people who haven’t earned it. but he also knows when you’re testing him, and cas doesn’t always enjoy emotional traps disguised as silence. still, if the world turned ugly, he’d trust you to stay. maybe not softly. maybe not easily. but fully.

♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

11 / 12 ⭑ he likes your spirit, but you make him deeply concerned for traffic laws, sacred objects, and general consequences. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas admires your freedom. he does. you remind him that choice can be joyful instead of only painful. however, you also keep saying things like, “what’s the worst that can happen?” and cas has seen the worst. repeatedly. with paperwork. he enjoys your honesty and your humor, but he may quietly stand closer to you on hunts because he doesn’t trust you not to touch the glowing cursed thing.

♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓

3 / 12 ⭑ you’re controlled, reliable, and difficult to impress, which makes cas respect you immediately. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas likes that you take responsibility seriously. you don’t make promises lightly, and when you commit to something, you follow through. he understands duty. he understands restraint. he understands carrying too much because somebody has to. the two of you might not be emotionally fluffy at first, but there’s trust. quiet trust. the kind built through showing up, not talking pretty.

♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘

8 / 12 ⭑ you intrigue him because your mind works strangely, and cas has a soft spot for strange things. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas doesn’t mind that you’re different. honestly, he may prefer it. you ask odd questions, challenge assumptions, and look at the world sideways enough that he feels less alien around you. the problem’s emotional distance. when you detach, cas may not know whether you need space, comfort, or an exorcism. still, he appreciates your independence. he just wishes human feelings came with clearer instructions. same, babe.

♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘

12 / 12 ⭑ he’s moved by your empathy, but worried you’ll let the world take too much from you. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas likes your kindness. deeply. but he also sees how easily you blur the line between compassion and self-sacrifice, and that hits a nerve for him. you want to save everything. every ghost, every victim, every broken person with sad eyes and a tragic backstory. cas understands that instinct too well, which is exactly why it worries him. he’d be gentle with you, protective even, but liking you would come with a lot of concern and one very serious angel stare.

♈︎ 𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

9 / 12 ⭑ you confuse him, alarm him, and earn his respect in the same five minutes. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas likes your bravery, but he doesn’t understand why you keep choosing violence as a first language. you say, “i’ve got this,” right before doing something deeply unsafe, and he watches with that severe little squint like he’s trying to decide whether this is courage or poor survival instinct. still, you’re honest. you act when people need help. he trusts that part of you, even if he’d prefer you stop sprinting toward danger like it owes you money.

♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘

4 / 12 ⭑ you feel calm to him, and cas is quietly fascinated by how steady you are. ๋࣭ ⭑ you don’t rush him. that matters more than you realize. cas likes how grounded you feel, how you can sit with silence without making it awkward, how you offer practical care without needing a dramatic reaction. you’d hand him a cup of coffee, remind him to rest, and not laugh if he took your advice too literally. he finds your stubbornness confusing, yes, but familiar. angels aren’t exactly famous for flexibility either.

♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎

10 / 12 ⭑ you make him curious, but you also make him feel like he has missed four conversations happening inside one conversation. ๋࣭ ⭑ cas likes your mind. truly. he just needs a moment. you jump from topic to topic, joke too fast, flirt in a way he may or may not recognize three hours later, and ask questions that make him tilt his head like a confused bird of prey. he enjoys you more than he understands you. unfortunately, you also keep saying things that aren’t literal, and cas is one double entendre away from needing sam to translate.

⊹ she likes taking you for early walks behind the roadhouse, when the air is crisp and bites gently at your cheeks, turning her nose a blooming pink. grass sways dull green in a hush. she'll tell you about the dreams she had last night and gives you a chance to greet the day at your own pace.

"we had a dog in my dream," she murmurs. "hm. we should really get a dog, i think."

when you head back inside, she brews you a thermos of tea and kisses light at your shoulder as you drink.

⊹ after a long, exhausting, anxiety-riddled day, she invites you readily across her body in bed, coaxing your face to her chest. she'll stroke down your hair and whisper reassurances in an attempt to ease your mind.

"we're okay," she says, fingers sweeping the length of your arm. "s'okay, and tomorrow will be a heck of a lot better, baby. i'll make sure of it."

⊹ patience is a trait she only ever displays with you. she never gets frustrated or snappy when you're having trouble articulating a reason for feeling anxious and doesn't invalidate you for not having one. she'll sit with you, rub tenderly up your spine as you breathe, and won't judge one bit.

"y'don't have to talk," she assures. "not unless you want to. okay?"

"don't need a reason to feel this way. i'm staying, angel."

You’d been on your laptop a bit too long, the past half hour spent searching questions about angels. How to care for them, how to make them happy. You’re doing your due diligence on account of Cas’s silence in regard to his needs.

“Do angels like their wings touched?” — search.

It must’ve sounded too much like caring for a bird, as the article headlining your search is about that very thing. It catches your eye and you move your mouse to the link.

Click.

Do birds like being pet?

“When petting your bird, avoid rubbing or petting under their neck. This area can trigger mating behavior and make them view you as a potential mate, leading to sexual frustration, especially during their hormonal season. Birds have their sexual organs located in their back and under their wings.”

You wonder if it’s the same for angels. The article has to be linked for a reason.

Walking past Castiel later in the day, you slyly rub your hand against his back. The shiver that runs up his spine is instant— and frustrating. His shoulders heave, eyes bursting wide with want, picking up on your invitation and ready to accept. Before he can reach out to grab you, you’re already gone.

The article was right.

You do it again and again: gentle pats, back massages, small strokes to his wings, taunting the tent in his pants that forms every damn time. He wants you so badly but you won’t give it to him without a tease. It feels as inhumane as it is hot. Cas knows it too.

But one thing you forgot to read on that article are the consequences to sexually frustrating a creature.

“If your bird starts seeing you as their mate, they may become aggressive, regurgitate food, pluck their feathers, or scream loudly.”

The next time you try to feel up Castiel’s wings, he makes sure you can’t walk away. Cas picks you up by the arms and throws you to the floor. You land painfully face up, only for him to grip you by the neck and flip you over. He mounts quickly, animalistic in nature, and aggressive in character.

“N-no. No more. You asked for this. You wanted this!” He roars. “Take your clothes off.”

You gasp for air.

“I said take them off!”

You hands fumble the buttons on your top, while Cas takes his own shirt and coat off. Once you’re naked, he makes haste to knot his tie around your hands.

“What garbage on the computer gave you the idea that your actions were acceptable?” He’s straddling your prone body, leaning forward until his head is against the ground beside yours. He looks at you for a serious answer, but not a word can be formed at the sight of his shrunken pupils.

Castiel can hardly control his emotions. You’ve been casually jacking him off for days, all of that foreplay leading up to this very moment. He exhales shakily through his nose, consuming your body with his wings and pushing himself in with no hesitation. You gag from how full you feel, trapped under a ruthless mating press. It could be 200, even 300 pounds of pure muscle, changing pressure from your lumbar to your shoulder blades as his wings flap angrily to steady you.

Everything is hot and sticky and reeking of sex, Castiel spilling out days of pent-up frustration that you caused.

“Do you feel good about yourself?” He moans, finally falling limply next to you amidst a searing orgasm. He pulls the knot and frees your arms. A wing drapes your body and a pile of tar colored feathers coat the floor around you.

It’s impossible to say a word. All you can muster up is enough energy to stroke the wing covering your used-up body.

“I see.” Castiel murmurs, climbing onto you once more. “You didn’t learn your fucking lesson.”

the room’s dim, lit only by the lamp on your nightstand and the weak strip of hallway light under the door. the bunker’s quiet for once. you’re sitting on the edge of your bed with castiel standing between your knees, coat already discarded over the chair, tie loose, hair a little messed from your fingers. he’d kissed you until your thoughts went soft around the edges. until you forgot to be careful.

then your shirt rode up.

his eyes had dropped to your stomach, to the light brown stretch marks curving over your skin, and your whole body had remembered itself too quickly.

“sorry,” you say, reaching for the hem.

castiel catches your hand before you can pull the fabric down. “why are you apologizing?”

you huff out a laugh that doesn’t really make it. “i don’t know. habit, i guess.”

his brows draw together. upset in that castiel way. as if the world has given him another human rule that’s both cruel and unnecessary, and he’s deciding whether to personally argue with it.

“you believe this is something to hide.”

you look away. “cas.”

“answer me.”

“it’s not—” you stop, annoyed with yourself, with the heat rising in your face, with how stupidly vulnerable it feels to be looked at by someone who never learned how to look casually. “my skin isn’t smooth. it’s not even. and i know you don’t care, but i care sometimes, which is embarrassing.”

castiel is quiet for a moment. then he kneels. your breath catches because he does it slowly, reverently, hands settling on your thighs as if he has all the time in creation and wants to spend all of it right here. his gaze lifts to yours first, asking without words.

you give him a small nod.

he pushes your shirt up a little more, careful enough to make your throat tighten. his fingertips touch the stretch marks on your stomach, tracing one pale-brown line and then another, following the soft paths over your skin as if they aren’t interruptions but details. important ones.

“these are part of you,” he murmurs.

you swallow. “yeah. unfortunately.”

his eyes sharpen, gentle but firm. “not unfortunately.”

he bends his head and presses his mouth to one mark, then another, the kisses slow and warm and so lacking in hesitation that your body doesn’t know what to do with it. your hand drifts into his hair, not pulling. just holding on.

“cas,” you whisper.

“your body has carried you,” he says against your skin. “changed with you. protected you. endured with you. i don’t understand why that would make it less beautiful.”

you close your eyes.

the praise should make you want to hide more. somehow, from him, it doesn’t. it settles low and deep, a little too tender to brush off with a joke.

his hands move over your hips, your waist, the soft fullness of your stomach, never once avoiding the places you expect him to skip. he touches you with open palms, with patience, with something almost devotional in his face when he looks up at you. not hungry in a careless way. hungry with attention.

“there’s nothing wrong with the way you look,” he says, and his voice is so steady it almost makes you angry, because part of you wants to argue and part of you wants to believe him so badly it hurts. “not here.”

his thumb brushes over your side.

“not here.”

another kiss, lower on your stomach.

“not anywhere.”

your eyes burn, and you laugh a little because crying during foreplay feels… very you, actually. “you’re making this really hard to be insecure about.”

castiel’s mouth softens against your skin. “good.”

you look down at him, at the serious line of his face, at the blue of his eyes gone dark with tenderness, and for once you don’t reach to cover yourself. you let him look. you let him touch. and when he rises to kiss you again and his hand is still spread over the marked softness of your waist, you almost believe your body was never asking for forgiveness in the first place.

"Cas" you spoke up with a sigh to which he stood abruptly, hands awkwardly by his sides, "... I've been looking for you" he replied, no emotion on his face despite the very obscene position the two people on screen were in.

you shook your head choosing to walk away, "sure you have, you've certainly been looking in the wrong place" you muttered while he scrambled after you, "i have a question"

you glanced over your shoulder, "about what Cas?" you responded, already preparing for whatever this man was about to utter.

"it's about the female anatomy"

you stopped in your steps and turned around to face him, "...yes?" you questioned, narrowing your eyes.

he cleared his throat, glancing down before meeting your eyes, "in that video, the pizza man was touching her and it appeared that this liquid shot out of her. Is that possible?" he inquired.

it took you a second, once again, to process his words. when you did, you flushed, heat rushing through your face. your throat suddenly felt dry as you stumbled over an answer, "you mean squirting?" you blurted.

his brows furrowed and tilted his head in that puppy like innocence he always had, "is that what you call it?" he contemplated this for a minute while you stood there, heart racing.

he then stepped forward into your space causing you to tense at the proximity. the intensity of his gaze caused heat to pool low in your belly, "so it wasn't fabricated?" his voice was low.

you once again gaped, trying to look anywhere but his dark stare, "i- i mean most of the porn is laid on thick for views but it is a real thing yes" you stammered, eyes wide as the musky scent of him filled your nostrils.

suddenly his eyes narrowed and you watched as he angled his head down and sniffed. your heart dropped in horror.

"your arousal..." he murmured, eyes glancing towards your parted lips, "i can smell it" he inhaled again.

his gaze darkened as you froze, mortified simultaneously feeling the slick gathering in your panties. his hands came up, settling on your hips and gently pushed you back against the wall causing you to let out a small gasp. the lust haze filling your brain almost let a moan slip at the contact of his big strong hands man handling you.

"i would like to try, if that's alright" he suggested, voice low with his own seduction.

the suggestion took you by complete surprise and you could only stare, baffled.

"I'm going to need your words sweet girl" he prompted, husky with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

the shaky exhale and the tiny nod you gave him was all permission he needed before he took you by the waist and roughly guided to your bedroom. your heart raced with anticipation, a thrill shivered down your spine.

there was a flutter in your stomach as he closed the door behind him, click. he locked it and turned back to you. he approached slowly, that angel like innocence being replaced by a predatory hunger in his eyes.

you tensed again when he stopped in front of you, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, "easy," he soothed and buried his nose in your neck, inhaling again.

he captured your lips in a kiss, hand cupping your cheeks as his thumbs rubbed coaxing circles before he gently laid you down on the bed so that your lower half was hanging off. you couldn't help the small whine that escaped when he kneeled in front of you.

god he looked divine, lidded eyes staring up at you dark and ravenous. hair that was going to be tousled soon no doubt as you needed something to hold onto. lips plump and swollen from the kiss. his warm hands stroked up your thighs, gripping them tightly and pulled you closer.

"what are your limitations?" he suddenly asked.

you blinked at him, "... what?"

"how many rounds can you handle?" he clarified.

you swallowed thickly, "yes" you answered without thought.

a humourous huff escaped him, "words baby"

"I don't mind" you replied more sure of yourself. he nodded, pleased with the answer and tugged your pants down in a smooth motion.

you startled slightly. you had forgotten for a moment how strong angels are. you didn't get a chance to react as he suddenly spread your thighs and buried his nose against your covered pussy, inhaling again, a low groan escaping him. his lips brushed the wet spot gathered there.

your head tilted back, lips parting, "Cas...please"

god, the need was too much. the ache in your cunt was begging to be relieved. he pulled back, the juices that had soaked through causing strings of slick to stretch from his lips. you moaned at the sight, one hand coming up to tug at his hair.

his hands tightened on your upper thighs at the sound of your moan, eyes flickering up briefly before tugging down your panties. wordlessly he stuffed them into the pocket of his trench coat. you watch as he positioned your legs over his shoulders and paused at the sight of your glistening pussy, as swollen and pink.

"already so wet" he remarked with reverence watching as slick pooled onto the sheets below.

without warning he swiped his tongue through your folds up towards your clit. you gasped in pleasure, falling back into the sheets in bliss. he pulled back momentarily with a groan of your name, "you taste divine" he said, awe filling his eyes.

he dove back in like a man starved, slurping up your juices obscenely while white hot pleasure weakened you, squirming beneath his hold. you cried out, "Cass...god" you breathed.

the rumble he let out sent vibrations through you, "god wouldn't be able to make you feel this way sweetheart" he teased before his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked.

you cry out again, the pleasure already building in your belly. your hands tangled in his hair, holding him in place as you whine.

you came suddenly with a loud call of his name. he made a low pleased sound in the back of his throat, tongue not slowing down as he coaxed you through it. you didn't get a chance to catch your breath as he slid two fingers into your sopping hole without warning. thick, filling you up so good.

you whimpered at the intrusion, only able to voice barley coherent words as he pumped them, lips working in unison as he continued to swirl your clit. the other hand splayed across your stomach, keeping you in place.

you came again, cum coating his chin as he hummed, "that's it" he murmured against your puffy clit. by this point your eyes were teary from overwhelm as his fingers hit that sweet spot inside of you. you clenched around him and he sucked a breath through his teeth at the feeling of your gummy walls squeezing his fingers.

he added a third finger, stretching you out. you writhed beneath him, "please...Cass please" you pleaded, for what you didn't know. you just knew you needed more.

his teeth grazed your sensitive bud and you flinched, back arching at the strange sensation causing his hand to knead your belly in response, soothing. he pulled back briefly, face flushed and his tongue darted out to flick your clit. kitten licks as he looked up at you, watching as your face scrunched in pleasure while you gushed around him.

wet obscene sounds filled the room, squelches which seemed to redden his cheeks as his eyes watched your expressions with fascination.

the coil in your belly snapped again, your vision going white and his lips wrapped around you again, sucking harshly. you're crying at this point, squirming helplessly against him with pleading.

"Cass... too much" you gasped but he knew you didn't really mean it.

his lips quirked again when your thighs squeezed around his head, tears streaming down your face and reduced to a babbling mess. he added a fourth finger and you moaned loudly at the stretch.

another strange pressure built in your belly and you tried to push him away, "Cass wait" you gasped but he didn't let up, this only encouraged him as his eyes lit up.

his lips sucked roughly, his fingers speeding up angling his wrists to hit your spot deeper, more relentlessly. your mouth fell open in a guttural whine and he blushed.

then the pressure snapped. for a moment you couldn't hear anything, couldn't see anything as white clouded your vision. an unbearable climax as a clear white liquid forcing his fingers out, coating his chin, neck and chest while he watched with a grin, eyes wide with captivation.

your hands, tight in his hair finally loosened as you struggled to catch your breath. he slowly stood, lowering your sore thighs gently and you whined. he shushed you softly, leaning over and cupping your cheeks, "you were amazing" he praised causing you to giggle helplessly.

"next time we'll test how many times i can make you squirt"

your eyes widened, your heart skipping a beat in thrill and chuckled nervously while he stroked your cheeks, staring down with adoration.

When it’s you, Dean’s instincts are torn between conceding and winning. There’s some part of his broken, shattered soul that wants nothing more than for you to win every single argument so that neither of you storm off with injured hearts and a fear that your relationship is unsalvageable. The deepest parts of him hate fighting, because he wants you to feel safe with him; two people who grew up stubborn need the safety of each other more than anything else. The worst part is that after the fight is over but before the apologies, the only person Dean can see in the bathroom mirror is his father staring back, eyes dark and devoid of the tenderness a parent should have, face eerily close to Dean’s own.

Dean comes to find you later that night, the softness of socked feet on the bunker floors deafening in the quiet tension. It’s strung taut, a thin rope Dean can walk on but won’t break, and he treads delicately to keep the peace. You’re curled on the chair, book open in your lap that Dean realizes you’re actually reading. He clears his throat so as not to startle you, shoving his hands in his pockets and shuffling awkwardly in place.

“Baby?” Dean calls, voice thin.

You don’t reply with words, but the intentional tip of your head toward him shows that you’re not too angry to listen.

He really should be apologizing, begging for your forgiveness and making the empty promise not to do it again. He should get down on his knees for you and look up to your pretty eyes when he says he didn’t mean it.

“Are we okay?” is what he says instead.

It takes all his concentration not to wince at the words, and even then, he doesn’t do a good job. Your neutral hum could mean anything, and Dean swallows thick before trying again.

“Did I ruin us?”

You finally look up, watching hi with the kind of stare that says you’re undecided.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.

You’re still waiting, and he knows exactly why. He still hasn’t apologized properly, and he knows from experience you’ll wait as long as you have to until you get one. He’s too stubborn to apologize and you’re too stubborn to let it go without getting one, and it comes to a head like this every time. Dean’s never been one for apologies; if he has to apologize, it means he was wrong, and Dean Winchester is never wrong. Unless it’s you, in which case he admits defeat more readily than one would expect.

“Look,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Can you look at me? Please?”

You slowly creep you head up, eyes sharp and cold wit the same kind of certainty that Dean’s own eyes often hold. Dean’s hands come out to cup your face, thumbs stroking over the plush of your cheeks, glowing something soft and valuable under the lamplight.

“Talk to me,” he says. “I can’t apologize if I dunno what to apologize for.”

Your hands come up to meet his in a waltz, achingly soft to music you can’t hear, and pull his palms off your face.

“Bad start.”

Your voice is curt, smothered in the kind of brutal honesty Dean’s come to expect from you. He recoils a little until he registers the undertone of grace threaded through your words; an opening, potential for repair, a guiding light in the dark kept just barely out of his reach. Dea n’s eyes drop to where you’ve kept your hand lanced with his, a silent offering for him to take, an opening for forgiveness if he can let himself take it. If he can put his ego aside and acknowledge that he does owe you an apology. He also knows that he’ll get the apology he’s owed if he caves first. For not the first time in his life, he wishes he was Sam; Sam wouldn’t have this issue, mostly because he would never have argued with you I the first pace and he’d have apologized before it got to this point.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he finally says.

“Not an apology,” you retort.

Dean makes an indignant sound.

“What do you want from me?”

“An apology.”

“I am apologizing.”

Your brow raises, and you make a scoffing sound, disbelief on your features

“No,” you say, matter-of-factly. “You’re hoping if you say enough other stuff, I’ll forget, and you’ll be forgiven by proxy.”

Dean’s eyes narrow.

“How hard is it for you to just say you’re sorry?”

“I could ask you that too.”

Your brows raise again, this time in an expression of completely disbelief.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry. See? Easy.”

Dean knows he’s being difficult, and he also knows you’re being petty, but still, he cant find the words to say what he means. What he wants to say is something along the lines of how you mean to much to him for him to let you do what you try to do, even though you’re capable. Both can be true at the same time, he reasons, his protective streak at war with the calm side the rolls over without a fight.

“Are you really sorry, or are you just sayin’ that to make a point?”

Dean surprises himself by saying that, and the hurt that flashes across your face drives a stake through his heart and pins him to the wall.

“I didn’t-,” he starts.

“Enough of the bullshit, Dean,” you say, tone so low Dean’s sure he’s hearing it from the grave.

“I’m s-.”

“Are you really sorry, or are you just saying that to make a point?”

The silence that follows is suffocating in Dean’s lungs, filling them with something denser than air that drags his body down through the depths and threatens to leave it there to rot under the angry waves.

“Angel, I’m serious. I’m sorry, okay? Outta line, ‘s my bad.”

Dean hopes you can see the genuine apology in his features, because as soon as the words left his mouth he was wishing he could take them right back.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you warn, voice softer now.

“I know.”

“Then why does it still happen?”

Dean shrugs, guilt ripe on his cheeks.

“’Cause I dunno what else to do.”

The honesty makes the both of you pause, Dean bracing for disaster, and you realizing something that should’ve been clear before.

“Dean…” you start.

“Forget it,” he says, defensive already. “Doesn’t matter.”

Your eyes soften, hand reaching for his cheek and cradling it like angelic statues cradle holy water.

“It matters,” you murmur. “It’s you. Of course it matters.”

“Shouldn’t.”

You frown, pulling him closer.

“I’m sorry too, for what I said,” you offer, an olive branch in the talons of a dove. “Can we move on?”

Dean nods, something curt that you know is hiding softness. “Sure.”

You draw him in for a kiss, the chapped skin of his lips pushing devotedly against the softness of yours. His palm drops to your waist, fingers squeezing into the skin, reveling in the way you fill out his grip. The other hand quickly follows suit, resting just above where he knows your hipbones lie under your skin. Your hand drifts out, curling around Dean’s neck and lacing your fingers through the hair there, feeling the way he shivers in response. By the time you break apart for air, Dean’s face is flushed a tipsy shade of pink, and there’s a low, delicious ache in the pit of Dean’s stomach that’s already starting to turn his legs to mush.

“Sweetheart?” Dean says after he’s caught his breath. “Y’still mad at me?”

You pretend to think, grin pushing your face into what Dean thinks is the only sight that matters anymore.

“Maybe,” is your teasing, sultry response.

“Can I change that?”

“Depends on if you can make up for that you said about me on the hunt.”

Dean frowns. “I didn’t say anythin’ about you.”

“No,” you agree. “The deputy did. But you didn’t correct him when he said I was too big to be useful. Which, by the way, you’re welcome for saving your ass even when you told me to stay away.”

“I didn’t know if you wanted me all up in your business. God knows I’m aware you’ve capable of dealin’ with asshats like him.”

You grin, all teeth. “Well thanks, Prince Charming. Consider this blanket permission to get pissed for me. It’s hot.”

Dean stutters, momentarily taken aback by your abruptness. His grin slowly widens, tipping up the corner of his mouth as it becomes his signature smirk, all confidence and cockiness.

“Noted, darlin’. Noted.”

For someone as attentive to his surroundings as Dean, it never ceases to amaze him how easily he lets himself get lost in you. All he remembers from the journey between the library and the bedroom is your warm lips on his skin wherever you could reach, and his calloused fingers catching on the material of your sweater, socked feet stumbling over each other on the way like they’re too eager to bother with balance. It’s messy and uncoordinated and somehow underneath it all is the soft knowledge that this is the most real it can ever be. Dean’s lips brush against the skin of your neck, moving around the whispered words he breathes into your skin, letting the goosebumps that rise in their place soak in the praise he’s so afraid to give to you in daylight.

Dean’s consciousness narrows to you and only you, The constant light hum of electricity in ancient walls and the creaking of a settling foundation are lost to the quietness of the moment The occasional flickering of the lights don’t register any more than the groaning floors under the weight of your bodies pressed so close together. Even the faint scent of the bedroom means nothing to Dean; it’s been replaced by your smell, something so intrinsically you that Dean could pick it out anywhere. All that registers in his one-track mind is the shape of your curves and your comforting weight leaning into his chest as you chase after his lips.

“Can I take care of you?” Dean mumbles into your neck. “Can I make y’feel good?”

“You always do.”

Deans smile is soft, but there’s something in his eyes that says he wasn’t looking for flattery.

“I know,” he says, smirking. “I meant don’t you worry ‘bout me, okay? This’s about you, sweetheart.”

“Dean.”

“What? ‘M apologizin’.”

“That’s not fair,” you complain.

“Who said anythin’ about fair?”

You go to complain again, to convince him he’s allowed to be taken care of too, but he steals the words from your mouth when he kisses you and slips his tongue into your mouth. He can taste anger dissolving in your tongue, giving way to something sweet and dizzying. His head’s spinning with your drug as he lays you down on the mattress, sucking soft marks on the sides of your neck as he works toward the neckline of your top. His fingers tease up your shirt from below, skimming along the fat of your waist like a pebble skipping on the waves of a lake. Each pass moves the shirt higher until he can slide it off your body and drop it to the floor beside the bed.

“You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, voice as low as the lamplight is dim, afraid the break the peace that’s filling the room.

“Yeah?” you say.

“Yeah.”

You reach up to peck his cheek. “I know.”

Dean smiles back. He knows you know you’re beautiful; he tells you several times a day. Every time he forgets how sexy you are when you’re confident, and every time he remembers, he’s immediately hard.

“You know?”

“Yessir.”

Dean laughs something rough. “Good. Hope y’won’t mind the reminder then.”

He’s on you at the first exhaled breath that leaves your kiss-swollen lips. He trails wet kisses down your sternum, tongue smoothing over the spots when you give a soft sound in response. Dean’s hands are restless, trying to hold all of you; they flutter like birds from your hips to your ribs to your chest, cupper as much of your skin as he can and smoothing his thumbs over your nipples in a soothing rhythm. He’s taking his time, mouth pressing to every inch of you that his hands can’t touch, pushing himself as close to you as he can so your warmth soaks into his skin and you’re as close to one person as you can be.

“Love this,” he says, taking a handful of the flesh over your ribs and squeezing it. “Love all of this.”

You giggle, his touch almost ticklish. “Good things it’s all for you.”

A faint sound escapes Dean’s throat, and it takes more energy than he’s willing to admit to in order to keep himself from rutting into you. His eyes trail to your stomach now, paying special attention to where your skin folds in ripples like fossilized riverbeds, shadow and light painting beauty on your body for Dean to see. You’d think after all this time, he’d have our body memorized. He does, and he dreams about you almost every night in perfect detail, but he needs his eyes open right now. He can’t possibly worship you if he can’t see you; at least, not yet. He’ll save the devout praying for when he’s buried between your thighs.

He’s mouthing at the hem of your pants, taking the fabric in his teeth and nipping it away so he can reach your skin. His stubble is ticklish and it’s unfairly funny how desperate he is, but by the time he works your pants down your legs and off, your breath catches from the weight of his stare. Dean’s not looking at you like you’re a person. He’s watching you like you’re a deity, residing over some domain he’s never had access to. Like you’re more than human, more powerful, like your very existence means more right now than his ever will.

“Shit, sweetheart,” Dean whispers. “Look atcha.”

“Like what you see?” you tease, wiggling your hips toward him.

Dean groans low. “God, yeah.”

You lay there for a minute more, completely bare with nothing to hide your body from Dean’s eyes. If it were anyone else, you’d be shy, anxious, desperate for them to stop looking; not because you don’t want them to, but because it wouldn’t feel right if it wasn’t Dean.

“Ready? Y’okay?”

Dean’s holding himself over you by the elbows, pushing himself upright when your hands reach out.

“Almost,” you reply, eyeing his chest. “I’d be better if you took the damn shirt off.”

Dean throws his head back in laughter, taking a hand and removing the shirt over his head in one motion. As he runs a hand through his hair to tame it, he sees the light push of your thighs together as you watch him.

“Like what you see?” he teases.

You push a palm against his chest. “Always.”

Dean settles at the foot of the bed, knees on the rug and hands roaming over your calves.

“Can I taste you?”

“Only if you say I taste sweet.”

Dean grins, victory in hand. “Y’always do, sweetheart.”

“Knock yourself out.”

You’re expecting Dean to dive right in, mouth ravenous against your most sensitive parts. Dean wants to, he really does, but tonight is an apology, and the harshest arguments always deserve the gentlest apologies. Instead, his hands roam up your legs, tracing every line in your skin like lines to his favourite poem, committing them to memory and giving them his utmost attention. His fingertips leave goosebumps in their wake, a memory of his touch that lingers in your skin longer than either of you care to admit. He moves over every natural line of your body with dedication, paying no mind to where it differs from his. Soft kisses to the inside of your knees, the plush of your thigh, the highest dip of your hips as they draw him closer to your core.

What Dean sees there stops him in his tracks, mouth open and eyes eagerly consuming you like the only thing he needs to live. The sight that befalls him at the gates to your core has his mouth dropping open. When the lights are totally off, Dean relies on the proximity of your bodies and a treasure trail of kisses to direct himself up your thighs to your core. With his sight taken away, he lies on touch to find his way home through the labyrinth of your body. Today, with the dim gold lamplight illuminating you, he’s discovered a new method of direction; the stretch marks along your thighs and stomach.

Dean’s noticed them before, felt the texture under his hands and lips alike, the rough surface a beautiful contrast to your softness elsewhere. But here, seeing them fully, feels different. Dramatic, impatient, valuable like something in a museum.

“Dean, y’okay?”

Your voice sounds soft yet clear, and instead of shattering the moment, it melds with it, drawing Dean further in.

“Huh?”

You give a soft laugh. “I asked if you’re okay.”

“Oh.” Dean’s eyes flick up from your thighs for just a second. “Sweetheart, I’m awesome.”

“Well okay, Mr. Fantastic, y’gonna do anything or just stare?”

“Jesus, be patient,” he whines.

“I am. If I wasn’t, you’d’ve come already.”

Dean’s teeth nip lightly at the inside of your thigh, making you squeak something very undignified. He soothes the spot over with his tongue, sucking a gentle mark next to it, a stamp of his passage. Your thighs tense under his fingers as they tickle upward over the skin, trailing goosebumps like ducklings following their mother.

Under the lamplight, your marks are absolutely gorgeous. They rope over your skin like vines, feathering off at the ends and molding with your body until they look like they were always made to be there. They catch the light in ways Dean never knew were possible, twisting it from something timid into something fierce. That, combined with the texture, make them look like slivers of a gemstone embedded in your thighs and stomach, calling to him like how a lighthouse sings to the boats on the water.

And suddenly, no matter how dangerous or impractical it is, Dean knows he’s got to put a ring on your finger. The faceted stone would catch the light of his bedroom lamp just as beautifully as these marks do. Dean finds himself tracing them with hot kisses, learning the echoes of your life story as perfectly as he can. The build-up means that when he finally gets his mouth on your core, the gasp you let out mixes with his heady moan in a duet only you two can play.

The way his tongue moves against you is noting short of sinful, buried as deep in you as he can be, his nose occasionally brushing against the skin of your lower stomach. For Dean, the taste of you on his tongue is nothing short of heavenly. You taste, to him, like the sweetest thing in his world; sugar and honey and candy all in one. He could live here, in the space between your thighs, with his hands on your stretch-marked hips, his lips and tongue working your core and his face cradled lovingly by the plush of them. He can’t think of any greater heaven. He’s been hard for a while, a fact he finally notices when he hits a spot inside of you that makes you sigh, the sound jerking his hips forward on an invisible string until his clothed cock grins against the mattress edge.

Even though you’re only connected by soul and Dean’s tongue, you still move yourselves in tandem. Your hips buck against his face, his hips grind helplessly into the mattress. The carpet bites at his knees, but he doesn’t stop. As long as you keep meaning like that, you’ll keep drawing muffled sounds from his chest and he’ll keep his face right where it is. Each pas of his tongue is accompanied by a draw over your marks, each squeeze of your thighs brings a suckle to your sensitive parts. Dean’ takes his time savouring the trail to the peak, timing it by the shaking of your thighs and heat radiating though his spine and dick.

He rides the waves with you until you crest over them, coming hard on his tongue with a keening cry of his name. The flood of taste is overwhelming, your sweetness setting off sparks in Dean’s belly, shoving his hips forward. He thrusts helplessly into the mattress once, twice more before the pressure in his core becomes unbearable.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hips stuttering as he chases release, kissing up your inner thighs. “Beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Dean-.” you start.

“I know.”

Your name is coating his tongue in sweetness when he comes, lapping up your leftover taste. He spills heavy and warm into his boxers, hips pushed forward, chasing the stimulation. He should be ashamed, he thinks, but the ecstasy rush is too great to feel anything over than pleasure.

“So?” you say when he’s panting.

“So?”

“Do I still taste sweet?”

Dean’s grin is bright despite the tiredness. “’Course you do. You’re the sweetest.”

You can taste yourself on his tongue when you kiss him breathless. He shucks his ruined boxers and jeans, climbing up beside you to kiss you better.

“Stay,” he says. “I’ll get a towel.”

“Hey, Dean?”

He turns, watching. “Yeah?”

“’M not mad anymore.”

His replying grin is just as loving as the light touch he cleans you up with, tucking you into bed and opening his arms for you to roll into.

“’M glad.”

You start to fall asleep naked and intertwined, arms and legs thrown over each other’s bodies in the most intimate way. Not even sex could replicate the intimacy of the moment, because it’s vulnerable and real and soft in the way that says you’ve both learned to stop hiding yourself from each other.

“Hey,” Dean starts, breaking the silence and only continuing when you tip your head to look at him. “I was wrong, ‘kay? I know that.”

“You were.”

Dean gives you a glare, but it’s weak.

“Carry on,” you say around a laugh.

“…I was wrong, but I’m still gonna love you, ‘kay? Promise.”

You kiss his cheek, slow and soft. “I know you will.”

And when Dean closes his eyes that night and falls into the peaceful sleep he’s come to known since laying with you in his arms every night, sparks fly behind his eyes in all the colours of the marks on your thighs. And to him, he’s never seen anything more beautiful.