my name is, Jordan, you can call me Jt, Jay, or Jordy. I write for many things, my requests are open, and if there’s something that’s not on my masterlist I will try my best to write whatever you want me to. it might take me a bit, but I hope to capture what you want. I also don’t roleplay, sorry not sorry.
Things I will NOT write about are: Incest, Rape, Domestic violence/any type of abuse, Sexual harassment, Bestiality, Grooming, Age gap higher than 30, Underage. absolutely NO wincest
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summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ years after dean walks away, a chance reunion in a park turns into a very casual, definitely-not-a-date dinner where monster goo, too much cologne, old feelings, and second chances all end up sharing the table.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 2243 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ giggling
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ mutual pining, unresolved feelings, references to past relationship and heartbreak, awkward flirting, dean being hopelessly down bad, monster gore mentions, nostalgia, slow-burn energy
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ tagging @bitchinwallaby @kissesfrommercuryyy because yall asked for a part 2 and here i am providing 😌 ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ read part 1 ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
dean doesn’t ask you on a date.
that would require calling it a date, which would require admitting that he spent the better part of an hour sitting beside you on a park bench while your daughter built structurally questionable sandcastles and slowly remembered exactly how easy it is to make you laugh. it would require acknowledging the fact that he kept finding reasons not to stand up. another question. another story. one more minute watching you peel the wrapper from a granola bar because your kid insisted she could do it herself until she very suddenly and passionately could not.
so, no. dean does not ask you on a date.
he scratches the back of his neck as your daughter races toward the slide, sand still clinging to the knees of her leggings, and says, “you eaten yet?”
you look at him over the rim of your coffee cup. “it’s four-thirty.”
“yeah, well—i’m planning ahead.”
“planning ahead,” you repeat, with the same amount of belief you gave his big park guy routine.
dean narrows his eyes. “some people appreciate organization.”
“you used to pack one shirt for a three-week hunt.”
“it was a good shirt.”
“i’m pretty sure it had holes in it.”
“ventilation.”
the smile happens before you can stop it. his follows a second later, quieter and a little crooked around the edges, and there it is again—that strange pull low in your chest, too familiar to dismiss and too old to feel this new.
he glances toward your daughter, then back at you. “there’s a place a few blocks over. decent burgers. actual tablecloths. no laminated menus stuck together with syrup.”
“high standards.”
“i’m classy now.”
“you have mustard on your jacket.”
dean looks down immediately. you laugh when he realizes there’s nothing there, and he gives you a deeply unimpressed look that would probably work better if his mouth wasn’t twitching.
“you’re still mean,” he says.
“you liked me mean.”
his eyes catch yours just for a second. long enough to remind you that this hasn’t always been teasing on park benches and careful questions about where you live now. long enough to remember motel mattresses, his hand around your wrist as he tugged you back beneath the sheets, his sleepy voice against your shoulder telling you to stay another five minutes when both of you knew there was nowhere else you wanted to be.
dean clears his throat. “yeah,” he says, quieter. “i did.”
your daughter shrieks happily from the slide. the moment breaks before either of you has to do anything dangerous with it.
“my mom can take her tonight,” you say, trying for casual and getting close enough. “if you still want to… catch up.”
“catch up,” dean agrees quickly. “yeah. exactly. two old friends. food. normal amount of catching up.”
“what would be an abnormal amount?”
“guess we’ll find out.”
you agree to meet dean at the restaurant at seven-thirty. he checks his watch afterward and realizes he has just under three hours to help sam kill whatever has been dragging people into the storm drains beneath the town, shower, find a clean shirt, and pretend he hasn’t spent the last decade occasionally thinking about what your laugh sounds like when you’re trying not to let him know he’s funny.
it should be manageable. it isn’t. the creature takes two iron rounds, a machete, one extremely undignified wrestling match in approximately three inches of sewer water, and a final shot from sam before it stops moving. even then, it manages to rupture something wet and foul-smelling all over dean’s chest on the way down.
dean stands there in the dark tunnel, breathing hard, covered from his hairline to his boots in a greyish slime with the texture of half-set gelatin.
sam lowers the shotgun slowly. “you okay?”
dean looks at him.
sam presses his lips together. he makes it almost three seconds before laughing.
“shut up.”
“you smell terrible.”
“yeah, no kidding, sam.”
dean checks his watch and swears. loudly. with feeling.
the motel shower has the water pressure of an elderly garden hose, but he stays beneath it until his skin turns pink and the water finally stops running an alarming shade of brown. he shampoos his hair twice. then a third time because he catches a faint whiff of sewer monster when he leans closer to the mirror and refuses to risk it.
his cleanest shirt is only slightly wrinkled. his jeans are fine. his boots have survived worse. he stares at his reflection, rubs a hand over his jaw, then reaches for the bottle of aftershave beside the sink.
not enough.
dean opens sam’s toiletry bag.
“touch my stuff and die,” sam calls from the other side of the bathroom door.
“why do you have three different bottles in here?”
“because i know how hygiene works.”
“this one says eau de toilette.”
“put it down.”
“what the hell does that even mean?”
“it means you don’t need half a bottle of it.”
dean uses some anyway. then a little more aftershave. then, on the drive across town, he stops at a gas station and sprays himself once with the tester bottle of cologne locked inside a dusty plastic display beside the register, because dignity is a flexible concept and he’s already running twelve minutes late.
by the time he reaches the restaurant, he smells less like a dead monster and more like an airport duty-free shop. you’re already waiting near the entrance.
for one stupid second, dean forgets every excuse he rehearsed in the car.
you’re not dressed for anything fancy. neither is he. but your hair is loose around your shoulders, and there’s a softness to your mouth when you spot him weaving between the tables that makes his palms damp in a way he’d prefer not to examine too closely. you smile. dean smiles back before he remembers he’s supposed to be annoyed with himself for being late.
“sorry,” he says as he reaches the table. “case ran long.”
your eyes drag over him, taking in the damp hair, the faint nick beside his temple, the clean shirt he has clearly pulled from the bottom of a duffel bag.
then your nose wrinkles. “did you bathe in cologne?”
dean slides into the chair opposite you. “no.”
you raise a very questionable brow at him.
“there was an incident.”
“an incident.”
“monster goo.”
you bite the inside of your cheek. it does nothing. your shoulders start shaking anyway.
“glad my suffering’s funny to you.”
“i’m sorry,” you say, entirely insincere. “i’m trying to be sympathetic. it’s just—”
“i smelled worse before.”
that does it. you laugh into your hand, warm and helpless, and dean stares at you with the beginning of a grin he can’t quite suppress.
“much worse,” he adds, because apparently he’s willing to humiliate himself for the sound of it now.
“i believe you.” you reach across the table without thinking and brush your thumb lightly over the scrape at his temple. the touch lasts barely a second before you pull your hand back. “you okay?”
dean goes still. you used to ask him that after every hunt, usually while patching him up in some motel bathroom with your knees pressed against his and your medical kit spread across the sink. he used to lie. you always knew when he did. sometimes you’d let him anyway. “yeah,” he says. “nothing serious.”
your eyes stay on his face for another moment. “what was it?”
“ugly bastard living beneath the storm drains. sam’s digging through the lore. had these teeth—” dean holds two fingers apart, warming immediately to the story. “seriously, they were huge. and it moved fast. faster than it had any right to move, considering it looked like a melted halloween decoration.”
you listen as he talks, interrupting with questions in the right places, your expression shifting with easy familiarity when he mentions sam nearly losing his footing in the tunnel. by the time the waitress arrives, dean has stopped feeling quite so aware of his own hands. by the time your burgers come, he’s made you laugh twice more and learned that you still steal fries from other people’s his plate without asking.
“you have your own,” he says as your fingers retreat from his side of the table.
“yours looked better.”
“they’re the same fries.”
he pushes his plate slightly closer to the middle anyway.
it should feel stranger than it does. there are years sitting between you, too many of them, full of things neither of you knows how to ask without making the evening heavier than it’s allowed to become. but some habits survive untouched. dean still eats the pickle from your burger because you slide it onto the edge of his plate without asking. you still nudge your knee against his when you laugh too hard. neither of you acknowledges the contact. neither of you moves away.
eventually, he asks about you. not in the easy, polite way people do when they are waiting for their turn to speak. dean wants details. where you work. whether you still hate mornings. how long you have lived in town. whether your mom is nearby. what your daughter’s favorite cartoon is and why she apparently considers apple juice a matter of national importance.
you tell him more than you mean to. about preschool drop-offs and your job and the apartment with the unreliable kitchen faucet your landlord keeps promising to fix. about the way your daughter insists on wearing mismatched socks because matching ones are “too serious”. about your mother taking her tonight and giving you a look so unsubtle it should legally qualify as harassment.
dean laughs at that. “she still hates me?”
“she never hated you.”
“she threatened me with a carving knife.”
“she threatened everyone with a carving knife. it was her favorite knife.”
“comforting.”
“she asked whether you were still handsome.”
dean pauses halfway through reaching for his beer. “what’d you say?”
you pick up a fry, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking embarrassed. “i told her age had been very cruel to you.”
“wow.”
“tragic, really.”
“and yet here you are.”
“free burger.”
“right.”
his smile lingers afterward. yours does too.
the plates empty. the restaurant grows quieter around you. someone begins stacking chairs upside down on the tables near the window, and you realize with a start that you’ve been sitting there for almost three hours. dean glances toward the closing staff with visible betrayal, as though they’re personally responsible for the fact that the night has to end.
he pays before you can argue properly, but you argue anyway. he ignores you with the smug ease of someone who has always enjoyed irritating you in very specific, carefully cultivated ways.
outside, the air has cooled. your car is parked beneath a streetlamp at the edge of the lot, but neither of you moves toward it immediately. dean stands in front of you with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels. for a man who has faced demons without blinking, he looks strangely uncertain now.
“so,” you say.
“so.”
“this was nice.”
“yeah.” dean looks down, then back at you. “yeah, it was.”
the silence isn’t uncomfortable. it would be easier if he gave you a grin and some teasing line, something familiar enough to hide behind. instead, he watches you with an openness that feels almost accidental, as though the part of him that usually shuts every door has forgotten where the locks are.
“what time do you work tomorrow?” he asks.
you blink. “eight-thirty.”
“i could drive you.”
your eyebrows lift. “dean—”
“or we could get coffee,” he says, too quickly. “before. after. lunch, maybe. doesn’t have to be—” he exhales through his nose, frustrated with his own mouth. “anything. i just thought i could see you again.”
the honesty of it settles between you. slightly awkward. too specific. very dean, even if he looks as though he wishes he could grab the words and shove them back inside his chest.
you should make him work harder for it. maybe you will, eventually. he left once. you remember that too. the motel room door closing. the impala disappearing from the parking lot. the horrible, childish part of you that waited for the sound of the engine returning even after you knew it wouldn’t.
but he’s here now. smelling faintly of too much cologne and looking at you with that small, nervous smile he probably doesn’t realize he’s wearing.
“coffee,” you say. “before work.”
dean’s shoulders loosen. only slightly. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
“i’ll pick you up.”
“seven-thirty.”
“on the dot.”
you laugh softly, pulling your phone from your bag. “you’re a little out of practice.”
“been busy.”
“with sewer monsters?”
“amongst other things.”
you exchange numbers even though some stubborn, embarrassing part of you still remembers his by heart. dean sends himself a message from your phone, then hands it back carefully, his fingers grazing yours.
“i’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.
you nod. “tomorrow.”
he takes one step backward. then another. he looks reluctant to turn away, and it makes your chest ache in a place you thought had learned better.
“dean?”
“yeah?”
“you’ll show, right?”
his expression shifts. the teasing leaves first. what remains is quieter, stripped of every easy escape he has relied on since the moment he saw you wearing your grandmother’s ring.
“i wouldn’t miss it.”
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
You reflect on how Bucky has changed you for the good.
I'm very behind on these, I'm suffering from some serious task paralysis at the moment and basically couldn't move forward with this one holding me back. Hopefully getting this one done is turning a corner! Could be read alone, could be part of the kind of semi-linked June scribbles for Bucky.
Warnings: none
Words: 293
June Jukebox Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist
The party was louder than you needed it to be tonight.
You'd slipped out without anyone noticing. The sound of Sam losing badly at cards filtered through the apartment door and into the cool, dark hallway.
It was more peaceful out there. That was the problem.
You knew this feeling. You’d worn it like a second skin for most of your life - this particular quiet, this particular alone.
The Red Room had given you just as many things as it had taken, and one of them was a very high tolerance for your own company and a very low tolerance for needing anyone.
Natasha had called it armour once. She was, as with most things, probably right.
You could get addicted to a certain kind of sadness. In a lot of ways, it was comfortable - it asked nothing of you. You knew exactly how it would feel tomorrow and the day after.
But shit, it was lonely.
Happiness, on the other hand, had too many variables.
Happiness was terrifying.
How was it possible that after so many years, you now felt so happy you could die?
That shouldn't be a thing.
You heard him before you saw him, holding the handle so that it didn't spring back, opening the door just enough that he could peer out.
He didn't ask if you were OK. Instead, he let the door click quietly closed and leaned against the wall beside you, close enough that his right arm pressed against yours, heat radiating from him.
"Cards is getting ugly in there," he said.
"I heard."
His kind of quiet was different to yours - it never felt empty, and it never made you feel isolated.
more ruminating on the positive influence of Bucky. direct continuation of day 9.
warnings: none
words: 235
June Jukebox Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Back in the room, with the clouds shaken off you once again, Bucky had his sleeves pushed up to his elbows - demonstrating the severity of his situation.
From across the room, you watched him laugh. His head tipped back, a real belly laugh that carried over the sound of Sam’s protests at the selection of cards in his hand.
You still weren’t quite used to him being so openly happy.
You still weren’t used to being so happy yourself.
You’d left a lot to get here. Looking at him now, the crinkles in the corner of his eyes and the sliver of tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, you couldn’t remember most of it.
Once upon a time, you would have known every exit, every window, who was closest to the door, the quickest way out, the easiest direction to travel in…
Tonight, watching Bucky had brought you something you'd always dreamed of - peace.
If you allowed yourself to think about it, every night's another reason why you left it all. Every night, every day, he gave you reason after reason.
As if he felt the weight of your gaze, he looked up.
The laugh softened into something else entirely. Something that was just for you.
Every night's another reason. Every morning too, if you were honest.
You'd left it all, and somehow ended up exactly where you were supposed to be.
Pairing: formerly Sam Winchester x fem!reader, eventually Dean Winchester x Fem!reader
Summary: you come to a new realization.
An: I would like to say before you read this, I tolerate no Sam hate. None. But I’ve been holding out on Dean and I thinks it’s time to give husband #2 the stage. I’ve thought about doing this for so long but I never wanted to be messy. But yk what let’s get messy fuck it! This part is short, next part will be longer and possibly smutty. Because I just know later seasons Dean… all I’ll say is “best night of my life” Dean Winchester in his early twenties. Imagine him in his thirties.
WC: 678 - Sam Masterlist - Dean Masterlist
It was late in the afternoon, Dean was out, Sam was out and you were drowning in tequila.
At this point you weren't sure if the burning in your throat was from the alcohol, or your constant need to cry.
You took another swig, straight from the bottle wiping your teary cheeks roughly when suddenly the door opened, and in walked the biggest reason for your sorrows.
Sam Winchester.
You barley spared him a glance, nor did you try to hide the tears rolling down your face. He dropped whatever was in his hands and rushed towards you, worry completely covered his face as he said your name "are you okay"
You stared forward, refusing to look at him, you took another sip. "Go. Away." You muttered.
Sam's eyebrows pinched "wha-" he looked at the bottle clutched tightly in your hand "you're drunk" he said before attempting to take the bottle.
"I will shoot you" you warn with malice in your tone. Sam was clearly taken aback, having never been at the receiving end of that tone. "Go Sam, leave" you tell him again.
He swallows, shaking his head "I can't just leave you like-" "why not?" You cut him off, your red, teary eyes finally moving to look at him.
He blinked rapidly, trying to understand where it all was coming from. "Why can't you leave Sam? It's that you always do when I need you" you stand up, still sober enough to keep your balance and move away from him.
His face drops. He says your name quietly but you don't let him. You shake your head "no. No you don't get to come back and win my heart again. You don't deserve it." You hissed, angry tears rolling down your face, the bottle still clutched so tightly you were shaking. "You left me Sam. Again. And I-" your voice broke, you licked your lips "i won't let you break my heart again."
Your chin shook "after college, after ruby, after everything that you've done I have loved you like a damn idiot. When Dean was in purgatory, you told me- that you needed space. I gave you that, but after a while I started calling. Every day for months Sam. Because when Dean dies I don't just mourn him, I mourn you too." You turn away from him, not being able to stomach the guilt ridden look on his face.
"And then he comes back and I find out that you- you were fine. You were happy, with some girl and her stupid fucking dog!" You shout the last part.
You down the rest of the bottle, throwing it to the side. It lands with a thud but you pay it zero mind.
Your jaw clenches "we've fought the end of the world together. Twice. I don't know how deep that kind of bond goes for you. But now I think… I think I chose the wrong one. Dean wouldn't do that to me."
Sam sucks in a breath "your trying to be hurtful" he says. You turn towards him, a deadly look in your eyes "is it working? Maybe then you'll feel a fraction of what you made me feel."
Sam's jaw clenched, your glare never wavered. Suddenly the doors opened, and in walked Dean himself. He paused, the tension in the room was so sharp it could lice him in two.
He saw the broken and twisted look on your face, the guilty and solemn look on Sam's. He realized that it had finally happened. You finally snapped.
He realized, thy maybe, as sick as it was. Maybe it was his turn to show you, to show Sam what you really deserve.
Because he may be a broken man, but he promised himself at the mere age of twenty, that if there was even the slightest chance, that he could finally have you, he wouldn't mess it up. Especially not like his brother has.
His eyes connected with your red rimmed ones. That was it, that was his confirmation.
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dean winchester and his girl best friend, who are way too comfortable with each other (og post!)
They’ve always been that way — too touchy with each other and not enough with anyone else. Sammy’s seen the brunt of it for the most part.
The late night talks on the sidewalk outside of their motel room, where she leans on Deans shoulder, and nudges his work boots with her sneakers until he picks her legs up and throws them over his lap.
On long drives, where she desperately wants to get the hell out of the car but won’t say it, so instead she’ll bend forward and wrap her arms around Deans shoulders. Dean will pull into the next gas station he sees, and help her crack her sore back. She’ll wrap her arms close to her chest, and Dean will lift her off the ground and to his front. Afterwards, she lets out a big sigh of relief and Dean will pat her lower back — well, he used to.
When Sam was sucked into the cage, it was only the two of them. Somewhere in that time, they lost a lot of care for what ‘best friends’ are and aren’t supposed to do. Her and Dean don’t seem to notice the difference, but Sam does, once his soul is back.
Their first ‘normal’ hunt, all three of them back together, she wraps around Dean four hours into the drive.
“All good, pretty?” Dean turns his head a little, just to nudge hers which sits on his shoulder, but still watches the road. She nods, and holds him tighter.
Sammy’s used to that — it’s kind of refreshing, actually. To see something that’s so normal in their everyday life, compared to everything that’s been happening. Y’know, like, angels and the devil and not having a soul.
Dean still pulls over, twenty minutes later. She leaves the back seat immediately, stretching her arms over her head and raising up on her tippy toes. Sam watches the pair unconsciously as he leans over the other side of the car.
Dean pats her arm, shoves it a little, so she’ll turn around. He lifts her off the ground effortlessly, and her head falls back on his shoulder in relief.
“Better?” He asks, while she turns back around with a grin.
“Yeah.” She nods. “Thanks, De.”
“Ah,” He grins right back, tilting his head. “Always, pretty.”
Then, she turns once more, to open the back door and hop in, and Dean pats her on the ass. Twice.
“Alright, let’s get this show back on the road.” He jumps back in the drivers seat, leaving Sam frozen, and quite honestly, disturbed, outside of the car. That…that was not refreshing.
Neither was the time Dean went to go get food when Sam was supposed to. It’d been mutually agreed that they switch back and forth every time they get take out, but the last time they’d been near their current place of stay, Deans girl had a wonderful milkshake at this diner that was pretty far. He wanted to get her one, but obviously, he can’t just say that, and Sam won’t go to a random diner ten more minutes away than the others in town just ‘cause’, so Dean opts to take another turn grabbing dinner.
The problem here, though, is that that decision was made while she was in the shower.
Twenty minutes later, she bursts through the bathroom door in nothing but underwear and a covering her chest.
“De, where’s my pajamas- oh, my God, Sam!” As quickly as she entered the room, she’s back in the bathroom. “I’m so sorry, I thought you were Dean!”
Sam, with heat crawling up his chest, and ears burning red, is so sick of them.
“What difference would that have made!” His head flips in the opposite direction of the bathroom, even with the door closed again. “You just walk around naked when i’m not here?”
“Well-it’s Dean, it doesn’t matter!”
Sam’s so done. There’s no point in continuing to argue about it with either of them, because it gets nobody anywhere. They still continue acting all lovey dovey and clueless, and everyone gets more irritated.
Somehow, neither of them understand why people think they’re a couple so often — the motel clerks when they get a room with one bed, random old ladies in stores watching them swing their conjoined hands and giggle, bartenders and waitresses passing every tab Deans way, the list is endless. Hell, their first time at the Roadhouse, that crew thinks so too.
“So, uh,” Jo starts, from next to her mother. The brothers were conversing with Ash, and left her back with the two woman over on the other side of the bar (she didn’t feel like getting up, and dean didn’t have the heart to make her). It was a nice change of pace, really, to not be surrounded by so much suffocating testosterone, even if they had just been holding her and the two people she is the closest with at gunpoint. “When’d you meet those two?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” She shrugged, taking a gulp of her water. “When Sam was okay with being called Sammy.”
“Huh,” Ellen scoffs. “Well how ‘bout that.”
“When’d you get with the little one?” Jo interrupts her mother’s reminiscing, leaning over the counter.
“Uh,” She laughs a little, confused. “Dean? What do you mean?”
“Y’know, like when’d start being more than just real good friends?”
“Well, I mean he’s always been my best friend, if that’s what you mean.” She shrugs, and a little smile makes it way onto her face. “Guess if I had to find a point it’d be when we were all playing with Bobby’s dog, and I fell and scraped my knee in sixth grade. He cleaned it up and stole me some Cracker Jack and then we listened to Led Zeppelin.”
The three sit in silence for a minute, her, staring over at Dean at the other side of the bar with a wide grin, and the mother and daughter sharing a look of disbelief.
“…so you’re saying you aren’t dating that guy?” Jo tries one last time, pointing over in Deans direction.
“Me and Dean? No,” She shakes her head, and laughs it off. “A lot of people think that, though. I don’t get why.”
The other two woman share another brief glance at one another, before the Winchesters and Ash come barreling over. Sam sits on the stool to her left, and Dean stands close enough to her right that she can lean against his chest.
“Anything good?” She asks, peering up at him from next to his heartbeat.
“Oh, yeah, pretty,” He grins right back, wrapping an arm around her. “Ash’s checking some stuff out, thinks he can track the demon down.”
“Oh, great!”
“Sammy said Ellen’s found us a case while we wait. Somethin’ with clowns.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and they both turn to ‘oooohhhh’ in Sam’s direction.
“Oh, just-shuddup!” He grumbles, stomping outside to the busted van. She shoves her face in Deans chest as they cackle at Sam’s expense, before eventually crawling down from her seat.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom before we get outta here. Meet you in the car, yeah?” She does a quick stretch, backing up towards the bathroom a little, only for Dean to palm her waist and pull her right back against him.
“Alright.” Dean plants a kiss to her forehead, and gives her waist a gentle squeeze before backing off. “Hurry!” He shouts on his way out the door.
Ellen and Jo watch the pair go their separate ways from behind the bar. Ellen grabs a beer, and sighs.
“How long you think that’s gonna last like that?” She grumbles with plenty snark.
“Who knows how long they’ve been like that already! Oh, poor Sam…” Jo shakes her head.
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Dean knew he was in the dog house. He knew he fucked up when he tried cozying up to you this morning and you shook him off your shoulder, getting up without a word.
The morning continued like that, silent contempt brewing thick in your veins. He kept obsessing over what he might have done wrong. Did he forget something? A birthday? An anniversary? What?!
He finally stopped his mind from going wild, giving in and just focussing on fixing rather than thinking.
He sauntered up behind you, hands finding your waist, smoothing up and down your sides before you could pull away.
"Dean" You warned, tone harsh but starting to soften around the edges.
"Hm, Sweetheart?" He murmured, leaning in closer, his chest pressed up against your back.
"Dean stop"
"Aw c'mon baby" He hummed, face buried in the crook of your neck.
"Don't-"
You felt his lips brush along your pulse point, cutting you off immediately. He mouthed at your neck, leaving wet kisses over your skin, teeth grazing deliciously along your veins.
"D-Dean" Your voice faltered, growing breathy.
"Yeah baby?" His voice was muffled as his kisses travelled across the back of your neck, over to the other side to give you the same treatment as before.
You leaned back into him, resting against his surprisingly comfortable wall of a chest "Fuck you"
He chuckled before nuzzling his chin into your shoulder "Right here or…?"
"You pig!" You laughed, taking his hands and pulling them further around you.
"You feelin' any better?" He probed, cautious, like he was shoving a fish in a hungry bear's face.
"Yeah" You sighed, giving in "But it better not happen again, okay?"
"Okay darlin' but, what was it?"
"You don't know?"
"Not…exactly"
You rolled your eyes "You were flirting with that damn librarian"
"Lexi?"
"You remember her name?"
"It was for information! On a case!"
"Oh yeah? Well you could look a lot less into it"
"I-I wasn't into it, baby, I swear"
"You do, huh?" You cocked a brow "Think you can prove it?"
He grinned, relieved as fuck "Sure can, Sugar, follow me" He pressed a heavy, fast kiss to the hinge of your jaw before grabbing you hand and leading you to his room, very quickly.
Taglist for all of my Supernatural writing - 47 + more in reblogs!
✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 11k✦
✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦
You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.
You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.
Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.
You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end.
Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.
The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.
They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.
When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.
“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”
Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”
“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”
Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.
He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.
You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.
I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-
Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-
You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.
If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?
I am not circling you like a shark-
Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.
You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.
That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.
You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.
But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.
Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish.
Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.
You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.
It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.
The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.
“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”
Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“
“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“
The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.
She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.
You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.
It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother. Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.
You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.
Which is why you don’t know what to do now.
Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.
Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.
The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘
He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-
“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”
You frown, and Dean pauses.
“In a good way.”
“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”
“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“
He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.
But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.
“Me neither.”
“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”
“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.
You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.
“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”
And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.
He doesn’t really remember.
“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”
Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”
You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.
Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.
You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.
Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.
Not you.
You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.
The asshole doesn’t make it easy.
He makes it impossible.
“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.
His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.
“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.
“Okay.”
“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”
“I’ll come get them later.”
Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.
“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.
“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”
“I’m going to distract you from work-“
“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.
“Dean-“
“C’mon.” He moves you in front of him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”
You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.
There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.
You need to get away from him.
You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.
Which leaves one solution.
Avoid Dean.
Avoid him like he’s the plague.
You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.
If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.
But it’s not working.
You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.
It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.
Not dying.
You’re not strong enough to kill it.
This is the feeling of love being tortured.
Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.
You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.
Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.
There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.
That’s part of the problem.
None of them are Dean Winchester.
But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-
“Where the hell are you going?”
You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”
“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”
“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.
He doesn’t look amused.
You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.
He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.
“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.
“Maybe.”
“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”
His brow furrows. “Napped.”
“For how long.”
“Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer-“
“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.
“Out.”
“Out where.”
You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”
Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.
He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.
But you don’t think he will.
Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.
“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.
“N- No.”
“We got drinks here-“
“I know.”
He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”
“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”
Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.
But Dean doesn’t leave.
He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.
“I’m goin’ with you.”
Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“
“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”
A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“
“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”
Oh.
He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.
Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.
So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.
“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”
You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.
You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.
Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.
And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.
You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.
“Dean, where are we-“
“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”
You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“
“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”
“It’s-“
“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”
There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“
“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“
“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“
“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”
“Dean-“
“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”
You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“
“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“
“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.
But he does.
Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.
You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.
Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.
You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.
He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.
For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.
“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”
You nod—you didn’t blame him in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.
“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.
“What?”
“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”
“I- I can stay?”
He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”
You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.
“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”
He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“
“I was going to the bar.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“
“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”
He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.
“You kissed me.”
You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.
He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.
“No, I- I’d remember that-“
“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”
Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.
“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.
If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.
Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.
“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”
That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.
It’s guilt.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”
“Dean-“
“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“
“Dean-“
“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“
“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.
You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.
“Stop grinding your teeth.”
Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.
“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.
“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“
“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.
He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.
“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”
Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“
“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”
“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“
“I kissed you back.”
“Did you mean it?”
His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“
“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”
“The internet?”
“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.
“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“
“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“
“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“
“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“
“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”
Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.
“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”
“And- And the love-“
“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“
“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“
Dean moves before you can think.
One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.
You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.
It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.
He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.
Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.
“Careful.”
You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.
“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.
There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.
He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.
You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.
Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.
“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“
“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re unbelievable-“
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”
There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.
He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.
“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”
“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.
“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“
He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.
“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“
“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“
“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“
A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.
“De- Dean-“
“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”
Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.
“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”
“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.
Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”
You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.
“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”
Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“
“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”
“You- You never-“
“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.
You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.
“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”
Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.
You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.
Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.
You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.
He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.
Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.
“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.
You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.
“I- I’ve been patient-“
“Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”
Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.
You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.
“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“
You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.
“Please, please, please-”
“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”
“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.
“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”
You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.
The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.
Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.
“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”
You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.
Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.
Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.
Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.
You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.
You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.
For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.
Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.
He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.
A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.
You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.
“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“
Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.
“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“
His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.
Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.
You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.
Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.
“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”
You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.
Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.
“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”
You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.
“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.
He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”
“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”
“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”
You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.
“What the fuck-“
“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”
You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“
“No, you don’t.”
“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“
“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.
“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”
“List works for Sammy.”
“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“
“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”
You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.
His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.
“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.
Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”
You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give me twenty dollars.”
“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.
That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.
Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.
Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.
You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.
But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.
“No.” He chastises, and you pout.
“I wanna put you in my mouth.”
“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“
“Why not-“
“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”
You frown. “I know that.”
He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.
You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.
“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”
Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”
“I am my age-“
“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.
“A sexy way?”
“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“
Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.
Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.
“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“
He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.
“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”
You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”
He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”
“Do you want the real answer to that?”
“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.
A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.
“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”
The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.
Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.
“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“
He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.
You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.
“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.
You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.
Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“
“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“
You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.
You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.
“I’m gonna move, alright?”
You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.
“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”
You nod, and his lips twitch.
“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”
Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.
“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”
“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“
“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”
“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.
He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.
“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“
“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“
He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-
“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“
You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.
You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.
And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.
Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.
He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.
He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks.
It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.
Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.
“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”
You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.
He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.
When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.
First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.
Dean. You need to be near Dean.
He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.
“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”
You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”
“And I woulda earned that.”
“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”
Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.
“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”
You like it.
You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.
✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
dean winchester being the type of man to push his thumbs into the dimples of your lower back to see u arch ur back for him and it makes ur knees go weak 😵💫
Mmmm yeah he is
He's fucking into you deep from behind, the pressure making your back start arching like a cat.
"C'mon, pretty. Jus' relax f'me," dean said, voice slurred with pleasure. His thumbs found the dimples of your back, gently pressing the buttons to guide you back to where he wants you. "There you go. Just gotta relax and take it."
The rough pads of his thumbs soothed at the indented skin, the friction feeling intimate enough to compete with the drag of his cock.
"Dean," you whimpered, the softness of it all making you melt into the mattress.
"I know, baby," he said, pausing his thought to place kisses all along your spine. "Just feel it."
Tears brimmed at your lids, not because of any pain or hurt but because of the tenderness. His, Dean's, huge, strong hands splayed out around your hips, the knuckle caught in the divot in a way that made chills skate all along your body.
"You're my perfect fuckin' girl, you know that? Every last dip and curve. And it's all fuckin' mine."
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Thinking about spnAU!Dean Winchester being reader's bf who wants her literally all the time, no matter where!
Warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it up), car sex, quickie, semi-public, penetrative sex, creampies<3 BOTTOM DEAN!
(wc: ≈ 1.4k) (genre: smut)
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
| It could be everywhere; after a long day in a motel room, during a hunt in an abandoned house, or at a gas station in some disgusting bathroom.
Today was one of those days again. Dean found himself worked up after a—way too long—drive across the country. Not only haven’t they reached the motel where they were supposed to stay at, but the weather was absolutely unbearable too. Mid July, the hottest of all the months.
Sam was complaining. You were complaining. Dean was already in a grumpy mood to begin with! He refused wearing shorts since he insisted they weren’t manly enough and the Impala he loved so much didn’t really have any sort of AC.
With the windows down and his dad-rock playing from the cassettes he kept in the glovebox, you three eventually did reach some lonely-looking diner. It wasn’t exactly luxury, but hunting didn’t come with a paycheck. In other words; you were too broke for any fancy restaurants.
————————————————————
"Sam, you go and check what’s on the menu— Get me extra fries while you’re at it." Dean called over his shoulder to his brother.
Sam glanced between the two of you from the front seat, catching the shift in Dean's mood.
"I’m just gonna… go order food before I see something I don't wanna see.." He mumbled, as he slammed the car door shut.
"Take your time, Sammy! No need to hurry—" Dean shouted after him, looking way too smug.
As soon as Sam was gone, Dean turned to his girlfriend; you.
Currently, you were sitting in the backseat, trying to get your shoes back on, in order to get out of the car and stretch your limbs. Maybe get some ice cream yourself.
"What're you doin', babe?" Dean's voice was raspy, a twinge of that boyish tone still shining through, despite his best efforts to sound composed.
"What does it look like, De? I'm starving—" You'd complain. He expected nothing less.
"You really wanna go in there with Sammy? C'mon, can’t the food wait? For a moment? Don’t you wanna spend time with your boyfriend?"
"Dean, what—" You'd look up from your shoe laces, only to meet his green eyes, his sickly long lashes, looking at you like he’s starving too. Just.. not for food.
"Baby, please— Sammy’s gone. He’ll be gone for at least twenty minutes. I've been.. I couldn’t stop thinking about you today. Don’t be cruel.." He pleaded. Actually. His voice turned much whinier than before, still slightly cocky nonetheless.
"Seriously?! We fucked last night—" You were cut off by his frame already climbing into the backseat, already pressed against you.
"C'mon, please.. Whatever you want. Let me taste you— Or.. use your mouth on me. Your hands. Ride me, I don’t care—" The way he said it made you feel pretty sure he was about to cry if you didn’t give in.
"You’re such a loser, Dean, like.. you’re worse than a teenager!" You’d laugh, while simultaneously climbing on top of his lap, your arms lazily wrapped around his neck, before you press your lips against his plush ones.
The kiss quickly turned into a makeout session, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip, claiming it’s way into your month, just to intertwine with yours. It was a moment full of tongue and teeth, his hands roaming all over your body, already pulling your tank top over your head, leaving your in your bra.
When he unclasped it single-handedly, his lips were still glued to yours. You could feel the sliver ring he wore, cold metal against your searing skin, leaving goosebumps in it's wake.
You were forced to be the one breaking away from the kiss, since Dean was ready to asphyxiate on your lips and die a happy man. You could tell by his panting, his parted, wet lips, as you looked over his flushed, freckled face.
At this point, neither of you really cared about the people that may walk by and catch a glimpse of the heated moment anymore. The diner's parking lot was pretty much empty anyway.
"Please, baby.. don’t make me wait. I can’t—" He begged. His eyes looking up at you, as you smile to yourself and trail your hands down his chest.
"Patience, De.." You'd scold, although his hands were already palming at your tits, squishing the soft flesh, and trying to drink in the sight. His cock was already hard and leaking in his pants, pleading to be noticed.
His shirt was lost soon enough too. Leaving his amulet to dangle across his freckled muscles. It was a delicious sight, made you almost forget that Sam would be back in ten minutes. That said, you quickly lost your shorts as well.
With this new determination to finish before you got caught, you undid his belt, unzipped his jeans, pulling the fabric down to his meaty thighs, revealing his ratty, grey boxers.
"Can’t wait— wanna taste.. wanna look at you all day.. every day—" Dean had to stop himself from drooling over you, when you finally pulled his precum-stained boxers down and freed his aching cock.
The tip was already flushed in a deep shade of pink, clear pre running down the veins along his shaft, soaking his dark blonde pubes.
Usually, you’d give him a blowjob first, but honestly? You weren’t sure if he could handle that right now, given that he almost came untouched.
You moved your lace panties aside, revealing your already glistening cunt, as your grabbed a hold of his cock, sliding him along your slit to gather the mixed lube of both of your arousal.
Once you finally slid down his length, his eyes fluttered shut and his head tipped back, sweat already beading at his short dirty blonde spikes of hair. His mouth fell slightly open, breathy moans leaving his throat immediately.
"Oh— fuck, Dean.. It’s big—" You should be used to it by now.. but every now and then, you still need a moment to get used to his size.
"You got it, baby— It’s okay. It’s fine— Just move. C'mon.." He urged you on, his hands squeezing and pulling at the flesh of your hips.
Dean was entirely blinded by the pleasure of your warm walls around him, dismissing the fact that you might have needed some time to adjust, because he was just that desperate.
When you did begin riding his cock with a steady rhythm, his face buried against your shoulder, his forehead tipping onto your collarbones, as his arms hugged tightly around your body.
The lewd sounds of skin on skin and the slick between your bodies now started to combine with Dean's whines. He was no longer moaning, no, his sounds bordered on whimpers.
"Baby— I'm not gonna last— I can’t.. feels too good—" He forced those words out, while his body was unconsciously trying to merge with you, his face now smooshed against your chest. His mouth was left slightly agape, his eyes squeezed shut, and his eyebrows furrowed.
He clumsily tried to slide one of his hands down towards your clit, giving it uncoordinated circles. Though, he missed the spot with his thumb about five times, before he gave up and just wrapped both his arms around you.
"Come, De— Fuck, just— come inside." You'd moan, as your hands were clawing at his chiseled shoulders and the back of his head. Fingers tugging at hair that was too short to really pull at.
The scratching of your fingertips against his scalp and the warm, wet pleasure of your walls tightening and pulsing around his swollen cock eventually overwhelmed him, pushing him to a mind-blowing orgasm, that had him moaning and whining high pitched gasps against your damp skin.
His cock pulsed thick hot ropes of cum inside you, leaving your cunt so full, it caused the sticky mess to drip down against his own lap, soaking his thighs.
"Oh— shit, that was—" He breathed out, trying to regain his consciousness, even though he was still seeing stars from the orgasm.
Then it washed over him like cold sweat; Sammy was about to come back! His eyes shot wide, as he looked at you.
"Fuck, baby. You gotta clean up. You’re dripping—"
"Yeah, and whose fault is that, smartass?" You laughed, before quickly pulling both your panties and your shorts back up, not minding the literal cum that was leaking out of you.
"Can’t blame a man for wanting his girl, baby.." There was that cocky attitude seeping back into his tone, as if he hadn’t just whimpered and pleaded for you.
With surprising efficiency, he was dressed again, climbing back behind the wheel, as he made sure to open the doors to his beloved car, wanting to get rid of the smell of sex before his brother suspected anything.
As for the dubious stains on the leather seats; he just threw his jacket over them, hoping he wouldn’t forget to clean the car tomorrow.
You were in the bathroom of the diner, trying to freshen up, as Sammy finally came back with the food. Greasy fries and burgers.
Weirdly enough, Dean was flushed, trying to look unbothered, as his brother got back into the car.
"Dean, you okay? Where’s reader?" Sam asked innocently, frowning in confusion.
"Yeah— sure. Just fine. She’s— she said she had to freshen up. Heat must be getting to her."
Dean was such a liar. His dick was still twitching in his boxers from his earlier high.
ᥫ᭡ writers note: I'm literally so sorry for disappearing for like a month omg ! There was so much shit going on in my life. But anyway, here’s this! If you guys have any other requests or ideas, lmk! xoxo —ℳ ᥫ᭡
✩͏ cw: fem!reader, unprotected, established relationship, fingēring, overstim, bēgging, brēēding. brat taming? dirty talk, praise, light degradation. mdni.
dean wasn’t sure what led him to this.
never in his twenty-six years of life, and through all his many sexual experiences, had he ever thought of doing it raw. never.
not until he set eyes on his girlfriend’s pussy. your pussy.
it was glistening with your juices, sending an intoxicating scent straight to his nose; he simply couldn't look away. not while you clenched rhythmically around his fingers, following the precise movements he was working inside you.
was it normal that he wanted to take his cock out and breed you like a fucking animal?
he couldn’t even look at your face. not because he didn’t want to, but because he was too enthralled, watching the part of you that was practically devouring his fingers.
“deaaan,” you called out, your voice slightly slurred as your head finally lifted from the pillow to look at him. he has been fingering you for hours. literally, “hurry.”
you were desperate to come, you couldn’t lie. not since you'd seen him flirting with a pretty blonde at the bar—for work, of course, but you couldn’t help the spark of jealousy. not when he looked that good in his leather jacket and those perfectly fitted jeans that hugged his ass deliciously. you'd wanted to ride him the second you set foot inside the motel room, but he had insisted on 'making it up to you'.
and thats how you ended up on the bed with only your crop top left and no panties.
“you’ve got to be patient, sweetheart,” dean mumbled with a smirk, without even looking up. the wet, squelching sound resumed, and your walls clenched around his hand immediately. “see? you want my fingers inside you. it feels too good, doesn't it?”
your back arched cleanly off the bed, a broken moan leaving your lips.
he kept moving his fingers in and out, simulating the deep thrusts of his cock when he fucked you. a sharp shudder wrecked through you the moment he hit a sensitive spot. dean chuckled against your skin, hitting the same spot repeatedly, deliberately keeping you just shy of the release you were begging for.
“dean, s-stop teasing me.” you gasped out, eyes barely open. you couldn't even wipe away the stray drop of saliva on your chin before begging, “just fuck me.”
“you’re so whiny,” dean teased, his gaze finally snapping up to yours as he withdrew his slick fingers. you watched him unzip his jeans and push them down, the damp, dark spot staining the fabric of his boxers telling you exactly how hard he already was. “can’t even let your boyfriend play with your sweet pussy.”
a broken moan wrecked through you the moment he finally pulled his hog out, your thighs opening wider in a desperate instinct. dean let out a low chuckle, his large hands gripping your thighs to force them even further apart, exposing your dripping pussy to his hungry gaze. oh, god, how he absolutely loved that sight.
“here it comes, sweetheart. open wide,” dean murmured, his large hand guiding his thick cock against your dripping heat. your walls stretched painfully well around just the tip, and then he began sinking his cock into you with agonizing slowness.
“dean, hurry...” you pleaded weakly, your mind completely hazy as your head rolled back against the pillows.
dean grunted, keeping up the agonizingly slow torture just to tease you. but before he could pull back, you locked your ankles behind his lower back and pulled him hard against you. his entire length buried deep, filling you to the absolute brim, a sharp gasp leaving both of your lips at the sudden depth.
dean collapsed forward, heavy hands pinning the pillow on either side of your head, a look of sheer ecstasy taking over his rugged features. he swallowed hard, trying desperately not to lose his grip and spill his load right then and there.
a few tense seconds passed before his eyes finally opened, a dark, teasing smirk pulling at his lips. “fucking brat,” he growled. his large right hand immediately came up to cover your mouth, muffling your whimpers as he began driving inside you with a heavy, steady rhythm. “not even gonna ask me for a rubber? you really want my load that bad, huh.”
he continued to muffle your desperate moans with the heavy palm of his hand, his ruthless movements working your walls into a complete frenzy. your mind was short-circuiting; you just wanted him to come inside you. you needed it. there was nothing hotter than the thought of him filling you up.
“sweetheart, you gotta keep it down, alright?” dean grunted right against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. “sammy’s just in the next room. we don't want him hearing his big brother fucking his girlfriend, do we, babe?”
you shook your head frantically, hot tears of pleasure rolling down your cheeks. a desperate whimper of denial tried to make its way out of your mouth, only to end up completely smothered by his heavy hand.
dean stared down at your tear-stained face, a deeply satisfied smirk stretching across his lips as his tongue darted out to wet them. “that’s a good girl,” he growled softly, the vibration hitting your ear. “keep it up for me, and i might just leak my entire load inside you as a reward.”
you nodded frantically, your legs locking even tighter around his hips to pin him deep inside you. you were right on the edge of coming, and he was right there with you; you could already picture his thick seed overflowing and running down your thighs.
“please, please...” the desperate pleas were completely muffled against his palm, but he heard them anyway. with a wicked, deliberate tilt of his thick shaft, your walls snapped—clenched in tight, violent waves around him as you came.
dean kept pumping his hips until a heavy grunt left his chest and he finally came inside you. he stayed buried deep, his thick shaft acting as the only barrier stopping his warm seed from escaping. moving his hand from your face, he captured your lips in a long, bruising kiss, his tongue thoroughly claiming yours.
pulling back from the kiss with a rough chuckle, he smudges away the saliva at the corner of your lips with his thumb, his fingers then trailing down to softly stroke your cheek.
“good job keeping it down at the end, princess,” he’d whisper against your mouth, a teasing glint in his green eyes. “sammy’s a heavy sleeper, but i think we definitely pushed our luck tonight. let’s just stay like this for a minute, yeah?”
oh hi there…just want to…riding dean winchester’s abs…are you feeling me? pretty pretty please even a small drabble🥹🥹
riding bf!dean’s abs
⟢ ྀ𓈒𑁥౿ “yeah, that’s it baby. juuuustt like that.” dean’s words are completely inaudible to you when you’re humping pathetically against his toned and solid stomach, leaving glistening trails of arousal all over his abs.
the concept of riding your boyfriend’s abs had never crossed your mind once. shocking, i know. but seeing him laid out on the couch shirtless looking like that? the sudden waterfall between your legs was an understatement.
“mm—uh, dean!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut to just feel the moment. feel the way your hole clenches around nothing. feel the way your clit bumps over the defined ridges of his skin.
dean just groans, hands struggling to find where they wanna grab you. your waist, hips, tits, before finally settling on your ass, giving it a sharp smack. you cry out, the slap sending a wave of shock throughout your body, traveling to your core which was soaking his flexing abs to the bone more than before now.
“dean—” you whine his name incoherently, head falling down to hide your flushed face in his chest. he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight. “you close baby?” he asks in a low tone, lips finding yours.
you moan into the sloppy kiss, hips rutting over his stomach harder to chase that high. when he pulls back, it’s only to tut at you, kneading your already reddened backside. “jesus look at you. already ‘boutta cum from this ‘n i haven’t even fucked you properly yet, doll.” his fingers find your swollen, neglected clit, giving it the attention she needs—sweet, delicate rubs and little presses here and there while your hips continue dragging up and down on him.
you let out a broken sob at the overstimulation and his words, thighs shaking around his waist and pussy dripping so wet it should be a crime. the only right thing to do in this situation, should be to punish you for being able to cum faster on his abs than his cock. it’s honestly disrespectful, dean thinks. he fucks you stupidly good every single fuckin’ night. takes his time with you, makes sure you feel every inch of him inside your warm little cunt—and this is how you repay him? cumming quicker somewhere else not his dick?
so not right. but that’s okay. he’s being nice right now—but later, he’ll make sure you learn your lesson. “c’mon sweetheart—wan’ my cock in here next don’tcha?” he says more impatiently, giving your pussy a few quick smacks. you moan out loud, nodding dumbly. you’re so close. dean hums low, slapping your ass before his thumb probed at your tight rim, “yeahhh you do. now fuckin’ hurry up or i’ll stick my cock right here instead, huh?”
Includes: fluff? Smut? not quite sure lol, No PiV, sub!sam, lots of kissing, this is so short sorry
God how you loved that pathetic look in his eyes, the look he’s got on his face right now is everything to you. It’s not only the look in his eyes, it’s how needy he looks up at you from his kneeling position on the floor, desperate for any touch or praise of yours.
You reach out for his face and cup up with your warm and soft hand. He almost nuzzles into your hand and drinks the warmth of your body up. Sam takes your hand and starts placing kisses all over your palm, not on the back of your hand like a prince would but onto the more sensitive skin of the inner side of your hand.
He quick to travel up your arm until he gets up to kiss your neck, placing hot open mouthed kisses all over it. He‘s so desperate while letting his fingers glide under your shirt to take it off and throw it mindlessly on the bed behind you.
His eyes are on your face almost the entire time, even when he opens your bra for you to get a glance of your perfect boobs. While placing more and more kisses all over your chest he kneads the soft flesh of your tits.
Your go thru his hair with your hand, loosely tugging at the brown strands, not to pull him back but to stay in control in some way. Because even tho he could be in control physically if he wanted to you got him wrapped right around your finger.
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Hi Gin 🩷 can i ask you some sobbing angsty fic with bucky almost back (or fully back but reader trying to speak to him) as the ws not recognising reader at the beginning but with a happy ending 🥹
Please come back to me
“It’s a trap!” Tony yelled the moment he saw the man standing in front of him. “Everybody out now.” He screamed through his comms.
He lifted his arm, pointing his hand toward the man. He shoot him with his blaster. The man fell down in a second as Tony raised himself in the air with the armour.
Too damn easy, he thought.
He heard some noise, people fighting and guns shooting.
He first saw Natasha, coming out from a metal door. Her face dirty and blood all over it. She gave him a look that said “it’s not mine”.
After some minutes, Sam with Steve and Y/N reappeared.
“Where’s Bucky?” Y/N asked immediately.
“Wasn’t he with you guys?” Tony replied, pointing at Captain America and Falcon.
They both shook their head.
Panic began to flow in her face when even Natasha didn’t know where Bucky was.
The billionaire flew down, feet on the ground, looking at Y/N.
He had always seen her as a daughter and knowing Bucky was her first official and real relationship, he panicked too but trying to keep his facade just for her.
“Okay kid, don’t worry…” he said calmly. “He’s somewhere here.”
“Where Tony? I don’t see him here!” Y/N yelled back. “I’m sorry…” she whispered almost immediately. “It’s not your fault Tony…”
Tony moved closer and engulfed her in a metal hug.
Around them Steve, Sam and Nat began to think.
Bucky was of course with them on the jet, precisely near Y/N with his arm on her shoulder, keeping her close. It was their own ritual before any mission. They sat together, his arm protecting her for absolutely no reason and her giving him little kisses on his cheek.
He was with then on the ground where they landed looking for the threat but then nowhere to be found after that.
“We should split,” Tony suggested. “I’m going north flying over the facility,” he pointed his finger toward the sky. “Nat will take the south sector,” he looked toward Nat, who nodded. “Steve and Sam you’re gonna be with Y/N. She has to download all the files and you’re gonna cover her.”
Both men nodded looking at Tony.
“Barnes,” he turned toward Bucky. “You knew this place?”
Bucky nodded looking down.
“Check the perimeter.”
He nodded again.
“Let’s do this.” Tony said clapping his hand flying high in the sky.
Nat slid out of sight like a cat, Sam and Steve patiently wait for Bucky to kiss Y/N.
They both smile seeing their friend so in love.
“Doll, be careful.”
“You too soldier.”
“Tony,” Y/N began to sob.
“No no no,” he rested his hand on her shoulder. “We’re not doing this.”
“But-“
“I said no. He’s here and we’re gonna find him and have a party all together at the tower.” He said, catching a tear on her face.
Minutes passed and panic began to build in all of the Avengers.
They all rose their head when they heard some noise. Heavy footsteps were approaching. They all stood up in a second.
Tony rose himself in the air. Steve lifted his shield. Sam and Nat swinged their fists in the air. Y/N’s hands immediately on the gun.
“Wait,” she yelled happily. “It’s Bucky! I saw his metal arm-“ words got stuck in your throat as pain was the only thing you felt.
Falling on the ground, she grabbed her shoulder and saw blood all over her hand.
Bucky shot her.
“That’s not Bucky,” Steve yelled.
“That’s the fucking Winter Soldier.” Tony shouted.
They all put themselves between her body on the ground and Bucky.
He kept walking toward her. His eyes never leaving her figure.
She tried to stand but the bullet inside her arm stung so bad.
Natasha threw herself on Bucky, trying to climb onto him but failed. Steve hit him with his shield, but the metal arm was stronger. Sam tried to fly up in the air but Bucky’s hand grabbed him by his ankle throwing him on the ground.
Tony was the only one still standing. He threw a look over Y/N’s body and then at the very angry Winter Soldier in front of him.
He blasted him, right in the middle of his chest.
Bucky barely moved.
“Damn it,” he whispered shout. “He’s stronger now!”
In a rush of adrenaline, Tony flew higher in the sky. Pointing his arm toward Bucky, he shot him a tranquilliser in his neck from his arm.
Bucky felt on his knees, gripping the gun and then facing down on the soil.
“Bucky!” Y/N yelled still fighting with the pain.
“Stay away!” Steve said, once he saw Y/N moving. “He’s not Bucky.”
“He is to me,” Y/N said crashing onto Steve.
Captain America looked down at her. Her tiny and defeated body against his muscular one.
He hated seeing her like this and hated more seeing his best friend lying down unconscious on the ground. “He’s gonna be alright… but we need to take him back to the tower. Alright?”
Y/N nodded sobbing.
At the tower, Steve and Sam brought Bucky’s still unconscious body in a cell.
“I hate doing this pal,” Steve whispered to his best friend. “But it’s for the best…”
“He’s gonna be okay, cap.” Sam promised.
Into another floor, Y/N began to fight everyone.
Nat tried to hold her down, something usually easy for her but her needs to be with Bucky was stronger.
“Y/N damn it! You need to calm down.”
“I NEED TO SEE HIM. WHERE IS HE?”
“Kid-“ Tony tried to explain. He held the rubbing alcohol and cloth in his hand, trying to calm her. “I need to wash and disinfect your shoulder.”
“SHUT UP! I WANNA SEE HIM.”
Y/N really fought hard, maybe too hard. Her shoulder began to shake and stung. Her yelling was heard even outside.
“Y/N,” Steve yelled entering. “HE’S LOCKED IN A CELL, SLEEPING. ONCE YOU’RE OKAY I’LL LET YOU SEE HIM. NOW SHUT UP AND LET US HELP YOU.” Steve’s tone made her cry but she laid on the table. “Thank you.” He said kindly.
Y/N closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Is he okay?”
No one spoke.
“Cap?” She asked again, opening her eyes.
She saw tears stains on Steve’s face.
“I don’t know… he was him again…”
Once Tony finished extracting the bullet and disinfecting the shoulder, he took a laser he created. After he finished, Y/N stood up.
“I’m gonna see him.” She didn’t asked, she told them.
“I don’t think-“ Tony began to argue.
She had already left the room.
In the lift, going down to the cell floor, she began to fiddle with her bracelet. It was a slim silver chain, with a small “B” as pendant.
Once the door opened, she remained in the elevator for a second staring the metal door. She took a deep breath and got in.
Concrete floor and wall, some dark cell except for the last one. She walked toward the occupied one.
She saw Bucky, her Bucky, lying on the floor. His chest moved up and down calmly. As he perceived her presence, he jolted up. He stared at her. His big blue sparkly eyes gone.
He stood there, she stood outside with just a glass dividing them.
Steve was right, that wasn’t Bucky. That was the Winter Soldier.
“Buck-“ she began talking, resting her hand on the glass in a mere way of letting him know she was there. She let him see the pendant on her wrist.
Bucky glared at her, she saw his lips twitching. She thought he was about to rest his palm on the glass too, but she was wrong.
Bucky began punching the glass with his metal hand.
Heavy punches on the glass made it trembling.
For the first time, she was scared of him. She rationally knew that wasn’t his Bucky, but she also knew that in that moment Bucky was hide in that mix of anger.
“Bucky please stop,” she cried, sliding away from the glass. “Bucky it’s me. I’m your girlfriend. It’s Y/N… your Y/N…”
“Who the hell is Bucky?” He grunted keeping punching the glass.
His smile, one of the things she loved most about him, made her blood boil. It was angry and evil and scaring.
He glared at her while she tried to talk to him.
“Bucky please stop… you have to fight it…”
He didn’t stop.
Panic really started when she noticed a crack in the glass. She lost balance trying to escape.
Her shoulder began to sting again but it was nothing like the panic when she heard the glass breaking.
Bucky’s fists were able to break the glass.
She was now alone.
Alone with the Winter Soldier.
Bucky’s breath was hitched and frantic. His eyes darker than ever. His fist closed, ready to fight. It was almost as he didn’t see her lying there, near his feet.
The bandage Tony applied on her arm, blocked her movements.
She spent the first months of relationship trying to calm Bucky when the Winter Soldier topic came out, but now she was alone with the most dangerous assassin on the planet.
She stood up and stared at him.
“Bucky you know me,” she pleaded.
“You’re my enemy.”
His words made you angry.
As he launched toward her in front of her, she slid on the other side. She hated how well she knew what he was going to do. He explained it to her one night, in their bed.
“I don’t always remember… but they always told me to move directly in front of my victim…”
In that moment she was his victim.
She knew damn well she wasn’t able to fight him alone because he was already stronger than her and, seeing how he easily broke the glass, she thought he was under some other type of serum.
He moved like a shadow, she tried to do the same. Moving with an arm attached to her body was impossible. She was a trained Avenger but he was the love of her life and that made her weak.
He grabbed her and pushed her down on the floor straddling her waist, then he lifted his flesh arm closing his fist. She rolled over just in time, but her legs were still under him. He caged her better and moved her upper body, sliding it on the ground. Her shoulder really hurt and some tears escaped from her eyes.
“You fucking know me Bucky!” She yelled. “Fucking fight it!”
“I don’t know shit.”
In a rush of fortune, she punched his chin. He rolled his eyes but he didn’t move remaining on her body, crushing her.
She lifted his knees kicking him in his crotch. He bent down a little, the tip of his nose touching hers. She felt his weight on her. He groaned as he stood with his upper body again.
Anger and tired of fighting, she caught a glimpse she didn’t like in his eyes. He moved his metal arm like it’s weighted nothing and crushed it on her neck. She felt her breath leaving her body.
His hand pressed more and her face began to shake.
“Buc-“
“Shut up!”
He pressed his thighs more on her, caging her on the floor. His flesh hand kept her arm up on her head while his metal one held her neck. She felt the air leaving her body as the time goes by.
“Y/N!”
Steve’s voice echoed in the room.
Bucky, visibly annoyed by Steve’s voice, removed his hand from her neck and stood up, ready to fight. A shot of air in her throat, breathing now properly. She remained on the floor, as the breath progressively came back.
Steve, followed by Sam and Nat and Tony, immediately launched themself on Bucky.
Nat hit him with an electric shock before kicking him in the shin. Bucky knelt on the floor while Steve and Sam fought to keep him still. Tony, running toward him, attached in his arm a little metal coin. After pushing some buttons in his tablet, Bucky was pulled down again on the floor.
“This disabled his arm… but it’s not permanently,” he looked at her still on the floor, now sitting. She nodded toward Tony.
“Thanks.” He said before completely detaching his arm from his body.
Bucky’s eyes opened shocked.
In those few seconds of calm, Tony shoot him again with another tranquilliser, a tougher one.
The Winter Soldier felt on the floor.
“Let’s leave him here,” Tony said. “He can’t escape the metal door.” He added, pointing at the door.
Everyone gathered around Y/N. She stood, touching her neck feeling Bucky’s hand still on her skin.
“Y/N,” Sam started.
She remained silent, watching Bucky lying on the floor unconscious.
She spent the remaining day in her room, as she didn’t want to get back in her and Bucky’s room.
A knock on her door, around eleven o’clock woke her from his thinking.
“Come in.”
“Hey,” Steve said entering.
“If he’s awake… I don’t want to see him Steve.”
Bucky was indeed awake.
He woke up on the floor, without his left arm. His head banging and his muscles completely sore. A fog in his mind except for one thing.
The absolute horror in her eyes.
The horror he caused.
He knelt on the floor, heavy breath and tears free on his face. He took a look around himself noticing all the cells. His eyes locked on a cell without the glass. Thousand of shattered glass around him, cracking under his knees.
He didn’t remember precisely what he did but he remembered who he attacked.
He heard a bip in the silence of the cells room.
After a couple of minutes the massive metal door opened and Tony, followed by Steve, appeared in front of him.
“Which Bucky am I talking to?” Steve asked.
“Your mom’s name was Sarah…” he looked down replying to his best friend. “What did I do?”
“What you fear the most… he attacked Y/N…”
Steve proceeded to explain everything the Winter Soldier did. He refused to say “you did that” choosing to say “he did that”.
“Pal,” Bucky whispered standing up, shaking from the last traces of the tranquilliser. “I did those things… you don’t need to sugar coating…”
“Right,” Steve said. “We found you getting toward us after the mission but…”
“But it wasn’t me… it was him.”
Tony circled him, he was angry but now with Bucky or at least not fully with Bucky.
He saw how he was avoiding his eyes. Bucky had always knew how much Y/N meant to Tony.
“Stop this bullshit, Barnes,” Tony said as he checked Bucky’s head. “It wasn’t your fault. So you can fucking look me in the eyes.”
“I attacked her… I can’t look at anyone right now… I don’t deserve any of your help.”
Steve finished telling her what Bucky told them in the cell room.
“I know if you don’t want to see him but you shouldn’t give up on him…”
“Do you think I’m giving up on him?” She yelled. “Do you think I’m giving up on bringing back the old Bucky? My boyfriend? The man I love?”
“You didn’t want to see him…”
She stood from her bed but immediately sat back. With her head in her hands, she began crying. “I’m scared Steve…scared for him,” she took a deep breath. “I know what he can do and… I know for a fact that Bucky would never forgive himself…”
Steve’s eyes changed immediately. In that moment he knew for sure she was the right woman for Bucky. She insisted of seeing him right after he shot her, she was with him in the cell and now she was worried about Bucky’s safety first before hers.
“Y/N,” Steve sat in the bed. “I’ve know Bucky since we were kids and I know Bucky suffered a lot but you… you are the only one who handle him… hell I don’t even know if I can’t handle him the way you did,” he stopped and a tear fell from his eye. “He needs you and you need him. I know you’re scared for him and I know he’ll try to avoid you but please… keep him safe.”
She hugged him tightly, crying on his shoulder.
“I wanna see him.”
They both got down to the med floor.
Bucky rested on the bed, an IV in his flesh arm to rehydrate him. Just outside his room Tony, with Sam and Nat, all turned hearing the elevator’s door opening.
Y/N and Steve, visibly still shocked, appeared.
“Is he okay?” She asked Tony.
“He is. Some fluids and his body already washed out the serum.” Tony looked at Y/N’s neck. She covered it with her hand. “You were right, Cap. He had a newer version of the serum through his veins.”
Y/N stared at the door separating them from Bucky. “Can you all leave please? I wanna be with Bucky alone.”
Everyone nodded.
Once she was alone in the corridor, she grabbed the knob and turned it.
The door opened and she entered in the room. First thing she saw was her boyfriend in the bed. He made Tony lowered the curtain, so the room was in a dim light. Once she got near him, he turned quickly his head. She looked down and saw something that made her cry.
Bucky didn’t have his left arm attached to his body. A quick scan in the room and she noticed it on the ground, near the bed.
“Bucky,”
“Don’t… I don’t want that thing ever again.” He said looking at the window.
“Look at me, Buck.” She pleaded him.
“Don’t do this to me. I can’t even imagine what you felt down there… why are you here?”
“Because my boyfriend is here,” she moved toward the bed. “Look at me…please…”
Bucky turned his head. His eyes red and puffy, his lower lips bleeding and his face pale. His eyes back at their colour, but it wasn’t the usually sparky nuance. It was a sad tone of blue, reflecting what he was feeling. His look immediately changed when he saw the handprint, his handprint, on her skin.
“I did that…”
“No you didn’t. He did it, not you.”
“Damn it Y/N… it’s the same thing…”
Bucky’s voice was low, a whisper barely coming out of his mouth. He sat on the bed, removing his IV from his arm.
“What are you doing?” She exclaimed, grabbing his shoulder as he sat too quickly. “Your body needs rest. Stay there.”
“I need to go far away from here,”
“From me? That’s what you meant? Away from me?” She said, pointing his feet on the ground in front of him.
He sat on the edge of the bed. His shirt off, showing bruises and cut. He still didn’t fully looked at her in her eyes, he couldn’t.
He tried to stand and fell on the ground.
She moved quickly to grab him by his flesh arm.
“Don’t touch me.” He yelled crying as human representation of a caged animals.
Bucky felt in a kinda of way like a caged animal.
He spent 70 years locked and used as a weapon, and now he felt like a weapon again seeing the mark on her skin.
She slid away of him, just a bit only to give him some space.
He remained on the floor, crying and sobbing.
“It’s pathetic I know,” he cried.
“It’s not Buck, please let me help you.”
She reached for his flesh arm, he let her do it. Pushing on his feet, he stood and sat back on the bed.
He looked down. She moved toward him and guided his head toward her chest. He rested his forehead on her skin.
She lifted her arm, circling his neck and playing with some locks on his head. Kissing his head, he let out a long and deep breath.
“How could you still want me?” He asked in a whisper.
“Because I love you Bucky Barnes. That’s why.”
That was the first time she said those three words to him. He took a deep breath and began to tremble.
“I love you so much doll. It consumes me and made me happy… so much happy,” he began to hiccup. “I want to be with you but… I don’t know if I can be with you after what I did…”
“You did nothing wrong,” she held his face between her hands, forcing him to look at her. It was the first time he looked at her, really looked. Her eyes were red and puffy like his. Her lower lips trembled a little. She was beautiful.
“That man,” she kissed his lips loving and tenderly. “He wasn’t my boyfriend. He wasn’t the man I love. He was the beast someone created.”
She kissed him more, he crumbled against her. “My boyfriend is the sweetest and kindest man on the planet. He’s brave and honest and gentle. He’s always putting everyone else’s needs in front of his own. He’s treating me like the most important person in the world,”
“It’s because you are…” he delicately interrupted her.
“He looks at me like I hung the moon and stars. He knows me better than anyone else and I know for sure he’d be fighting with his own life for me. That’s my boyfriend and I love him.”
Bucky now was actually crying. Y/N felt her shirt getting wet but she held him there, on her chest letting him hear her heartbeat.
“Stay there,” she kissed him another time.
She circled the bed, getting the arm thrown on the floor.
“Doll,”
“Shut up Buck.”
He snorted for a second.
Once she was again in front of him, she lifted the heavy arm and attached it back on his boyfriend’s shoulder.
“Now you’re complete.” She said as she pulled both of his arm around her waist.
“Tell me everything I,” he looked at her and she crocked her eyebrow. “Tell me everything he did…”
“He shot me after the mission and you already know what he did in the cell.”
“Can I see?”
She nodded.
Detaching herself from him arms, she lifted her shirt remaining with only her bra. On her shoulder there was a patch. She removed it and noticed that the skin was already healing due to a special surgical laser Tony used on you.
He moved closer, with his arm on her back, pulling her against him. He kissed the skin once then another time and again. She rested her chin on his head while he kept kissing her shoulder. His lips moved upward, on her neck. He traced first the handprint and then nipped gently against her.
“Buck,”
“Please I need it.”
“Okay.”
He kept kissing her skin, like his kisses could heal her faster and in a weird way they did.
His hands grabbed her by her thighs, lifting and pulling her on his lap. He groaned a little and she got worried.
“Buck probably it’s not the best time…”
“It’s always the best time if it’s with you on my lap.”
They stayed there, crushing against each other. His skin against his and their heartbeat beating together.
“I love you so much doll,”
“I love you too, Buck. Always and forever. I trust you.”
He cried more on her chest and she let him do it.
She never looked him differently.
He was her world and she kept protecting him from everyone.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ a routine werewolf hunt turns brutal, leaving sam with blood on his hands and far less time than he thought he had to tell you the truth.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ sam winchester x hunter!oc ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 4880 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty with a very soft ending
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ canon-typical violence, werewolf attack, blood and injury, near-death scare, fear of dying, anxiety surrounding failure and abandonment, hurt/comfort, protective sam, platonic dean-and-reader friendship, soft confession, gentle first kiss
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ for the gorgeous @no-ordinary-girl!! 🤭 thank you for continuing to support my writing. you're the absolute best and all the coincidences in this?? we're connected on a whole deeper level baby 😚🩷
˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ request your fanfic ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the thing about hunting, you have learned, is that there’s rarely any warning when a perfectly ordinary day decides to become the worst one of your life.
sometimes there’s a smell—sulfur, damp soil, the sour chemical sting of something that’s been dead long but refuses to stay that way. sometimes the lights flicker or the radio dissolves into static or sam gets that small crease between his eyebrows while reading through a stack of newspaper clippings; the one that makes you put down whatever you’re doing and pay attention.
this morning, there’s nothing.
there’s only a motel room with yellow curtains and a heater that clicks every few minutes without producing much warmth. there’s a half-empty cup of coffee cooling beside your elbow. there’s your paperback folded open across your knees, the pages crowded with underlined sentences and cramped notes in the margins because you can’t seem to read anything without arguing with it a little. there’s dean, standing beside the door with his jacket already on, staring at you as though you have personally offended him by occupying the only chair.
“you know books are supposed to be relaxing, right?” he asks.
you keep your eyes down on the page. “i am relaxed.”
“you wrote three paragraphs beside one sentence.”
“i’m taking notes.”
dean takes a drink from his coffee and glances across the room at sam, who’s sitting at the tiny table beneath the window with his laptop open and several printed maps spread around him. “she’s doing homework for fun again.”
sam doesn’t look up immediately. the corner of his mouth moves first, a quiet little smile he almost manages to hide behind the screen. “leave her alone.”
“i’m not bothering her—i’m concerned. there’s a difference.”
“you tried to take the book away from me ten minutes ago,” you remind him.
“because we have a job.”
“and because you wanted the chair.”
“well, two things can be true.”
you close the book around the receipt you’re using as a bookmark and stand, smoothing your palms over your jeans. dean immediately drops into the chair with the satisfied sigh of a man who has survived a significant hardship. you roll your eyes at him, gathering your hair over one shoulder while you lean closer to the maps. it's long enough now that the ends catch beneath the strap of your camera whenever you forget to move them, dark brown that turns almost black in the motel room’s poor lighting except where your grown-out highlights soften it near the ends. your bangs have reached the awkward stage where they refuse to behave properly, no matter how many times you push them away from your face.
sam reaches across the table without thinking and gently frees one strand caught against the chain of your necklace.
it’s such a small thing. barely anything at all. his fingers don’t even touch your skin, only the moss-green aquamarine pendant you wear every day and the loose piece of hair tangled around it. still, your body notices. horribly. instantly.
“sorry,” he murmurs.
“no, it’s okay.”
his eyes lift to yours for a second, warm and a little uncertain, before he lets the strand fall against your shoulder.
you’ve been in love with sam winchester long enough to recognize the exact shape of your own bad decisions. most of them are tall, soft-spoken, and currently wearing a faded brown hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
you look down at the map before your face can betray you. “so,” you say, forcing your attention toward the red circles sam has drawn around three separate areas of woodland. “we’re sure it’s a werewolf?”
“pretty sure,” sam says. his voice settles into that calmer register he slips into when he’s explaining something, patient without making you feel inexperienced. “three victims within six weeks. same general area, all killed overnight. the police reports blame an animal attack, but the injuries are too consistent. severe trauma to the chest, hearts missing.”
“romantic,” dean grumbles.
you glance toward him. “you eat while we talk about autopsy reports.”
“i contain multitudes.”
“it’s called diabetes and cholesterol. get it checked.”
dean gives you a flat look over the rim of his coffee cup. sam ducks his head, but not quickly enough to hide his laugh.
that sound still catches you off guard sometimes. not because it’s rare exactly, although it’s rarer than it should be. but because you remember how guarded sam was when you first met him. you remember the distance he kept between himself and the rest of the world, even while he’s polite, even while he’s kind. grief sat heavily on him in those first few weeks. guilt did too. you didn’t understand all of it at the time, and you knew better than to pry open wounds he was trying to carry quietly. you only made coffee when he had been staring at the laptop too long. you brought extra food when dean forgot that his brother doesn’t survive exclusively on gas-station snacks and spite. you listened when sam offered pieces of himself in careful increments.
somewhere along the way, you become part of the rhythm.
you’re not born into hunting. there’s no family journal waiting in a locked box beneath your childhood bed, no parent teaching you how to draw a devil’s trap before you know long division. before sam and dean, the most dangerous thing you regularly did was stand on your tiptoes to reach the top shelf in your kitchen rather than finding a chair.
then a spirit followed you home from an abandoned hotel, and sam and dean saved your life, and the world became much larger and stranger than it had any right to be.
you’re supposed to go back to normal afterward.
you tried. for almost two weeks when dean answered the phone at two in the morning and heard you say, “hypothetically, how much salt is too much salt to pour across a doorway?”
you’ve been with them ever since.
“the most recent victim worked at a summer camp,” sam continues, tapping the map. “josh miller. twenty-four. his body hasn’t been found, but his truck was abandoned near the service road.”
“which means he might not be a victim,” you say.
sam nods. “he could’ve been bitten during the first attack.”
“and now he’s hiding somewhere familiar,” dean adds. “isolated property, plenty of places to disappear until sundown. simple enough.”
simple enough. you should know better than to trust those words.
the camp looks harmless in daylight.
the main building sits beyond a cracked wooden sign painted with cheerful yellow letters, surrounded by bare trees and damp earth. a row of cabins stretches toward the edge of the woods, their windows dark, their doors locked. there are faded murals along the dining-hall wall. your camera rests against your chest as you walk, tapping softly against your pendant with every step.
dean notices you taking a picture of the sign.
“seriously?”
“what?”
“you making a scrapbook?”
“yes, dean. i’m going to title this page ‘possible werewolf murder camp.’ i’ll add glitter later.”
“make sure you get my good side.”
“that would require extensive editing.”
he points at you without looking back. “your attitude is getting worse.”
“you’re a bad influence.”
“you’re welcome.”
ahead of you, sam checks the lock on the main building and glances over his shoulder. his hair is falling into his eyes again, slightly too long even by his standards, and the mild exasperation on his face does absolutely nothing to disguise his affection.
“both of you,” he says quietly. “focus.”
“i am focused,” dean says. “i’m focused on how mean she’s gotten since we picked her up.”
you follow them onto the wooden steps. “you begged me to stay after the poltergeist case because i was the only one who remembered to bring a first-aid kit.”
“begged is a strong word.”
“you called me from a gas station and said sam was bleeding on the upholstery.”
“he was!”
sam opens the door after a few seconds with the lock pick, shaking his head. “i’m right here.”
your shoes squeak faintly against the linoleum as you step inside, letting your eyes adjust to the dimness. there are chairs stacked upside down on tables and boxes of craft supplies tucked beneath the serving counter. a bulletin board displays photographs from the previous summer: sunburnt teenagers in matching shirts, children grinning with missing front teeth, counselors posing beside a canoe.
“audry,” dean calls without turning around. “stay where we can see you.”
it shouldn’t bother you. it’s sensible. you’re newer than they are, and dean has a point even when he packages it inside that gruff older-brother tone he’s started using whenever you stray more than ten feet away from him in a dangerous place.
something in your chest tightens anyway. “i know.”
sam pauses in the office doorway and looks back at you. the glance lasts only a moment, but he reads you too easily. “you’re doing fine.”
you lower the camera slightly. “i didn’t say anything.”
“you didn’t have to.”
dean appears from behind the counter with a silver knife in his hand. “nobody thinks you’re doing a bad job, short stack.”
you narrow your eyes. “i’m going to let the werewolf eat you.”
“see? attitude problem.” his voice is teasing, but he waits until you roll your eyes before turning away again.
he knows too. neither of them ever says it directly, this quiet understanding that your fear is rarely about the monster in front of you. it’s about being useful enough to earn your place beside them. capable enough that no one has to regret trusting you. easy enough to keep around.
you look down at your camera, rubbing your thumb against the edge of the screen. your nails are painted a glossy dark green this week, although the polish on your index finger is chipped from forcing open a stubborn ammunition box yesterday. “i just don’t want to be the reason something goes wrong.”
for one second, sam looks as though he wants to say more. something larger than the moment has room for. instead, he reaches out and briefly squeezes your shoulder. “you’re not,” he says. “you won’t be.”
dean straightens near the kitchen door. “found blood.”
the conversation closes around those two words.
you move toward him. the stain is old enough to have darkened against the linoleum, smeared in a broken trail leading toward the back exit. sam crouches to inspect it while dean tests the door.
“lock’s busted,” dean says.
“something left in a hurry,” sam murmurs.
you take a picture of the blood, then another of the damaged frame. the flash briefly fills the room.
for a second, you see something reflected in the narrow glass panel beside the door. a shape. too tall. too close. “sam—”
the door slams inward hard enough to send dean stumbling back. the creature hits him first, a blur of torn clothing and bared teeth, driving him into the counter with enough force to scatter metal trays across the floor. sam’s already moving. he shoves you behind him with one arm, raises the gun in the other, and fires.
the silver bullet catches the werewolf high in the shoulder.
it howls, twisting toward him.
“dean!” sam shouts.
dean recovers before the creature can lunge again. he drives the silver knife upward beneath its ribs and holds on through the violent jerk of its body, his jaw clenched. his other hand braced against its chest. the werewolf shudders. then it collapses heavily against him.
for several seconds, the only sounds in the room are dean’s breathing and the faint metallic rattle of a serving tray still spinning against the floor.
“everyone good?” dean asks.
sam turns immediately. “audrynne?”
“i’m fine.”
your heart is hammering, but you are standing. nothing hurts. you lower the camera carefully, fighting the tremor in your fingers as dean eases the body onto the floor.
“josh miller,” he says after checking the dead man’s face. “guess we found our missing maintenance guy.”
sam keeps his attention on you for another second. “you sure you’re okay?”
you nod. “yeah.”
you want to feel relieved. you almost do. then you look at the camera screen. the photograph you took before the attack is blurred from your sudden movement, washed pale by the flash. dean is visible near the door. sam is partly caught in the edge of the frame. behind them, reflected faintly in the narrow strip of glass, there are two distorted shapes.
your stomach drops. “guys—”
sam hears it in your voice. he turns before you can explain.
the second werewolf comes through the kitchen window. glass explodes across the linoleum. sam reaches for you, but you’re already moving on instinct, shoving both hands hard against his chest as the creature lunges. he stumbles sideways. claws slice through the air where his throat had been.
then pain tears across your ribs. it’s so immediate that your body can’t make sense of it at first. there’s only the impact, sharp and brutal, lifting you partially off your feet before you hit the floor. your camera skids beneath one of the tables. the aquamarine pendant snaps against your collarbone.
somebody shouts your name.
the werewolf is above you for less than a second. its breath is hot and foul against your cheek, its teeth stained red, but then sam fires. once. twice. silver bullets drive it backward. it crashes through the broken window and disappears into the trees outside.
sam drops beside you. “hey—hey, look at me.”
you blink up at him. his face won’t stay clear. the ceiling shifts strangely behind his head. “i’m okay,” the words come out thin and uneven.
sam looks down at your side, and something in his expression changes. not panic. sam is too practiced at turning fear into action while there’s still something he can do. he pulls off his overshirt and presses it firmly against the wound. pain flares so hard that your vision blurs white.
you make a sound you do not mean to make.
“i know,” he says immediately. “i know. i’m sorry.”
dean’s beside him now, blood streaked across his cheek from a shallow cut near his hairline. he looks at your side and swears under his breath.
outside, something crashes through the undergrowth. the second werewolf is running. dean looks toward the broken window, then back at you. every part of him resists leaving. you see it happen in real time: the calculation, the fury, the sick understanding that if the creature gets far enough into the woods, it’ll disappear until the next body turns up.
sam sees it too. “go.”
dean’s eyes snap toward him. “sam—”
“i’ve got her. go.”
“she needs—”
“dean.” sam’s voice is low and firm in a way that leaves no room for argument. one hand presses against your side. the other cradles the back of your head, keeping you still against his knee. “kill it before we lose it. i’ve got her.”
dean looks at you.
you attempt a smile because you know him. because he’s going to hate himself for leaving even when staying would be the wrong choice. “go.”
his jaw tightens. then he grabs the gun, checks the remaining ammunition, and runs through the broken door.
sam shifts carefully, sliding one arm beneath your shoulders. “we’re getting you out of here.”
“sam—”
“don’t talk yet.”
he lifts you into his arms.
you’re small enough that he manages it easily, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, but every step sends a deep tearing ache through your side. you grab the front of his shirt, trying not to cry out. blood has already soaked through the fabric he’s holding against you. it’s warm against your skin, spreading too quickly beneath his hand.
outside, the air is cold and damp. sam lowers himself onto the wooden steps rather than risk carrying you across the uneven ground toward the car alone. he pulls you against his chest, adjusts the pressure on the wound, and looks toward the trees as though he can will dean to return faster.
“stay with me,” he says.
“i’m here.”
“keep looking at me.”
you try.
his face’s turned pale. there’s blood on his hands and along the cuff of his sweatshirt, caught in the lines of his knuckles. your blood. you want to tell him you’re sorry for that. you want to tell him you didn’t mean to make a routine hunt difficult. you should’ve noticed the reflection sooner. you should’ve moved faster. you should’ve listened more carefully instead of letting yourself get distracted by the familiar warmth of his hand on your shoulder.
the thoughts arrive in a frantic, useless rush. “i messed up,” you whisper.
sam’s expression hardens. “no.”
“i should’ve seen it.”
“you did see it.”
“too late.”
“audrynne, stop.” his voice softens almost immediately, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “you saved my life.”
you swallow. the motion hurts for reasons that don’t make sense. “sam—”
“you pushed me out of the way.” his hand tightens behind your shoulder. “so no—you don’t get to do that right now. you don’t get to lie here and convince yourself this happened because you failed some test nobody that didn’t exist.”
the steps beneath you are cold. the woods beyond his shoulder shift in and out of focus. you can hear sam breathing, too fast despite the calmness he’s trying to force into his voice.
you rest your head against his chest. it feels good there.
that’s the strange part. the pain is frightening, and the blood is worse, and somewhere in the distance you hear a gunshot echo between the trees. still, beneath all of it, there is sam. his heartbeat is loud against your ear. his arm holds you close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through both of your clothes. he keeps saying your name quietly, as though each repetition might anchor you inside your own body.
you’ve spent so much time being afraid of being left alone that you almost laugh at the unfairness of it. because you’re not alone. not now. not here.
“it’s perfect,” you murmur.
sam goes still. “what?”
your eyes are heavy. you let them close for one second, then force them open again because he asked you to keep looking at him. “i’m in the arms of my first love.”
his face changes. the fear he’s been holding back present, finally breaking through the careful control. “audrynne.”
“the first person i’ve ever loved,” you continue, the words slipping out softer than you intend. “the person i’ll always love.”
“no.” sam shakes his head immediately. “don’t say it that way.”
his voice cracks, and he looks angry about it, angry at himself, angry at the blood staining his hands, angry at the entire world for requiring this moment from either of you.
“you’re not saying goodbye to me. do you hear me?”
“i just wanted you to know.”
“you can tell me later.”
“sam—”
“later,” he repeats. his eyes shine, but he refuses to look away. “when you’re okay. when dean gets back. when we’re in another disgusting motel room and you’re complaining about the coffee and leaving your books everywhere. you can tell me then.”
your mouth trembles into something that almost becomes a smile. “you hate my books?”
“i don’t hate your books.”
“dean says they’re everywhere.”
“dean leaves socks on the floor. he doesn’t get an opinion.”
a laugh catches painfully in your ribs.
sam bends his head closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. “stay with me.”
you want to. there’re so many things you want all at once. you want to see the relief on dean’s face when he returns and realizes you’re still breathing. you want to finish the book waiting on the motel nightstand. you want to repaint your chipped nail. you want to tell sam that you’ve loved him quietly through every late-night research session, every cup of coffee, every careful moment when his shoulder brushes yours in the impala and neither of you moves away. but mostly, you want to hear what he might say when he’s not terrified.
“i need more time,” sam says, and the words are so raw that they hurt worse than your side. “okay? i need more time with you. you don’t get to say always as if we’re out of it.”
the woods tilt behind him. you try to answer. you’re not sure whether any sound comes out.
the last thing you feel is sam pulling you closer, one bloodstained hand cupping the side of your face while he says your name again and again.
when you wake, the first thing you notice is the heater.
it clicks once. twice. then rattles with the sort of mechanical resentment only found in cheap motels across the continental united states.
the second thing you notice is pain.
it waits beneath the surface for a moment while your body gathers itself, then settles into a deep ache along your ribs. your mouth’s dry, and your limbs feel impossibly heavy, but you’re warm beneath several blankets. clean bandages wrap your side beneath an oversized shirt you recognize as dean’s.
the room is dim. the curtains are closed. the bedside lamp casts a soft yellow circle across the nightstand, illuminating a bottle of water, painkillers, gauze, and your aquamarine pendant laid carefully beside them. the chain is broken. someone has cleaned the stone until its cloudy green surface catches the light again.
your camera rests safely on the table across the room.
sam is on the floor beside the bed. for a second, you only look at him. he’s sitting with his back against the mattress, one arm folded beneath his head where it rests near your hand. at some point, exhaustion must have dragged him under without permission. his hair is mussed from sleep. there’s a dark smudge beneath one eye and a faint streak of dried blood near his wrist that he missed while washing his hands.
you move your fingers carefully. they brush his hair. sam wakes instantly.
his head lifts so fast that he nearly knocks against the edge of the mattress. his eyes find yours, unfocused for half a second, then suddenly clear.
the relief on his face is immediate.
it’s not subtle or guarded or shaped into something easier to survive. it moves through him so openly that you feel your chest tighten around it. he exhales your name and reaches for your hand, holding it between both of his as though he needs the solid proof of you.
“hey,” you whisper.
“hey.” his voice is rough with sleep. “how do you feel?”
“a little terrible.”
sam laughs once, quietly, and closes his eyes for a second. when he opens them again, they are bright. “yeah. that makes sense.”
“where’s dean?”
“getting food. and more bandages. and coffee.” sam rubs his thumb gently across your knuckles. “he killed the other werewolf. got back fast enough to help me get you here.”
you look down toward your side.
“the cut looked worse than it was once we cleaned it,” he adds immediately, reading your worry. “it missed anything major. you lost blood, and you’re going to be sore for a while, but you’re okay. dean stitched it. he said if you start running a fever or the pain gets worse, we’re taking you to a hospital whether you argue with him or not.”
you smile weakly, then notice the folded piece of motel stationery beside the water bottle. the handwriting across it is large and slanted.
don’t do anything stupid while i’m gone!!!
you pick it up with your free hand. “sweet.”
“he was worried.”
“you were worried.”
sam looks down at your joined hands.
quiet stretches between you, gentle but uncertain. memory returns in fragments: the steps outside the camp, his hand pressed against your side, your cheek against his chest. the terrible honesty that slips loose when you think there won’t be time to regret it. heat rises slowly into your face.
“sam,” you say.
“you don’t have to talk about it right now.”
“i think i do.”
his fingers tighten around yours.
you glance toward the broken necklace on the nightstand because looking directly at him feels suddenly impossible. “i’m sorry.”
“for what?”
“for saying all of that while actively bleeding on you.”
a surprised laugh escapes him. it sounds exhausted and fond and a little painful. “you don’t have to apologize for that.”
“i probably could’ve chosen a better moment.”
“maybe.”
you finally look at him. “i meant it.”
the room stills around the words. sam doesn’t answer immediately. he takes his time with anything that matters. he doesn’t reach for the easiest version of the truth. he turns it over first, careful with the edges.
“i know,” he says.
your stomach twists. before the fear can grow teeth, he lifts your hand and presses his mouth gently against your knuckles.
“i meant it too,” he continues. “what i said.”
you watch him quietly.
“i need more time with you.” his gaze moves across your face, hesitant in a way that feels startling after seeing him so certain during the hunt. “not because i’m afraid you’re going to disappear. not only because of that.”
your breath catches.
sam swallows. “i’ve been trying not to want anything i can lose.”
the honesty of it lands softly and hurts anyway.
you know enough about sam’s life to understand what he means. you know the shape of the grief he carries even when he refuses to name it. jess. his mother. the dreams that wake him some nights and leave him staring toward the motel ceiling until morning. loving him has never made you feel entitled to an answer he’s not ready to give, but you understand now that the distance between you has not been empty.
he’s been afraid of crossing it too.
“that’s not really working for me anymore,” he admits.
a smile tugs weakly at your mouth. “because i almost died?”
his expression tightens. “i hated hearing you say goodbye.”
“i wasn’t trying to scare you.”
“you did.”
“i’m sorry.”
sam lowers his gaze. “i should’ve told you before you had to scare the hell out of me.”
you squeeze his hand. “you can tell me now.”
“i love you,” he says softly.
you feel your eyes burn. “i love you too.”
he smiles then, small and almost disbelieving. you’ve seen sam smile hundreds of times by now: reluctant smiles, tired smiles, brief flashes of amusement when dean says something ridiculous. this one feels different.
his eyes drop toward your mouth, then lift again. “can i kiss you?”
you nod.
sam rises carefully from the floor, moving slowly enough that the mattress barely dips when he sits beside you. one hand comes to rest near your shoulder, the other lifts toward your face and pauses for half a second before his fingertips brush your cheek.
the kiss is soft. softer than you expect after everything. his mouth touches yours with careful warmth, restrained by the bandages beneath your shirt and the knowledge that even breathing too deeply hurts. he doesn’t rush it. he kisses you once, then again when you lean toward him, his thumb tracing gently near your jaw.
your hand catches in the front of his shirt. you’ve imagined this too many times. in diner booths while dean flirts with waitresses to get free pie. in the impala with rain running down the windows. in motel rooms where sam sits beside you on the bed and reads your notes in the margins of whatever book you leave behind. none of those imagined kisses feel anything like this one.
this is quieter. better. real enough to frighten you a little.
when sam draws back, he doesn’t move far. his forehead rests carefully against yours, his breath warm near your mouth.
some part of him is still back on the camp steps, holding pressure against a wound and asking you not to leave. you can see it in the way his eyes search your face whenever you shift, checking for pain before you have the chance to hide it.
“sam,” you say gently. “i’m here.”
he nods. it takes him a second to believe you. then he leans forward and presses his mouth against your forehead, holding it there while your fingers close around his wrist.
the broken necklace still waits on the nightstand. your camera rests on the table, scratched but intact. dean’s note sits beside the water bottle in his messy handwriting, a small piece of proof that there will be teasing when he returns and coffee that tastes burned and an argument about whether you’re allowed to walk unassisted to the bathroom. ordinary things. the kind you almost lost before you realize how badly you want them.
sam shifts carefully onto the mattress beside you when you make room, still holding your hand between both of his. he doesn’t let go when the heater starts rattling again. he doesn’t let go when your eyes grow heavy. and this time, when you drift back toward sleep, you know exactly there’s still more time.
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