I wanna uh him in the back of his dad’s Impala 67⋆˚࿔
WARNINGS: mentions of parental death. smut (mdni). fingering. protected piv. loss of virginity. reader used to be religious and has complicated feelings about it. mentions of blood. cannibalism references (again, barely). angst. dean is bad at feelings. john winchester's A+ parenting. 8.3k
More than a year has gone by.
You kick rocks on your way home from your last day of school—the path quiet and lonely. No more joking. No more rambling about cars. No more pleading to rewatch Tombstone for the millionth time. No more Dean.
It was weird at first. You’d turn your head in philosophy class, only to find the seat next to you empty. You’d search for the taller, broader shadow walking alongside yours, only to be met with nothing more than dust floating in the breeze. You’d be reading on your roof, and your head would shoot up at the sound of tires screeching against pavement—only to find just another modern car passing by.
It hasn’t gotten much better, if you’re being honest.
How fascinating it is to be haunted by someone who’s still alive.
Or you hope he is. Maybe you hope he isn’t. Maybe if he’s dead, his sudden disappearance would hurt less. Maybe it would hurt more. Maybe you hope he’s alive, just so you can give him the black eye you owe him. Maybe you hope he’s dead, just so you’ll know he didn’t abandon you.
Either way, Dean Winchester is gone, and you have to learn how to live with it.
You keep going to school, now in your senior year and ready to run away from that place. You keep reading more books, you go through a grunge rock phase, you get your own pistol. You sleep with the silver dagger under your pillow—you tell yourself it’s for safety, nothing else. You find and articulate a whole deer skeleton you keep in the corner of your room. You name her Marigold, because you found her near a patch of the golden flowers, and she becomes your only friend.
You kiss a guy or two—older, too old. Handsy, white-trash dicks. You let one of them finger you against his motorcycle, his thumb brushing everything but your clit, and you punch him in the face and walk away when he gets mad that you don’t wanna go further. You stay a virgin, and you don’t let yourself think about why you’re so hesitant to just get over it.
What you’re waiting for. Who.
You turn eighteen. It’s quiet, lonely. Just you and Marigold sharing the cupcake the librarian gifted you as you left the bookstore that evening. No birthday wishes, no gifts, no Dean Winchester smoking in bed.
There is whiskey, though.
You bury your mother. Just you and a priest standing over the freshly covered grave—no one else came, no one else cared. You don’t cry, don’t even flinch when you find her slowly rotting body thrown across the couch, as still as the sun-bleached flies in the windowsill. Bile rises in your throat as the priest talks about heaven, and angels, and God’s will. Still, you mutter an “amen” and walk home in complete silence.
You learn how to live without Dean, but it doesn’t feel like living at all.
It is lonesome, empty, famished.
Your eyes are glued to the dirt road beneath your boots, wrapped up in whatever song is playing from your Walkman. From the corner of your eye, you catch the shape of a dark-colored car, parked right at the intersection that divides the salvage yard from the neighborhood.
Your heart skips a beat, but you’ve been here before. Every black car looked like the one the boys were dropped off in. Every deep laugh in the school hallways sounded like his. Every guy in a camo jacket looked like him. So you don’t even bother turning your head.
But then the song ends, and there’s a brief moment of silence before the next one plays. And then you hear it—muffled, but there:
“You’re not even gonna look at me, sweetheart?”
Your breath catches in your throat, and your head turns just as quickly as it did that first day he walked into the classroom.
Right there—alive and in the flesh—is the boy who’s been eating away at your brain like a parasite.
Dean looks different, and it makes something sick curl deep in your gut.
His hair is way darker now, brown locks no longer glowing like honey under the sun. He’s bigger, his shoulders broader, and there’s a new scar across his right eyebrow. He looks so much older—way older than twenty. The camo jacket is gone, replaced by oversized brown leather. It suits him, but it’s also a vivid reminder of how much he’s changed while you stayed here, waiting like a mourning spirit.
He’s leaning against his dad’s car—a Chevy Impala, if you remember correctly.
(Of course you do. Every word that came out of his mouth is engraved into your soul.)
His arms are crossed in front of his chest. His green eyes have that same spark, but they also hold a lot more shadows than before.
There’s a smirk on his face—playful and careless, a cigarette held between his teeth—like he didn’t touch you like you were something holy, only to disappear that same night. He throws the cig to the ground and steps on it, licking his lips like he’s about to say something else.
Everything in you begs to run toward him. The beast in your chest snarls, claws at your ribcage, and tries to leap into his arms. You want to punch him. You want to cry. You want to kiss him until your lips bleed.
Instead, you turn around and start walking away.
You hear footsteps behind you, so you pick up the pace. The headphones still in your ears rumble with the haunting noise of what sounds like a rotating fan and the increasingly loud beat of drums—none of which helps the rapid pounding of your heart.
A hand wraps around your arm, and the girl in the song screams.
You turn around, yanking your headphones down around your neck, your fist clenched in rage. You’re ready to tear your knuckles velvet on Dean’s teeth, but then you meet his eyes.
It’s the first hint of affection you’ve felt in over a year. His eyes aren’t angry, or pitiful, or indifferent. Dean looks at you with warmth. With something shadowed but strong, tortured but tender.
It’s the only thing you can mutter through the noose slowly tightening around your throat. Dean’s eyes darken with something like sorrow, and he looks away. You can’t handle it. You can’t handle him being sad—not because of you.
Just like that, all your resolve melts away.
“I know,” he rasps, jaw clenched, eyes cast down. “But I’m back.”
That’s it. No apology. No explanation. Nothing.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
And you know you’ve lost the battle.
The beast inside you mewls and lies down, tummy up. It exposes its neck in offering, waiting for sharp teeth to sink in.
They come in the shape of a hand sliding down to your wrist and pulling you closer. You let yourself be dragged forward, like Icarus flying too close to the sun for just a moment of warmth. Your other hand hits his chest with something akin to anger, but it’s too desperate for it to mean anything.
It burns when your lips meet. It’s like acid washing down your throat and corroding all your insides, leaving you defenseless and weak. You bite his lower lip in retaliation, but it only seems to fuel Dean further.
His hand moves to cup your jaw, holding you firmly, making you his—to do with whatever he wants. His tongue dives into your mouth in the middle of the empty road, his other arm wrapping around your waist, and finally, you feel whole again.
The cold void in your chest fills up, and your limbs no longer feel like they’ll fall apart at any second. Dean tastes like Marlboro Reds and destruction. He tastes like pain and tears and home.
“Let me make it up to you, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your lips, and you find yourself nodding before you can find the strength to tell him to go to hell.
He smirks—victorious and pleased—and takes hold of your hand again, pulling you toward the car you’ve heard about so many times but only seen from the distance of your window.
There’s a voice inside you—one that almost sounds like the voice you had assigned to Marigold—that warns you this is not a good idea. That you should be angrier, that you should demand answers, that you can’t let Dean get away with this.
But the touch of his hand in yours is gentle, and you’ve been deprived of gentleness for so long. It’s been a year of nothing but deep-settled desolation in your bones, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight against the solace of his presence.
Dean opens the passenger door for you, pulling you in for a chaste kiss before letting you slide into the car. Dean had said multiple times that “Baby” is a classic, and you never quite understood what that meant. But now, for the first time in your life, you consider a car pretty. The leather of the bench seat is neatly cleaned, there’s not a speck of dust on the dashboard or a mysterious stain on the rugs. It’s a startling change from Bobby’s beaten-up pickup truck.
Dean sits behind the wheel with a grin, and just like that, he looks young again. That weight on his shoulders that seems to crush him at all times vanishes—just a bit, but enough for you to notice. He starts the engine, and his grin widens at the growl of it.
“See? That’s my Baby.” For the first time since that night when Dean took a piece of you and didn’t look back, you laugh. Low, barely there, but you laugh.
Dean seems to relish it, sending you one last sparkling look before taking off.
You drop your backpack on the car’s floorboard, carefully placing your walkman inside. Dean presses a button, and About A Girl starts playing on the radio. You quickly turn to him, eyebrow raised and a smile growing on your face.
“Sammy’s music,” he huffs, rolling his eyes and trying to change the cassette. You stop him, hand on his wrist.
“Leave it,” you murmur, your fingertips tingling to touch more of his skin. “It’s good.”
Dean scoffs, but he drops his hand. Your fingers stay wrapped around his wrist.
“Of course you would be into it,” he says with a teasing glance before his eyes return to the road. “I can’t believe I’m surrounded by a bunch of grungy kids.”
“Yeah, well…” You shrug, unable to stop yourself from turning to stare out the window. “You at least owe me this.”
There’s a long, thick silence after that. No one talks, no one breathes. You chew on your lower lip, torn between the urge to apologize for ruining the moment and the urge to scream at Dean for an explanation.
And like a dog that nuzzles into your side after being scolded for biting, his hand finds your bare thigh and grips the soft flesh, thumb rubbing slow circles over it.
“I guess I do,” he whispers, and once again, it is not an apology. But you’ll take it as one. “Have you eaten lunch?”
Dean is way too aware of your habit of skipping meals.
“You can’t live off of cigarettes and a dream, sweetheart,” he used to tell you when you once again threw away the school lunch.
Knowing better than to try and lie to him, you shake your head. Dean clicks his tongue but doesn’t say anything else as he drives into town.
His fingers tap your skin along with the beat of the song, and you want to tease him for it.
Instead, bracing yourself to make conversation for the first time in months, you ask:
“Your dad lets you drive the car now?”
Dean’s face lights up—a boyish smile takes over, his eyes glistening with pride as he turns to you once he stops at the red light.
Just like that, all the anger evaporates from you.
He’s so cute, you lament. Too bad he can be such a bitch.
“He’s thinking about giving her to me, long-term.” His chest puffs out, and it’s equally adorable and heartbreaking to see how such a small sign of validation from his dad can make him so happy. “He’s letting me take her to work on small cases, and then maybe I’ll get her next year.”
He pats the dashboard lovingly with his free hand, but your mind is somewhere else.
“To work on small cases.”
It’s another startling change, hearing Dean talk about a full-time job when the last time you saw him, he hadn’t even graduated yet. Also...
“Work... cases?” You turn to him, head tilting in confusion. You still had no idea what Dean’s dad does for work, but cases sounded more complicated than anything you had imagined.
A hint of panic passes through Dean’s eyes, and he stalls as he starts driving again.
“My dad’s in sales,” he says, voice too controlled to be natural. “Sometimes he sends me to work cases for him. Y’know, talk with clients and stuff.”
You narrow your eyes, studying Dean slowly. You’re not convinced he’s telling you the truth. What kind of salesman teaches his kids how to bow-hunt and knife-throw?
Your mouth parts, about to ask more questions, when Dean suddenly turns the wheel to the right, his grip on your thigh tightening as you almost fall against the car door. He drives into a McDonald’s parking lot, getting in line for the drive-thru.
“Still nuggets and fries?” he asks, turning to you with a tight smile. You nod quietly, impressed he still remembers your order.
You brush your hair back into place, thinking over the recent interaction. Dean is always a little tense when the topic of his father comes up—reluctant to talk about him, and quick to shush Sam whenever he complains. Maybe he doesn’t like working for his dad, but he refuses to bad-mouth his sergeant.
So instead of asking about his job, you ask about Sam. Dean’s face relaxes again as he updates you on the life of his “annoying nerd” of a brother, who apparently is now “tall as fuck” and has entered an emo phase, obsessing over Green Day and true-crime books.
“I mean,” you start after Dean finishes ordering for both of you, “John Wayne-Gacy never did kill while wearing the clown costume, so maybe it helps with Sam’s phobia.”
He throws his head back with a groan, and you can’t help the giggle bubbling out of your mouth.
“Don’t tell me you also like that creepy shit,” he complains, and you just shrug. “I swear, if I have to hear the words ‘modis-operandi’ one more time...”
“Modus, baby.” You correct cheekily, but still with that eerie quietness that always hangs from your words. The nickname rolls off your tongue like it was always meant to be there, and Dean’s breath seems to catch for a moment before he grunts.
Dean pays for your food, with a credit card now. At least he’s getting paid for the job, you guess.
He hands you the food—nuggets, fries, and a Coke for you; the biggest meal on the menu for him—and starts driving again.
“Where are we going?” you finally ask, munching on a fry. Dean winks at you but says nothing else. You trust him to take you wherever he wants.
He asks about you as he steers onto a sideroad, where you’re surrounded by trees and a few birds flitting by. You talk about school, how today was your last day, and graduation’s in a few weeks. You don’t mention that no one will be waiting for you in the crowd, no one will cheer louder when your name is called, or take pictures of you with your diploma.
You don’t ask Dean to come, because you know better.
You don’t mention your mother either, figuring you’ll tell him tomorrow. Because you assume there will be a tomorrow.
You’re just telling him about Marigold—your voice rising from a whisper as you recount finding the bones—when Dean stops the car. You look out to find yourself near the edge of a river cliff.
Your jaw drops as you take in the lookout point—the lush greenery surrounding it, the gentle murmur of the river filling your ears as Dean turns off the engine, the crisp breeze drifting through the open window.
“Come on.” Dean undoes his seatbelt and opens his door, then takes the food bag from your hands. “You must be starving.”
You both sit side by side on the hood of the Impala. He devours his burger while you nibble on your nuggets, though you’re barely hungry. Dean shoots you a warning glance, so you eat the whole box anyway.
You close your eyes, savoring the quiet of the wilderness. It’s a different kind of silence than the one in your house—it doesn’t suffocate you or poison your lungs, it isn’t lonely. Instead, this silence is comforting, like an old friend folding you into their arms. Dean’s shoulder brushes yours every now and then as he talks about everything and nothing, and you hum along, nodding just like old times.
The sun sets, just a glow of orange on the horizon as the sky is slowly painted in shades of pink and blue. Your eyes glance down to the grass, and right next to the Impala’s front tire, there’s a small patch of blue.
You gasp softly, and it makes Dean turn to you immediately.
“What is it?” You don’t notice the way his shoulders tense or how he reaches for his jacket’s inside pocket, because you are quickly sliding off the hood and kneeling on the ground. “Don’t tell me it’s another animal corpse.”
It isn’t. It’s a cluster of flowers, sky-blue and tiny.
“Forget-me-nots,” you whisper with a smile as you pluck a handful of them.
“What now?” Dean’s confused voice makes you giggle as you stand, moving to stand in front of him. He stays on the hood, knees on either side of you.
“Forget-me-nots,” you repeat, louder, showing him the flowers with a sweet little grin.
Dean stares at you for a long moment before dropping his head forward, a chuckle slipping from his lips.
“You’re so fuckin’ adorable, goddamn it.”
You freeze, cheeks warming in the slowly cooling evening breeze.
He says it like it’s a con, like it’s inconvenient somehow. But then he looks back up at you, and his eyes are so warm, almost adoring, that you can’t bring yourself to question it. His hands wrap around your waist, right over the silver skin showing between your tank top and denim shorts, pulling you close until your chest flushes against his.
With a shy smile, your hand holding the flowers moves to the side of his hair, tucking the small bundle behind his ear. You giggle at the sight—Dean, with all his scars, leather jacket, and weaponry, wearing delicate blossoms on his face.
He huffs at your actions but doesn’t take them off. Instead, he leans forward gently and traps your lips with a quick peck that sends your heart racing.
Then he leans away, pulling out his box of Reds. You sit back down next to him, taking one when he offers it.
He lights it for you, his big hand hovering around his Zippo, shielding the flame from the evening breeze. You take a long, slow drag of your cigarette once he moves to light his own, admiring how the fire’s glow bathes his features, making him look even prettier.
Soon, only the moonlight and the cherry-red tips of your cigarettes illuminate the night. Dean’s hand finds its way back to your thigh, and you keep staring at him, almost wishing you had a camera—or your old sketchbook—to immortalize this moment.
Dean leans back on one hand, relaxed, blowing smoke toward the sky without a care. His expression is blissful, like he doesn’t have a worry in the world. The slope of his jaw looks sharper in the dim light, his fingers holding the cigarette look long, and that small grin he wears is stupidly attractive. The fragile flowers still nestle behind his ear, soft in a sea of rough edges.
Damn it, he is so fucking hot.
You put out your cigarette and lean forward, engulfing his lips with yours. Dean lets out a surprised little noise, but quickly wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer.
It starts soft, way slower than the angry kiss you shared on the dirt path that afternoon. Your lips move against each other in a soothing dance, his hands squeezing your waist while yours cup his cheeks.
You don’t feel so lost this time, not so wild or inexperienced. Now you know when to tilt your head, when to part your lips, when to suck his lip into your mouth. You’re nowhere near as confident as Dean, who clearly has more experience, but you try not to think about it as his tongue brushes against yours.
You want more. You want Dean’s hands on you, want him to crawl inside you, make a home in your insides and never leave. You need him—however he’ll have you.
The air turns colder as your movements grow a little more desperate. Goosebumps travel across your skin as the cold wind brushes your hair and Dean’s hand slips under your tank top.
“You’re freezing,” Dean murmurs against your lips. “Why don’t we take this to the backseat, hm?”
You have half a mind to panic, because you know what that means—because you’ve been avoiding this same thing for so long. But you can’t say no to Dean. You don’t want to.
So you nod, swallowing down every trace of fear as you slide off the hood with his help.
First, Dean opens the driver’s door. You watch as he grabs something from the glove box before carefully picking the bouquet of forget-me-nots from his ear and placing it gently on the dashboard. He does it with such devotion, like the flowers mean more than just a silly gift, and something inside you shifts, wrapping around your heart and squeezing.
You still don’t have a name for it, but it’s there.
Then Dean turns to you, eyes dark, smirk a little sharper, and pulls your hand, guiding you to the backseat. You slide onto the leather, yanking off your black boots as Dean shrugs off his jacket, still standing outside.
He looks down at you as you lie back on his dad’s car, tank top riled up, frayed shorts giving way to your smooth thighs—now missing the marks of his fingertips.
You’re just starting to feel a little too vulnerable when he throws his jacket onto the floorboard and lays down on top of you. The door closes behind him, and once again, Dean Winchester pins you against a carseat.
He starts kissing down your neck—just the whisper of his lips against your skin—as his hands slip back under your tank top. His thumbs trace slow circles over your ribcage before hooking at the edge of your bra.
A part of you wants to keep your virginity a secret, scared that Dean won’t want you then, scared that he’ll think it’s too much responsibility, too much work. But a bigger part of you is still a little terrified of losing it, still remembering the multiple Sunday sermons you sat through as a child, even if you now know it’s all bullshit.
“I’m a virgin,” you blurt out, because Dean would find out one way or another.
He pauses, looks up at you with wide eyes, and then his hands threaten to move away.
You grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. Your legs part, giving him space to settle in between them, trapping him, not letting him get away.
“Sweetheart—” he starts, but you cut him off with a kiss. “We don’t have to—”
“I know.” You bite his lip, looking up at him with shining eyes. “But I want to. I want you.”
It can only be you. It’s always been you.
Dean still looks conflicted, his chest rising and falling, eyes carefully searching your face.
He says your name, low and serious. “Are you sure? I—”
You don’t let him finish, tired of waiting. Yes, you’re sure. You’ve been sure for a while. It doesn’t matter if it hurts, if it’s in the back of a car, if it doesn’t mean the same to him as it does to you. It’s always supposed to be Dean.
You tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him down, kissing him again—your tongue tracing behind his teeth before you whisper, “Come on, Dean.” You scratch his scalp gently. “Fuck me.”
That’s all it takes. Dean captures your mouth in a searing kiss, teeth biting your lower lip. His hands grab the hem of your top, and he breaks the kiss to pull it over your head.
You’re left in only your white lacy bra. You can feel his eyes on you, drinking in the sight. Part of you wants to hide, but another part blooms at the thought that he wants you.
Dean leans down, pressing kisses to the soft skin of your stomach, making the heat pooling lower simmer into something almost unbearable. His hands travel up your sides, sliding around to your back. As you arch off the seat slightly, he unclasps your bra in one swift motion.
His kisses trail upward, all the way until he’s sucking gently on a small bruise beneath your left breast. Your breath catches, nipples hard and sensitive from the cool air. Your hand tightens in his hair, and you close your eyes to steady your nerves.
Then Dean wraps his lips around your nipple, and you gasp.
“D-dean—” You can’t help but lean into his touch as his tongue expertly swirls around the areola. You feel him smirk against your skin before he gives your nipple one last tender bite and moves on, giving the same attention to the other.
His hands slide down to the edge of your shorts. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands hovering over your thighs, so close to where you ache. He tugs on the denim, and you lift your hips, letting him slide them off.
You fight the urge to hide again, feeling exposed in just your panties while he’s fully dressed. Your thighs twitch, but Dean quickly wraps his hands around them, holding you still.
He leans down in the tight space of the backseat, placing a gentle kiss on your inner thigh. It’s soft, delicate—almost like he’s trying to comfort you. He keeps peppering kisses all the way up your leg, edging closer to the elastic of your underwear.
You know he can smell your arousal, see in the dim light how much you’re affected, how badly you want him. His warm breath brushes the thin cotton fabric, and you bite back a whimper.
Desperate to reclaim some control, you grab him by the hair and pull him up, stripping him of his shirt. Dean lets you, lifting his arms to help. You’re hit by the sight of lean, smooth muscle. Even in the faint moonlight, his skin glistens like honey. Your mouth waters with the sudden urge to bite, to taste him, to devour him until nothing’s left.
Dean’s lips find your neck, planting kisses everywhere as his body presses into yours—warm skin against your cooler one. Your hands roam over that sun-kissed muscle now exposed. They slide over his shoulders and down his back, feeling every subtle shift, every inch of that golden skin stretching far beyond what you can see.
You feel Dean’s fingers working to unbutton his jeans, but before panic can rise again, you cup his face. You search his eyes—those green, beautiful eyes that have haunted you for years. A sudden wave of emotion crashes over you, and you bite back any words that might shatter the moment.
Instead, you lean forward and place a gentle kiss on the scar on his eyebrow, your lips barely brushing over the raised skin. It isn’t sensual, but it’s intimate. Dean freezes for a moment, and you meet his eyes again.
He looks down at you like you’ve just broken something inside him. His eyes hold a fire that you can’t tell if it’s anger or hunger. His mouth parts, like he’s about to say something, but then his jaw clenches and he looks away.
Dean quickly leans back, pulling down his jeans until they pool around his knees. He drops whatever he took from the glove box next to you—a small silver package. You know what it is, and your throat goes dry at the sight.
Dean seems to notice. Whatever made him pull away so fast melts away as his eyes soften again, his hands landing on your waist, rubbing gentle, soothing circles over your skin.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks again, and you don’t know whether to be thankful or annoyed.
Either way, you nod, and your eyes drop to the hard bulge in Dean’s boxers.
Fuck, you might be inexperienced—but it looks big.
Dean’s hands slide down your body until they reach the edge of your underwear. One of his fingers traces down your slit over the fabric, just like he did back at the drive-in, and your back arches.
“Still so fuckin’ sensitive,” he murmurs, almost fascinated. You flush, but you can’t help the small noise that slips out when he repeats the motion.
No matter how scared you are, you need Dean. You want him to break you, to be the first to ever be inside you. You want him to take you like putty in his hands and mold you however he wants.
“Please,” you whisper, your hand reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. It’s shorter now, no longer falling into his eyes. “Fuck me.”
Dean nods, tries to say something, but all that comes out is a guttural, “Yeah.”
He pulls your panties off, his eyes narrowing at where you’re bare and open for him. This time, your legs try to squeeze together, but Dean’s body between them stops you. Before you can try and hide again, his thumb brushes over your lips, sliding in between them before pulling away.
A single string of slick keeps him connected to your cunt. He laughs—rough and strained.
“You get wet so easily.” Your cheeks burn, almost choking on your own embarrassment. But he keeps looking at you. “You’re so responsive, so… soft.” His jaw clenches as his thumb rubs over your clit, making you gasp. “I wanna devour you.”
You shiver at his words, more slick flowing out of you. Your hips buckle against nothing, eyes glossy as you look at Dean.
“Do it.” You pull his hips closer with your knees. “I want you.”
Dean’s pointer finger circles your entrance, and at least this part isn’t unfamiliar. But this feels a million times different than when that other guy did it—this feels sacred. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for the stretch.
Slowly, the digit slips inside. Your shoulders tense, and you let out a shaky breath once it’s fully in. You can feel Dean’s eyes on you, so you hold back any sign of discomfort. Carefully, he starts moving. His finger slides in and out, stretching you open for him.
“There you go, sweetheart,” Dean mutters, looking down where his finger is breaking you in. “You’re opening up for me so nicely.”
He pulls his finger out, noticing it’s completely drenched in your slick. He then presses his index and middle finger together, coating them well before slowly pushing them inside you.
Your whole body tenses up at the slight ache, but you don’t complain. Your hands grip Dean’s shoulders, nails digging in as his fingers slide in all the way to the knuckles. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, trying to power through the first few uncomfortable moments.
Dean stays still for a second, watching your face as his fingers wiggle inside, pressing against your walls. It’s weird, a little painful—and then he presses his thumb against your swollen clit again. Electricity shoots up your spine, just like the last time he touched you.
More wetness coats his fingers, and your pussy clenches around him, but you feel yourself giving in, making room.
Dean leans down, mouth close to your ear, voice a low whisper: “That’s it, baby, let me in.”
You whimper, turning your face and pressing it against his cheek. “Put another one in,” you beg against his skin, your hips bucking as your body slowly adjusts to the stretch.
Another finger prods at your entrance, and when it pushes in, you wince—but Dean’s eyes are fixed on you, wide with something you’ve never seen in them before. He looks at you like he’s witnessing a miracle. Like he almost can’t believe he gets this. Gets you.
He keeps pumping his fingers, pulling and pressing, stretching you wider, preparing you for his cock.
You can’t talk. You can barely breathe. It’s too much and not enough all at once, so you focus instead on the warmth of his chest under your palms, the press of his thumb on your clit, and the soft, needy sounds leaving your lips.
“You sound so—” he cuts himself off, pace picking up, and then he brushes against something deep inside you. A spongy, blindingly sensitive spot that makes you cry out, the sound echoing in the tight space of the car.
“There it is,” he whispers, voice hoarse, a proud smirk tugging at his lips.
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just hold onto his shoulders, reeling, marveling at the sensation of being touched everywhere all at once.
The heat low in your belly turns molten, rushing through you with a force that makes your legs shake. Desperate not to come yet, you wrap your hand around Dean’s wrist and pull him away. His eyes go wide, searching your face like he’s afraid he hurt you.
But you don’t say anything. You shift forward instead, kiss along the curve of his neck, down to where his skin dips into muscle—and bite. Not hard, but enough to mark him. If Dean’s going to leave something permanent on you tonight, you want to leave something on him too, even if it fades by morning.
“I’m ready,” you whisper, lips pressed to the junction of his neck and shoulder. “I need you.”
Dean nods, and he leans in to grab the condom that had fallen down between the seats.
He looks like he knows what he’s doing, and once again, you’re hit with the bitter reminder that he’s done this many times before. You feel inexperienced in comparison, but you force yourself to ignore the ache that rises in your chest.
Instead, you watch closely as Dean pulls his boxers down.
He’s long—longer than you expected. The tip is flushed an almost angry red from how hard he is, and for a moment, you wonder if it’ll even fit.
“You can touch, y’know,” Dean murmurs, one hand sliding up your thigh in a way that’s tender—reassuring.
You slowly wrap your hand around him, noticing how thick and warm he is. Your mouth waters as your thumb brushes over the head, smearing the pre-cum across your skin before you begin to stroke him.
Dean grunts softly, and his cock twitches when you pass over the slit again.
A rush of satisfaction floods through you—you are the one making him feel this way. You are the one making him sound like that.
You squeeze the base gently, licking your lips. “I need you inside.”
Without another word, Dean tears open the condom packet and gently pulls your hand away. You watch in the dim light as he rolls the rubber down over himself, his chest rising and falling as he shifts between your legs, one hand gripping your hip to steady you.
You feel him wrap his hand around himself, and then the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance.
“Can I go in, sweetheart?” His voice is shaky, and it comforts you to know he’s just as affected as you are.
“Yeah.” Your thighs tighten around his waist, and you brace yourself, drawing in a breath.
“Just relax for me, hm?” Dean cups your face, his thumb stroking soft circles along your jaw—and then he pushes in.
There’s some resistance at first, but he keeps easing forward until the tip finally slips inside. It’s only slightly wider than his fingers, but it still knocks the air out of your lungs. Your nails sink into his shoulders, your breath stuttering.
Yes, it hurts—but you want more. You push your hips down, biting back a whimper, urging him in deeper.
“Just a bit more, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You’re doing so good.”
Slowly, inch by inch, he sinks in until he’s fully buried inside your throbbing cunt. It feels like he’s splitting you open, stretching you beyond what you thought you could take—rearranging something fundamental inside you.
You hiss, both from the ache and the sharp realization: Dean is your first. Forever, he will be the first man to ever fuck you. Your body is now marked, shaped by him.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean growls, running a hand through your hair. “You feel so perfect around me.”
And it hurts like hell. The stretch burns, and there’s blood between your thighs—thick, warm. But it’s okay. Because it’s Dean. Because you’d lie here and bleed out if it meant he would keep holding you like this, would keep looking at you with that shine in his eyes.
If it meant he wouldn’t leave.
Dean doesn’t move at first, giving you time to adjust. But you want him to feel good. So you part your legs even further, as if that might help make room for his cock, and you pull him in for a kiss.
“You can move,” you whisper against his lips. “You can fuck me.”
But Dean stays still, burying his face in your neck and biting the skin. So you try to move, rocking your hips and clenching around him. It makes him hiss, his hands tightening on your waist with enough force to bruise.
“Wait, wait,” he chokes out—and for a terrifying second, you think you’ve done something wrong. That maybe he doesn’t want you anymore.
“You’re so fuckin’ tight, goddamn it.” His voice is strained, and his cock twitches so hard inside of you it sends another jolt of electricity up your spine.
“I need—I just need a second.”
So you stay still. The only sound is your ragged breaths and the soft hum of fireflies buzzing outside.
Slowly, the pain dulls. Your body adjusts, molding itself around Dean, making space for him. And you know—you’re ruined for anyone else. No one else will ever fit like this. No one else ever could.
Then Dean starts to move, slow and careful thrusts of his hips. He pulls back until only the head remains, then pushes in again. It still hurts, but the pain tangles with something else—something primal, something possessive.
You almost want to tell him to take the condom off. To feel him bare, to mark him with your slick and your blood. To be claimed completely.
But you don’t, because you know better.
Dean braces himself above you and starts to move faster. His hips piston into you, each thrust a little more desperate than the last. The stretch is still a lot. Your insides feel raw, sore. But then his mouth finds one of your nipples, and his cock twitches inside you, and your body arches on instinct, a moan torn from your throat.
“You feel so good, fuck,” he groans into your skin, glancing up at you with an almost dazed look in his eyes. “You have no idea.”
You open your mouth to respond, to say anything, but then Dean hits that same spongy spot deep inside, and your head falls back, eyes squeezed shut, a sharp cry breaking from your chest.
“There you go. That’s it,” he murmurs, hips rolling into that sweet little spot again and again. It makes you wetter, makes everything smoother, and for the first time, you get it—why people are so obsessed with this. Why they crave it.
You clench around him, nails dragging down his back as your eyes roll back in pleasure.
“Fuck, fuck,” you whimper, mind already slipping. The pleasure comes on too strong, too fast, almost overwhelming after all the pain. You’re not sure you can hold on much longer.
“Does that feel good, sweetheart?” he breathes, and you nod helplessly, a full-body shiver racking through you when he leans down and bites just behind your ear. “You’re so warm. Fuck, you were made for me.”
Yeah. You are. Only for him.
Dean’s hand moves, and you yelp when his fingers find your clit again.
You try to stop him, clumsily pushing at his wrist. “N-no, no. I’ll come—”
“I want you to come, baby,” he laughs, breathless, pressing harder against you. “I want you to feel good, pretty girl. Just let go.”
Tears prickle at the back of your eyes, but they’re not from pain anymore. Something bigger—greater than pleasure—wraps around you and squeezes so tightly you can’t breathe. You choke on it, let it pour down your throat like light, let it settle somewhere deep inside. You know it’s permanent. A soul mark. A branding.
Dean is impossibly deep inside you, the head of his cock hitting places you didn’t know existed. It’s all so new, so overwhelming, and you find yourself teetering on the edge.
“I—I’m close,” you whimper, your hips twitching helplessly. Dean keeps thrusting with careful precision, pressing into that sweet spot again and again, while his thumb doubles down on your clit.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he pants, voice husky and wrecked. “Let me see you come, sweetheart.”
And it’s like your body obeys him without question. Everything tightens at once, your back arching, your breath catching, and then you’re gone. A desperate, broken whimper tears from your throat as your cunt clenches around him, and you come hard—shaking, crying, unraveling all over his cock.
Your mind blanks for a moment, nothing but static in your ears. But when you come back to yourself, Dean is still moving inside you—desperate now. There’s no rhythm anymore, just frantic, needy thrusts as he chases his release.
You clench around him instinctively, and it makes him curse under his breath. He falls forward with a broken noise, burying his face in your neck. He comes like that—arms shaking, cock twitching inside of you. You wish you could feel him without the barrier, wish he’d fill you up, mark you from the inside. But you hold onto the moment anyway, let the warmth of it bloom as your fingers thread gently through his hair.
For a while, neither of you move. Dean softens inside you, but he doesn’t pull out. He just kisses your face—your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth—until your blissed-out expression cracks into a small giggle and your hands stop trembling.
Only then does he ease away. He slides out of you, and it feels like being split in half all over again. You brace for the distance—swallow down the needy ache that sparks behind your ribs.
There’s blood smeared across your inner thighs, and Dean grabs tissues from the glove box, cleaning you up with a strange kind of reverence. His face twists a little when he sees the blood, like it hurts him.
You don’t tell him that you fantasize about him making you bleed.
You both get dressed in silence. It follows you to the front seat, heavy and familiar. Dean turns the key in the ignition, the engine rumbles to life, and he pulls away from the lookout and down the highway.
Neither of you says a word.
You get a sense of déjà vu when Dean stops the car in front of your house.
There’s still crimson staining your underwear, and you’ve just left a piece of yourself in the backseat. Your heart feels like it’s being torn out at the thought of getting out of this car and watching Dean drive away with it.
Your hand trembles as you reach for the door handle, already thinking about lying alone in your cold bed, nothing but darkness curling around your bruised body. But then Dean grabs your wrist, stopping you.
“Would your mom care if I… spent the night?”
You close your eyes for a moment, thanking a God you no longer believe in. A choked laugh slips from your lips, and you turn to look at Dean, eyes glassy with something fragile.
“Don’t worry about her,” you whisper, careful not to shatter the moment. “She’s not home.”
Dean nods, and he almost looks as relieved as you. He brings your hand to his face, kissing the knuckles you’d spent a year fantasizing about smashing against his jaw—and then he’s pulling the Impala into your driveway.
You enter the house quietly, somehow still feeling like you’re sneaking around, even though no one ever really cared what you did. It’s the first time Dean’s been inside your home, and you don’t let him look around too much, afraid he’ll notice that every trace of your mother has been erased—and start asking questions.
So you grab his hand and pull him upstairs, dragging him into your room. You both laugh, and in the soft glow of your lamp, you both look like normal kids instead of the baggage-heavy adults you had been forced to be for years.
You make Dean say hello to Marigold, but you can feel her hollow eyes judging you.
Let me have this, you beg. Just for once, let me be happy.
You let Dean look over your bookshelf as you slip into the bathroom to change into clean pajamas. You’d tried offering him an oversized shirt and maybe some sweatpants, but he refused.
“I’m used to sleeping in jeans, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”
His words spark even more questions in your mind. Why would a salesman’s kid be used to sleeping in his outside clothes?
You brush your teeth, forcing yourself to enjoy the night and push those questions aside for now. You clean yourself as best you can before stepping back into the room, grateful you won’t have to spend the night alone.
You find Dean sitting on your bed, something glinting in his hands, catching the bathroom light.
Your throat tightens as you approach until you’re standing right in front of him. His fingers lightly brush the right horn of the goat’s skull on the hilt, and when he looks up, there’s a vulnerability in his eyes you hadn’t seen even when he was inside you.
“You keep this under your pillow.” It is not a question, but you nod.
“I promised I’d stay safe,” you whisper, your voice soft and raw—something that seems to wound Dean more than you expect.
He closes his eyes for a long moment before leaving the dagger on the bedside table and sliding to the side of the bed against the wall, his boots already beneath it. “C’mere, it’s getting cold.”
It’s been cold for a long while, but you slip under the covers without a word, letting Dean pull you close. Your head rests on his chest as you curl into his side.
There’s a pistol in your drawer, a knife in your jacket pocket, and a dagger on your bedside table—but somehow, being in Dean’s arms is the safest you’ve ever felt.
You watch him pull the blanket over both of you, and you bury your face in his shirt, relishing the idea of his scent mingling with yours. His fingers carefully tangle in the soft locks of your hair, and you feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath you.
Your ear rests right over his heart, the steady beat lulling you to sleep. Because you’re not empty anymore—because today you bled for Dean, and now he’s holding you close, keeping you whole in his arms. Because for the first time since you were a child, you feel loved.
It’s just a whisper in the night, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You don’t know if Dean’s awake to hear them, you don’t know how he reacts—because you let your eyes fall shut, and you drift off to the sound of your old rotating fan and Dean’s heartbeat.
The next morning, the spot next to you is empty.
It surprises you less than it should, but it hurts more than you imagined. Marigold watches you from the corner of the room, as if saying “I told you so.”
Tears roll down your face as you stare out the window, wrapping your arms around yourself. You think about the small bundle of flowers left on the Impala’s dashboard, wondering if they’re still there as Dean drives wherever he’s escaping to.
Forget me not, Dean Winchester.
Somewhere far up west, Dean admits to himself that he fucked up. He panicked, and now he doesn’t know if he can fix it this time. He thinks about driving back, about calling Bobby and asking for your number, about telling you the whole truth.
But he doesn’t, because he knows better.
A week later, John climbs into the driver’s seat of Baby and finds the dried-up flowers sitting on the console. He roughly grabs them and tosses them out the window.
“I won’t let you take the car again if you keep leaving trash behind, Dean.”
Dean quietly watches from the passenger seat, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. Still, he buckles up and lets his dad drive him to the next hunt.
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NOTES: knock knock, anyone still here? oh my god guys, I am so sorry, please lower your pitchforks. I tried to post faster, but finals left my brain turned into mush and I just now got my inspiration back. but I came back with a LONG one, hope you're up for it. the love this series has been getting is overwhelming, and I promise I will try and post at least once a week now that I'm free from academics. anyway, i'll stop yapping. I love you all, hope you like it!!!
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