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warnings: titty fucking, whiny sam, reader has large tits
Sam’s lower lip was in a pout, and he’s been like this all day. If you’re being honest he’s starting to frustrate you. All he’s been is pouting all day. Normally he’s just whining and being annoyingly needy when he wants something but this. This is different.
You are currently sitting on the old creaky motel bed, and he is pouting while he sits on the foot of the bed. He lets out a loud sigh, and you roll your eyes at him.
He is clearly trying to get your attention, and normally you will give him the attention he wants. But this time you want him to use his words.
He looks over at you above his shoulder and pouts at you, and lets out anther loud sigh.
“What Sam?” you finally huff out, and he still doesn’t answer so you roll your eyes and start to get ready for bed.
“No” he says quietly it’s almost so quiet you don’t quite catch it.
“What do you want?”
“You”
“What exactly do you want from me” You ask crossing your arms under your chest making your boobs pop out more.
His eyes flicker to your chest briefly then back you your face.
“Oh” you say realizing what he wants this time he just nods sheepishly with a faint blush on his cheeks.
You roll your eyes but get up and lay down on the bed above the covers.
You motion for him to come closer to you and he quickly takes his pants, and underwear off in one quick motion. His cock springs free large and angry. His tip is already beaded with pre-come fr being so needy ealier.
He positions himself so he is straddling your chest. He quickly takes off your white tank top and throws it somewhere too horny to care where it goes.
He spits directly onto your tits, and rubs it in with his large hands his movements are quick and impatient. As soon as your tits are all covered with his spit he spits on his own hand and starts to rub his cock.
He lets out a satisfied whimper. You love how whiny Sam is because most men are embarrassed with being whiny, but not Sam.
He quickly starts to thrust his cock in between your tits, and he squeezes them together while he thrusts. He lets out out so many little whimpers.
You get wet just hearing him making noise as he fucks your tits.
He quickens his pace as he fucks your tits harder, and the faster his pace is the louder and more needy his sounds get. It is like music to your ears.
“S-so Big” he whines and squeezes your tits harder than before almost painful.
You can tell he is close by the way his hips are stuttering and jerking without the same rhythm as before.
“You close” He can’t talk he just lets out a loud whimper, and nods quickly.
He suddenly pulls his cock from between your tits and slaps it onto your tits. You moan at the sight of it. He starts to jerk off onto your tits. His voice becomes quicker and comes out in pants.
He starts to come all over your tits, and let’s put a string of whimpers and whines as he comes all over your tits.
he finally finishes riding out his orgasm, and get off of you. But not before he admires how your large tits look with his cum all over them.
You hear the door knob start to turn, and sam runs to the bathroom while grabbing his clothes. You quickly get under the covers with sam’s cum still on your tits.
The door opens reveling dean Dean who has a big as smile and an even bigger piece of pie, and most importantly completely oblivious on what just happened moments before he walked in.
Summary: While investigating a string of fairy tale-inspired attacks, you become the next victim of the curse. Dean refuses to accept there's nothing he can do about it.
Pairing: Dean x F.Reader (Hunter) / (Established relationship)
Warnings: Fairy tale stuff, magical sleep/unconsciousness, (really)soft Dean, hurt, comfort, light mention of Dean's deal, softness, too much softness, takes place during Season 3 Episode 5.
Notes: I am watching spn again, bedtime stories gave me this idea and why not do this with my favorite Disney princess?
Word count: 4.3k
“All right, maybe it is fairy tales,” Dean said, staring at the frog sitting in the grass. He still looked unconvinced. “Totally messed-up fairy tales,” he added, pointing at it with two fingers, “but I’ll tell you one thing. There’s no way I’m kissing a damn frog.” You couldn't help smiling.
“The stories follow a script, right?” you said, glancing toward Sam. “You probably don't have to kiss one unless something forces you to.”
“That’s usually how fairy tales work.” Sam nodded toward a house across the street. “Check that out.” He looked toward one of the houses across the street, a lone pumpkin sat on the front porch steps.
“Yeah, it's close to Halloween,” Dean said with a shrug, like that explained everything. Maybe, but still, it felt a little early.
“You remember Cinderella? The pumpkin that turns into a coach? The mice that become horses?” at this point, you were pretty sure he was talking mostly to you. Dean looked like he'd rather wrestle the frog than discuss fairy tales.
“Dude, could you be more gay?” Dean scoffed.
“Dean.” You nudged his arm with yours. “Leave him alone.”
Dean looked at you. “You're taking his side?”
“I'm taking the side of the guy who actually read a book once in his life.” Sam smirked. Dean shot you an affronted look.
“Wow.”
“I'm just saying.”
“You wound me.” You laughed as the three of you headed toward the house.
Sam unlocked the front door. Inside, the place felt abandoned. Too quiet.
You split up, checking the downstairs rooms while Dean and Sam moved further into the house.
The living room was empty.
Dining room too.
Then you heard something, a metallic rattling sound. You immediately headed toward it.
Someone sat on the floor beside the cabinets, handcuffed to one of the drawer handles. You crouched beside her.
“Hey, hey, it's okay.” Sam and Dean appeared a second later. “We're here to help.”
The girl looked relieved once she realized nobody was going to hurt her, the words started spilling out all at once.
Her stepmother had beaten her, locked her in the kitchen, handcuffed her to the drawers, and forced her to clean while the rest of the family went out.
Definitely Cinderella.
While Sam worked on the handcuffs, movement caught your attention.
A little girl appeared on the other side of the hallway, half of her body was visible. She didn't seem to have anything to do with it, but it made sense when you remembered one of the victims mentioned a little girl before.
“Dean,” you called. He was already moving, you watched them disappear through the hallway. Meanwhile, you called 911 while Sam freed the girl and made sure she was okay.
When the police arrived and the victim was being looked after by paramedics, the three of you regrouped outside.
Dean tossed something into the air and caught it. A shiny red apple.
“The kid left this.”
You exchanged a look with Sam. “Snow White,” he nodded.
“So what? We look for a…”
“A girl in a deep sleep,” you completed.
“Of course,” Dean said. You couldn't help smiling at his tone. May not be the easiest task but at least you knew what you were looking for.
“We should start with hospitals,” Sam said and the three of you headed back toward the Impala.
You had barely made it halfway across the street when a wave of dizziness hit without warning. The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet for a second, forcing you to slow down.
Dean noticed immediately.
“You okay?”
You blinked hard. “Yeah. Just... tired,” you admitted quietly. “Head hurts.” Dean’s brows pulled together.
“You should’ve said something.”
“It literally just started.” He still didn't look convinced, not even a little persuaded by your explanation. You reached the Impala and leaned against the door. “Would you mind dropping me at the motel first?”
He exchanged a look with Sam. “We're heading to the hospital anyway.”
“I think I just need sleep.” He hesitated. You could see him weighing the options in his head, so you reached out and touched his hand. “Dean,” you said softly. “Really. I'm okay.”
The second your fingers brushed his, his hand turned instinctively, fitting against yours perfectly like it had done a hundred times before.
“Okay,” he finally said.
You knew that tone. It wasn't agreement. It was Dean deciding to worry about it later.
His hand lingered around yours for a second longer before he finally let go.
“…Call me if anything feels weird.”
Sam snorts from the door.
“A little late for that warning, don't you think?” Dean shot him a look but didn't argue.
You squeezed his hand once. “I'll be here when you get back.”
Dean leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Better be.”
Then he and Sam were gone.
The motel felt strangely empty after that.
You tried distracting yourself for a while. Flipped through channels. Sat on the edge of the bed. Eventually, you stretched out on top of the covers, hoping sleep might take care of the headache.
It didn't.
The headache hadn't gotten any better. If anything, the longer you lay there, the worse it felt. Not painful enough to alarm you, just enough to keep you from relaxing.
You closed your eyes, hoping a few minutes of rest would help, when a faint sound drifted through the silence.
Your eyes snapped toward the door.
Nothing.
Just the television and the hum of the motel's air conditioner. You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it when the sound came again.
It wasn't loud enough to make out. Not a voice, not exactly. Still, something about it settled deep in your chest, tugging at you with quiet persistence.
Without really deciding to, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The movement felt natural, automatic. One moment you were in bed, the next you were reaching for the door.
The cold night air greeted you outside, but it did little to clear your thoughts. Across the road, beyond a chain-link fence and a row of storage units, stood an old warehouse you'd barely noticed earlier that day.
Now it was impossible to look anywhere else.
You crossed the empty lot without hesitation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning whispered that this was a bad idea. That you should turn around. Call Dean. Go back to the motel.
Instead, you kept walking.
The warehouse door stood slightly open, swaying gently in the wind. You pushed it wider and stepped inside. Moonlight spilled through broken windows, illuminating dust-covered machinery and forgotten crates. At first, nothing seemed unusual.
Then you saw it.
A spinning wheel sat alone in the center of the room.
Your stomach dropped.
Every instinct screamed at you to leave. To run. To do anything except take another step forward, but you did.
“No...” you whispered.
The word sounded weak, swallowed by the darkness around you.
That was the worst part. You could still think. Still understand exactly what was happening. Somewhere between leaving the motel and walking through that door, you'd lost control of everything except your own awareness.
The spinning wheel waited silently beneath the moonlight.
Waiting for you.
Your hand lifted despite every effort to stop it. Your arm trembled as you fought against the movement, and for a brief second, you thought you might actually win.
Then your fingertip brushed the spindle.
A sharp sting shot through your hand and the room vanished.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Dean knew something was wrong before Sam even finished parking the Impala.
The hospital had given them answers, just not the ones they needed. They knew who was behind the attacks now. They knew why people were ending up trapped inside twisted fairy tales. What they didn't know was how to stop it.
None of that mattered the second your call went to voicemail.
“She’s not answering.” Dean was already trying again as he crossed the motel parking lot.
Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened.
“She said she'd stay here. She's probably asleep.” Sam didn't answer right away. By the time he stepped into the room, Dean was already inside.
The television was still playing quietly in the corner. The blankets were tangled on the bed like you'd only gotten up a few minutes ago.
But you were gone. You wouldn't just leave. Not after the conversation they'd had before he left.
“The door was open, Sam.” His eyes swept across the room, searching for anything out of place. Your bag was still there. So was your jacket.
Enough to tell him you'd walked out in a hurry. Or hadn't had much choice.
Dean was moving out of the room before the thought had even finished forming.
Outside, his gaze traveled across the empty lot until it landed on the warehouse across the road.
The same warehouse they'd driven past earlier.
The same warehouse sitting there now like it had been waiting all along.
“Sam.” That was all he said. Sam followed his gaze and immediately understood.
They ran.
The metal door slammed against the wall when Dean shoved it open. For a second, everything seemed frozen.
Dust hung in the air, illuminated by moonlight spilling through the broken windows.
The spinning wheel standing in the center of the room, and you, lying motionless beside it.
Dean crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey, come on.”
Nothing.
His hands shook as he reached for your pulse. The relief nearly knocked the breath out of him when he found it.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Wake up.”
Behind him, Sam had gone completely silent. Dean looked over his shoulder, his brother was staring at the spinning wheel.
"What?" Sam swallowed but didn't answer. A knot immediately formed in Dean's stomach. “Sam?”
“Sleeping Beauty.” Dean frowned.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“In the original Grimm story, the princess pricks her finger on a spindle and falls asleep.” Dean glanced at you. Then looked back at Sam.
“How do we wake her?” Sam hesitated. Which was answer enough. “Sam.”
“We can’t. She’s sleeping for a hundred years.” The words seemed to echo through the warehouse. Dean just stared at him.
“A hundred years?”
“Dean, listen—”
“No.”
“Dean—”
“No.” His voice cracked. “Fix it.”
“We don't even know if—”
“FIX IT, SAM.” Silence settled between them. After a moment, Sam nodded.
"We need to get back to the hospital."Dean didn't answer. He simply slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully into his arms.
Like letting go wasn't an option.
Hours had passed.
Sam had gone to talk to the doctor after putting together a theory, leaving Dean alone with you.
The hospital room had grown darker as the afternoon slipped into evening. Nurses came and went, the muted television murmured from the corner, and at some point Dean had stopped paying attention to any of it.
You hadn’t moved once.
And Dean hated it.
Sitting beside your bed, he rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at you again, as if maybe this time something would be different.
It never was.
The worst part was how normal you looked.
No pain. No fear. No sign that anything was wrong.
Just asleep.
Dean's fingers tightened around yours.
“Y'know,” he muttered after a while, staring at the floor, “I'm starting to think fairy tales suck.”
The joke landed exactly as well as expected.
Silence.
A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before fading again. His gaze drifted back to you. “I should've stayed.” Guilt sat ugly in his chest. “I’m supposed to protect you.”
Then Dean exhaled slowly and leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. Another against your hair. And finally, a lingering kiss against your lips.
Not magical. Just Dean.
When he pulled back, something shifted. A tiny movement. So small he almost thought he'd imagined it.
Dean froze.
“Sweetheart?” Your brows furrowed slightly before your eyes slowly opened.
Dean laughed out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to breaking. You blinked up at him slowly.
“...Dean?”
“Yeah.” He immediately leaned closer. “Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here.”
“What happened?” Dean let out a short laugh.
“You know what? Better if you don’t ask.” Before you could ask anything else, the door opened. Sam walked in carrying a folder under one arm. He took one look at you sitting awake in bed and stopped cold.
“Sammy,” Dean said proudly, pointing at you. “Awake.”
“I can see that.” He smiled.
You looked between them. “Now can you tell me what happened?” Sam pulled a chair closer.
“The doctor finally let his daughter go.” Your confusion must have shown immediately because he continued. “The girl who's been in a coma all these years? She was the one causing all of this. The fairy tales, the curses... everything.”
You slowly remembered pieces of the case.
“The doctor?” Sam nodded.
“He couldn't let her go. Not after everything that happened. But once he finally did...” He gestured toward you. “The curse ended.”
“That's rough,” you murmured.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly.
The silence lasted all of three seconds before Dean ruined it.
“So, Sleeping Beauty, huh?” He teased, you groaned immediately.
“Shut up. I would've preferred the Disney version.”
“The Disney version?” Dean asked.
“Way more romantic.” You explained.
“More romantic? I literally kissed you and you woke up.”
“You did?” He looked at you offended. You were unconscious back then, so you really had no clue.
“I did.”
“Dean,” Sam interrupted, fighting a smile, “that's not actually why she woke up.” Dean pointed at him without even looking.
“Nobody asked.”
“In the story, the curse ends because enough time passes.” Dean rolled his eyes.
“Okay, and the hundred years are up?”
“Dean—”
“Looks like all that fairy tale knowledge finally failed you, Sammy.” Sam sighed. You laughed, and for the first time since he'd found you lying beside that spinning wheel, Dean felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen.
Without thinking, he reached for your hand again.
This time when your fingers curled around his, he didn't let go.
The next few days were... weird.
Not bad.
Just different.
Dean didn't let you out of his sight. At all.
At first, you thought he was being subtle about it. Then you woke up one morning to find him already awake, sitting in the chair across from the bed with a lore book open in his lap. He was supposedly reading, but his eyes kept drifting over the top of the pages.
"...Dean." He didn't even blink.
"What?"
"Why are you staring at me?"
"I'm not."
"You literally are." Dean shrugged.
"Could be dead asleep for a hundred years right now. Think I earned staring privileges." You just stared at him.
From the other bed, Sam snorted loudly into his coffee.
"Oh my God." Dean tossed a balled-up napkin at him without looking.
"Shut up."
But it kept happening.
Dean hovering. Constantly.
A hand at your back whenever you walked somewhere. Asking if you were tired. Checking if you felt dizzy. Reaching out to touch your arm for no reason at all, like he needed proof you were actually there.
A few days later, you were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table with a book in your hands when Dean came through the door carrying groceries.
The second he spotted you, something in his shoulders relaxed.
It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you did.
Dean caught you watching him and immediately frowned.
"...What?"
Your expression softened. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Checking if I'm alive." Dean scoffed.
"That's exactly how I’d say it."
From the couch, Sam spoke without even looking up from his book. "But it’s true."
Dean pointed at him.
"Nobody asked you." Sam grinned.
"You almost went full Disney prince in that hospital, man." Dean looked genuinely horrified.
"Do not call me that."
"You said it yourself. You kissed her and she woke up." A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Dean's head immediately turned toward you and there it was again.
That tiny shift in his expression.
Like hearing you laugh settled something inside him.
Sam noticed it too. Which meant Dean was completely doomed.
The teasing faded after that, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Dean set the groceries on the counter while Bobby disappeared somewhere deeper into the house, muttering about beer.
Then Dean spoke again.
"You scared me." The words came out quieter than expected.
You looked up.
Dean wasn't joking this time.
"I mean it." His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. "When Sam said you'd be asleep forever..."
The sentence died there. You knew Dean well enough to hear the rest anyway.
The fear.
The helplessness.
The thought of losing someone and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
Dean looked away for a second, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I hated that."
Something in your chest ached.
Dean usually hid behind jokes when things got too real. If he was saying this out loud, it meant he'd been carrying it around ever since.
You stood from the table and crossed the kitchen. Dean's eyes followed you automatically. They always did.
When you stopped in front of him, your hands slid into the front of his jacket, lightly gripping the fabric.
"You know," you said softly, "hovering isn't actually preventing supernatural attacks." Dean hummed. "Counterpoint: maybe it is." That earned a smile.
Then, more quietly, you added, "I'm okay."
Dean looked at you for a long moment. Like he was trying very hard to believe it.
Finally, his hand lifted and brushed gently along your cheek before settling at the back of your neck.
"I know." But even as he said it, he tugged you a little closer. Instinctively. And you let him.
Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead.
From the couch, Sam immediately made a disgusted noise. "Okay. That's enough."
Without taking his eyes off you, Dean flipped him off. You laughed against Dean's shoulder.
For a moment, Dean closed his eyes. Just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of you standing there.
The steady rise and fall of your breathing. The simple fact that you were alive.
Still here.
And for now, that was enough.
Dean had been unbearably clingy all day.
Not that you minded.
At some point, while Bobby and Sam were out getting supplies, Dean had somehow ended up stretched across the couch with you trapped between him and the cushions, one arm around your waist while he half-watched some old western on TV.
His fingers absentmindedly played with the ends of your hair. Every few minutes, he pressed a kiss somewhere random, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn't help himself.
You finally laughed softly after the fourth forehead kiss in ten minutes.
"What?" Dean looked down at you innocently.
"What what?"
"You're being weirdly affectionate today." Dean scoffed.
"Weirdly? Rude."
You smiled, shaking your head. "Sorry, sorry."
Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously before leaning down to steal another kiss anyway. You laughed against his lips this time.
"You know," you said once he finally pulled back a little, "Sam was right."
Dean groaned instantly. "Those are words nobody should ever say."
You ignored him completely.
"You kind of are my Prince Charming."
"Sweetheart, I'm way hotter than Prince Charming." You rolled your eyes. Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You seen me? C'mon."
You laughed, fingers idly playing with the collar of his flannel.
"Well... Prince Phillip was really handsome."
Dean froze.
"...Excuse me?" You nodded seriously.
"He was always my crush when I was little." Dean stared at you in disbelief.
"Cartoon prince?"
"He had the sword, Dean."
"I have guns."
"That's true."
"And a car."
"Also true."
"And better hair." You pretended to think about it. Dean immediately grabbed your jaw, turning your face toward him. "Wrong answer. Try again."
By now, you were grinning. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're hotter."
"Maybe?"
"Don't push it." Dean squinted at you before lightly biting your cheek in retaliation.
"Dean!"
"That's what you get." You were still laughing when he kissed you again, slower this time. His hand slid up your side, settling comfortably at your waist while his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your sweater.
When he pulled back, you were still smiling at him.
Dean tried very hard to look unaffected.
"...You liked that." He immediately looked away.
"Liked what?"
"The Prince Charming thing."
"I did not."
"You did."
"Nope." You watched him for another second, amused. Dean suddenly seemed very interested in whatever was happening on the television, which told you everything.
Your expression softened. "You know," you murmured quietly, "I don't actually care about the prince part."
That got his attention.
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.
"If I got to choose..." Your thumb traced softly over the little crease near his mouth. "I'd still pick you." His breath caught.
Tiny.
Barely noticeable.
But you saw it anyway. God, you always saw right through him.
"Yeah?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Even over Prince Phillip."
"Good choice." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. "I really like having you here."
The honesty in his voice almost hurt.
Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed three quick kisses against his lips. Dean smiled helplessly into the last one.
"See?" you whispered against his mouth. "Definitely my prince." He rolled his eyes, but the faint blush creeping into his ears ruined the effect.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
The TV droned quietly in the background while Dean's arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against your side. Neither of you were really paying attention to the movie anymore.
"You went somewhere."
You blinked. "Hm?"
Dean tilted his head slightly, studying your face.
"That look." His thumb brushed lightly against your hip. You looked down at the fabric of his flannel between your fingers.
"...I just wish this could stay like this." The words were quiet, but Dean felt them anyway. Because he knew exactly what you meant.
Not the couch.
Not the teasing.
Not the kisses.
Him.
His hand stilled for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, thumb brushing gently against your side again.
"Hey..." You shook your head quickly.
"No, it's okay." But your voice already sounded thinner. "I just..." You exhaled shakily. "I hate that every good moment turns into me remembering..." You couldn't finish it.
You didn't need to.
Dean's chest tightened painfully.
Less than a year.
He hated that you had to carry that around now. Hated that every happy moment came with a countdown neither of you could ignore.
His hand slid up slowly, fingers curling gently beneath your chin until you looked at him. Your eyes were already glossy.
Dean swore it wrecked him every single time.
"Don't do this to yourself." You laughed softly, but it broke in the middle.
"How do I not?" Dean didn't have an answer. Because honestly, he didn't know either.
So instead, he brushed his thumb beneath your eye, careful and gentle, like touching something fragile. "I'm here right now," he said quietly.
You nodded. "I know."
But the sadness remained. Dean could still see it.
So he leaned down and kissed you softly. Not trying to distract you. Not trying to fix it. Just reminding you he was here.
You kissed him back immediately, almost desperately, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you pulled him closer.
Dean paused for a second when he realized what you were doing. Trying to stop thinking. Trying to drown it all out before it settled in your chest again. His heart ached at that, but he didn't call attention to it or make you explain.
He simply slid a hand into your hair and kissed you back slowly, carefully, giving you something else to hold onto for a little while.
When you finally pulled apart, you kept your forehead resting against his, eyes closed and breathing uneven.
"C'mere." Dean pressed one last kiss near the corner of your mouth before pulling you fully into his lap.
You went willingly, arms wrapping around his neck. He held you there for a moment, content just to have you close.
"You know what I think?" You hummed quietly. "I think we should go get dinner before Sammy eats everything." A tiny smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Dean noticed immediately and looked absurdly pleased about it.
"There she is." You shook your head.
"You always do that."
"Do what?"
"Change the subject when things get sad." Dean thought about it for a second.
"...Yeah."
You finally opened your eyes and looked at him properly again.
For once, there wasn't a joke ready on his tongue.
"I can't fix this one, sweetheart." The words were quiet. Honest. "I can't." You swallowed hard. Dean's hand settled against your cheek. "But I can get you pancakes at midnight." A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Dean smiled immediately. "And pie," he added. "Very important."
You leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time.
"I love you," you whispered against his lips. Dean's expression softened instantly.
"Love you too." Then, because he physically couldn't leave a serious moment alone for too long. "Now c'mon, princess. Your prince is starving."
You groaned. "You ruined it."
Dean grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood and pulled you up with him.
"Yeah," he said, lacing his fingers through yours. "But you're still smiling."
thinking about riding Sam's abs. you're desperately humping against him, panties off leaving a slick trail from where your pussy drags again his hard abs.
your clit brushes against his skin, your hips rolling whilst you moan loudly in pleasure chasing after relief. Sam is leaning back against the headboard, heavy lidded eyes filled with lust fixed on you while his hands grip your hips tightly guiding your movements.
the dents between his abs catch your clit in the most delicious way causing you to whine, hole clenching around nothing. Sam leans up and takes your tits in his mouth causing you to arch into him while he sucks on one, nipple growing hard. your lips part in lust, head tipping back at the sensation. He gives the other one attention as well before biting along them, sharp stinging bites that have you grinding harder while dark marks of claim bloom across your tits.
you've already cum two times, with a loud cry of his name tits bouncing in his face. your juices run down his abdomen, pooling onto the bedsheets below.
he takes two fingers and swipes at the wetness gathered on his abs, slick stretching between his fingers in strings before he pops them in his mouth and his eyes flutter with a guttural groan leaving him.
Sam's hands grip your thighs tightly, spreading you wide on the edge of the bed bed as his mouth devours you with no hesitation. His tongue drags flat and slow over your folds, tasting every inch before targeting your clit directly. He sucks it between his lips harshly, flicking the sensitive nub with precise strokes that make your hips buck upward.
“FUCK SAM!” you moan loudly, and he groans against your pussy causing vibrations through you.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling it hard as you feel your first orgasm burst through you. Your thighs clamp around his head as you ride out your orgasm, but Sam doesn't ease up.
“S-Sam too much” you gasp out, but of course he doesn’t stop he holds you down tighter with his big arms.
He groans against your pussy, the vibration sending vibrations up your spine. His tongue circles your wet entrance, and then pushes inside, fucking you with insistent thrusts while his thumb rubs tight circles on your swollen clit.
He continues to fuck you with his tongue not slowing down his movements. He starts to rub your clit faster, and you squirm under him but his large biceps makes sure you stay down, and don’t go anywhere or close your legs.
The second orgasm builds faster. Your thighs tremble under his strong arms as Sam keeps licking, and sucking harder now. Drawing out every sound from you out. He doesn’t stop not even when you're gasping his name. You don’t even get to calm down from the second orgasm.
He slides two thick fingers into your dripping wet pussy, curling them against that spot inside you that makes you see stars. His mouth never leaves your clit. He pumps his fingers inside you at a harsh pace. Your cum is still flowing out along with your juices, and his tongue Kees lapping at the slick mess you're making.
Your third orgasm hits you like a brick, your back arching off the bed as you cry out his name with tears down your face. Sam holds you down with one strong arm across your hips, not letting you escape the relentless attention. He keeps fucking you with his two fingers through your third orgasm.
He adds a third finger, stretching you open, and making you scream out in pleasure. All while he sucks your clit with a face rhythmic pace. Your juices are coating his chin and drip down onto the white sheets.
"Sam— too much," you cry, but he just growls in response, the sound is muffled against your oversensitive pussy.
He shifts his tongue flattening to grind on your clit as his fingers thrust deeper, and faster if that’s even possible.
It doesn’t take long for your fourth orgasm rips through you, your walls clenching around his fingers so hard it almost hurts you. Your vision blurs, and your body twitches uncontrollably as you ride it out.
Sam pulls back just enough to watch your face, and his lips are covered with your arousal.
"One more," he murmurs, but you know this is a lie.
Not even a second later his tongue is spearing into your pussy while his fingers work your clit quick. He doesn't stop when you come again for the fifth time. He actually laughs because how quick you came. He pushes your legs open when you try to close them. He forces them apart with his strong arms, and burying his face deeper, licking and sucking through your orgasm as you cry out.
Your sixth orgasm leaves you sobbing with pleasure, and now your tears are flowing freely as your body shakes uncontrollably.
Sam keeps going, and his tongue is lapping up every drop you give, fingers never stopping their harsh pace inside you.
By the type your seventh orgasm hits you your complete jelly, voice gone from screaming out. He finally slows, and presses gentle kisses on your inner thighs before returning to your clit with soft licks that still make you cry out.
He gently places two fingers back inside, curling them as he gets out one final release from you that leaves you limp.
Sam lifts his head at last, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes soft with gentleness despite his earlier relentless efforts. He watches you come down, and recover from him. Your pussy is throbbing swollen and slick with your juice and his spit.
He stands up, and stares down at you smiling gently. You weakly smile back, but it quickly drops as he drops his jeans.
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SUMMARY: Ben knows he looks good in his suit but he didn’t think you would react this way.
WARNINGS: blow job, hair pulling, cuming down throat, pet names (sweetheart)
Ben had just got back from some mission in other state something about supes and blah blah blah you weren’t listening to a single word he said.
Instead you were staring hard. Painfully obviously staring. Mostly at the bulge in his pants. I mean who wouldn’t? You thought to yourself as best as you could even with the Ben’s dick filling your mind.
Ben noticed and snapped his fingers in yourself “ya even listening sweetheart?” He says with that dumb smirk on his face that says is ego is being filled even more just by you looking at him.
“Yeah! Sorry. I was just lost in thought.” You say, which was stupid now Ben’s gonna ask about what and you’re gonna have to tell him his dick and-
“It’s fine sweetheart you can look at me you know? My dick been missin ya anyway.” He says looking down at this obvious hard dick.
You sink to your knees fast. And damn if it didn’t look even bigger closer up. He watches as you unbuckle his belt his dumb smirk not leaving his face you would punch him if you weren’t about to suck his dick.
You unbuckle his belt getting his jeans down half way before slowly pulling his boxers down letting his dick jump out. Hard and dripping at the tip. Fuck. It was bigger than you thought.
His smirk grows watching you try and fit it in your mouth. Ben knew he was big he had been told it by everyone woman he fucked.
You finally get it in your mouth without gagging too much. You slowly move your head back and forth sucking hard. Ben growls, letting his head fall back as his hand came up to push your head down more.
You gag at the movement hitting his hand away as tears fill the cover of your eyes. “Come on sweetheart. Gonna make me cum fast doing all that.” He says, pulling your hair softly to let you know he’s getting close.
You gag slightly as you feel his thick cum full the back of your throat fast trying to swallow as much as you can.
He groans pulling your head back. “Didn’t know my suit got me free blow jobs.”
And there it was. Ben was still an asshole even if you just let him cum down your throat. Fuck. You love him.
🪦: I’ve been binge watching the boys so enjoy this little soldier boy smut
Thinking about edging Sam after a bad hunt as your way to punish him for a stupid call he made ( 18+ )
The motel room door clicked shut behind them—her hand steady on the lock, her breath even. Sam dropped the knife into the sink with a clatter and braced his palms against the counter, head hanging between his shoulders. Every muscle burned. Every nerve was frayed raw.
The hunt hadn’t turned out like it should have. He tried so hard, and still failed.
She didn’t say a word. Just stepped close behind him, pressing a soft kiss between his shoulder blades before stripping his blood-stained flannel away from his body, followed by his dark undershirt. But she didn’t stop there.
Her fingers hooking into the waistband of Sam’s jeans, tugging until the button popped free. The zipper hissed down, slow and deliberate. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move, didn’t protest. Her hands were warm against his hips, pushing denim and cotton down his thighs until they pooled at his ankles. He hadn’t realised he’d moved to help her slide the fabric off of his feet until they were gone.
Leaving him naked as she turned him around to face her.
Then her palms flattened against his chest, guiding him backwards until his knees hit the mattress.
He sank onto the bed, legs spread, heart hammering. She climbed onto the bed and manoeuvred behind him. Her denim-clad legs spread, allowing ample room for his body to settle between them, as she guided Sam back so that his back was pressed against her chest.
Her careful fingers traced the line of his cock, already half-hard from adrenaline and exhaustion, and the sheer relief of her touch.
Sam exhaled sharply through his nose as her fingers curled around him, her grip firm but unhurried. The first stroke dragged a groan from his throat, his hips twitching forward instinctively—only for her free hand to clamp down on his thigh. "No," she murmured, lips brushing the shell of his ear, placing a kiss there. "You don’t get to move." Her thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing precum in slow, deliberate circles, and Sam shuddered, his fingers digging into the mattress.
She worked him with a rhythm that was maddeningly inconsistent—long, languid pulls followed by abrupt pauses where her hand went still, her breath warm against his shoulder. Every time his breathing hitched, every time his muscles tensed in anticipation, she’d ease off, leaving him gasping. "Baby, please," he managed, the word cracking halfway through. She hummed, amused, and tightened her grip just enough to make him suck in a breath. "Please, what?" Her voice was honey-sweet, taunting, quiet.
Sam’s head dropped back against her shoulder, his pulse rabbiting under his skin. "Fuck—just let me—"
"Let you what?" she interrupted, her fingers slowing to a torturous crawl. "Come? You think you’ve earned that?" Her other hand reached around his body, sliding up his chest, fingertips brushing the hollow of his throat. "After the shit you pulled tonight? Charging in like some fucking martyr? When I told you we’d find a better way?" Sam swallowed hard, his cock throbbing in her grasp. "I had to," he gritted out. She laughed, low and dark, and twisted her wrist on the next stroke, her nails grazing the sensitive underside. "I don’t want to hear that bullshit."
The denial was methodical. Every time he edged too close, her grip vanished entirely, leaving him bucking into empty air, his body coiled tight as a spring. Sweat beaded along his spine, his thighs trembling.
By the fifth time he’d been refused the ability to spill over the edge, his voice had dissolved into ragged, broken sounds he wasn’t aware he was capable of making—whimpers, half-formed pleas, his head lolling from side to side. "God, please—" His hips jerked, desperate, but she cracked her open palm against his thigh so sharp the noise of it echoed throughout the entire room.
"Look at you," she mused, mouth pressed to his ear. "Big, bad Sam Winchester. Reduced to a pathetic mess."
Just the way the words left her mouth told Sam that five denied orgasms was nothing. She showed no sign of letting up anytime soon, unfortunate for him.
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a/n: i have no idea what this is. the idea came into my head and i wrote it in about ten minutes. i could develop it into a full fic but i don't have the effort to bother, so enjoy whatever this is. Debating starting a taglist but alas i don't think i write enough to justify one.
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✶ sam loves burying his face on the crook of your neck, he fits perfectly. and he can smell your scent which is a plus
✶ he yearns for the feeling of his hands on your waist, and wrapping his arms around you and just pulling you onto him
✶ every morning, like a ritual after waking up, you and sam just stay there on the bed, holding each other, exchanging smiles and quiet chuckles
✶ he likes being the little spoon sometimes as well, when he can feel your warmth against his back as he intertwines his hands with yours, placing soft kisses to your knuckles
✶ sam has held you so much that he now needs it. he can't go too long without holding you, cuddling you, touching you. he will go nuts without it, even though he tries to keep it cool and not miss you tooooo much
⋆˚꩜ first time posting my work here, first time writing for sam, pls tell me what y'all think ꔫ ࣪ ˖ ♡ reblogs appreciated !
⏾⋆.˚ who gets them almost killed but makes it worth it
ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ get your compatibility reading ; support my work .ᐟ
♈︎ 𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you kick the door open before he finishes counting
๋࣭ ⭑ dean is mid-whisper, telling you to wait for his signal, and you’re already inside with a flashlight and the confidence of someone who has never respected a haunted threshold in your life. he almost has a heart attack chasing after you, but then you tackle the monster before it gets him, and suddenly he’s furious, breathless, and unfortunately impressed.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you volunteer as bait way too fast
๋࣭ ⭑ sam says, “we need to think this through,” and you say, “great, i’ll distract it,” which makes his soul leave his body. you nearly get both of you killed because patience is apparently not in the room, but you also buy him exactly enough time to finish the ritual. he lectures you after. you do not listen. he knows.
♉︎ 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖗𝖚𝖘
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you refuse to leave because “the job isn’t done”
๋࣭ ⭑ dean is trying to drag you out of a house that is actively collapsing, and you’re standing there stubborn as hell because the ghost’s bones are still in the basement. he’s yelling, you’re yelling, the ceiling is falling in, and somehow you’re right. annoying. heroic. terrible for his blood pressure.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you touch the cursed object because it “felt important”
๋࣭ ⭑ you know better. sam knows you know better. and yet there you are, holding the antique locket with both hands because your instincts told you it mattered. yes, it wakes the spirit. yes, sam looks betrayed. but also yes, it gives him the missing piece of the case, so now he has to be mad and grateful. tragic for him.
♊︎ 𝖌𝖊𝖒𝖎𝖓𝖎
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you start talking to the monster
๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you to stay quiet, and you immediately begin psychological warfare with whatever is crawling out of the dark. somehow, you insult it, distract it, confuse it, and make dean miss his shot because he’s too busy staring at you like, “are you flirting with it?” maybe. a little. but it works.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you improvise a fake identity no one asked for
๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a clean cover story. you ruin it with one sentence. now you’re apparently newlyweds, cult survivors, and part-time antique appraisers, depending on who asks. it nearly blows the case wide open, but your chaotic lying gets the witness to overshare everything. sam hates that it worked. hates it deeply.
♋︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊𝖗
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you go back for the victim
๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you the building isn’t safe, and you look at him with those soft, devastating eyes before running back inside anyway because someone is still crying for help. he’s furious in that very specific way that means terrified. you almost get trapped, but you save the kid, and dean can’t even yell properly afterward because his hands are shaking.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you trust your gut over the lore
๋࣭ ⭑ the books say one thing, your heart says another, and sam is visibly suffering because he wants evidence, not vibes. unfortunately, your vibes are correct. you follow the emotional pattern of the haunting before the facts catch up, and it almost gets messy, but you find the truth first. sam apologizes.
♌︎ 𝖑𝖊𝖔
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make yourself the distraction
๋࣭ ⭑ you step into the middle of the room and basically dare the monster to look at anyone else. dean is horrified and turned on, which is a deeply inconvenient combination in a life-or-death situation. you almost get thrown through a wall, but you keep every eye on you long enough for him to finish the job. afterward, he calls you insane. lovingly.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you perform under pressure a little too well
๋࣭ ⭑ sam needs a distraction, and you give him a whole dramatic production. loud voice, confident smile, full commitment. it’s effective, yes, but also wildly risky because now the entire room is watching you, including the thing with teeth. sam saves you at the last second and then gives you the most exhausted, fond look in human history.
♍︎ 𝖛𝖎𝖗𝖌𝖔
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you notice the clue and immediately follow it alone
๋࣭ ⭑ dean turns around for three seconds and you’re gone because you found dust patterns, weird symbols, or a suspicious draft no one else clocked. he is pissed. deeply. but then your “little theory” turns out to be the entire case, and now he has to admit you’re brilliant while still yelling about you wandering off.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you correct the ritual mid-crisis
๋࣭ ⭑ sam is chanting, everything is shaking, dean is yelling somewhere, and you have the audacity to go, “wrong pronunciation”. he looks at you like this is the worst possible time for notes, but you’re right. obviously. you nearly get both of you thrown across the room, but the corrected ritual works, and sam is never emotionally recovering from your competence.
♎︎ 𝖑𝖎𝖇𝖗𝖆
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you charm the wrong person beautifully
๋࣭ ⭑ dean says, “don’t flirt with the suspect,” and you hear, “be unforgettable.” now the vampire is smiling at you, dean is clenching his jaw, and the situation is spiraling in a very pretty direction. you almost become dinner, but you get the confession, the address, and dean acting jealous while claiming he is “just focused on the case”... sure.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to negotiate with something evil
๋࣭ ⭑ sam says it won’t listen. you say everyone listens if you say the right thing. horrible logic. weirdly effective. you talk long enough to delay the attack, but also long enough for the demon to get interested in you personally, which is less ideal. sam pulls you out of it, furious and impressed in equal measure.
♏︎ 𝖘𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖕𝖎𝖔
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the danger because you know it’s hiding something
๋࣭ ⭑ dean tells you not to go down the hallway, and you give him that look that says you already know the hallway is important. he hates that look. you almost get ambushed because you absolutely walked into a trap on purpose, but you also expose the real threat before it can reach him.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you let the monster think it has you
๋࣭ ⭑ sam hates your plans because they always involve getting too close to the edge and smiling while you do it. you let the thing corner you, let it talk, let it reveal too much. it works, but sam looks ten years older by the time he gets you out. he doesn’t yell. worse. he goes quiet. devastating.
♐︎ 𝖘𝖆𝖌𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you press the cursed button
๋࣭ ⭑ there is always a button. a lever. a door. a weird little box with ominous carvings. dean says, “don’t touch that,” and baby, your hand is already moving. does it unleash something horrible? yes. does it also reveal the hidden chamber with the bones? also yes. dean is so mad he could kiss you or throw you in the trunk. undecided.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you take the “shortcut”
๋࣭ ⭑ sam has a map. you have confidence. this is where the problem begins. your shortcut leads straight into danger, but it also gets you to the victim before the monster can finish the job. sam is panting, glaring, and muttering your name like a prayer and a complaint.
♑︎ 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖗𝖎𝖈𝖔𝖗𝖓
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you make the hard call before he can
๋࣭ ⭑ dean wants to protect everyone, including you, including people who don’t deserve it, including himself least of all. you see the ugly choice first and take it. it nearly gets you killed because you don’t ask permission, but it saves the hunt from going worse. dean hates how cold it looked. hates more that he understands.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you ignore the emotional risk and go tactical
๋࣭ ⭑ sam is still weighing the moral consequences, and you’re already moving because the window is closing. you almost get hurt making the efficient choice, but you stop the monster before it reaches anyone else. sam argues with you afterward because he has feelings about methods. you argue back because you have results. delicious tension.
♒︎ 𝖆𝖖𝖚𝖆𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ your plan makes no sense until it saves everyone
๋࣭ ⭑ dean asks what you’re doing, and you say, “trust me,” which is his least favorite sentence in any language. your plan is weird, risky, and not explained until after the explosion. yes, he almost dies of stress. yes, it works perfectly. he spends the ride home calling you a menace while absolutely respecting the hell out of you.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you solve it sideways
๋࣭ ⭑ sam is looking at the lore. you’re looking at the pattern no one else noticed. then you do something wildly unconventional and nearly get dragged into another dimension, casually, because apparently that’s how your brain works. sam is horrified. fascinated. furious that he didn’t think of it first.
♓︎ 𝖕𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖊𝖘
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 ⭑ you follow the crying ghost
๋࣭ ⭑ dean says it’s bait. you say it sounds sad. he stares at you like you are the reason hunters should have insurance. you follow it anyway, and yes, it almost gets ugly, but your softness leads you to the truth of the haunting faster than violence would have. dean still yells. gently, though.
𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐚𝐦 ⭑ you try to save what might not be saveable
๋࣭ ⭑ sam knows that look on your face. the one that says you’re about to choose compassion over safety. he tries to stop you, but you’re already reaching for the lost soul, the cursed kid, the monster that used to be human. it nearly destroys you. but sometimes, somehow, you’re right to try. and sam remembers why he loves that about you.
lowdown ☆ soldier boy discovers a deeply effective way to ruin your ability to form a coherent sentence. butcher discovers a deeply effective way to ruin everything else.
ride or die ☆ soldier boy x reader ( f )
miles ☆ 2574 ride style ☆ smut!!
danger on the trail ☆ explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, overstimulation, dirty talk, praise, pet names, hair-pulling, thigh-gripping, light restraint, possessive behavior, soldier boy being smug beyond reason, accidental supe yeeting
liv's log ☆ ya'll are getting fed. you're welcome 🤒
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“jesus fucking christ, ben.”
your voice breaks around his name, which is humiliating enough without the low sound of satisfaction that answers it.
morning has been trying to happen outside the room for a while now. thin light slips through the blinds in pale, uneven lines, catching the heap of discarded clothes on the floor, the belt hanging half-off the chair, one boot abandoned near the edge of the bed like it made an attempt at escape and failed.
somewhere beyond the walls, the safehouse has started waking in pieces—pipes knocking, footsteps passing faintly down the hall, a cupboard opening and closing in the kitchen. none of it matters. not with soldier boy between your thighs, committed to making sure you never contribute a useful thought to society again.
he’s been down there for what feels like forever and somehow not long enough. the sheets are pulled over his head and shoulders, turning him into a broad, shifting shape beneath the fabric. you can feel every movement—the slow drag of his tongue, the press of his stubble against your sensitive skin, the way his big hands hold your thighs open to prevent you from closing them.
you fist the pillow above your head, back arching when he licks a slow, filthy stripe from your entrance up to your clit and sucks gently.
the wet heat of his mouth is obscene.
he groans against you like he’s the one getting devoured, the vibration shooting straight up your spine.
“ben—” you gasp, hips twitching.
he doesn’t answer with words. instead he slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his tongue flicks fast and relentless over your clit. the dual sensation makes your toes curl.
you bite your lip hard enough to sting, trying not to moan too loud, but it’s useless. the sound slips out anyway, breathy and broken. under the covers he makes another low, satisfied noise. he’s fucking enjoying this. you can tell by the way he keeps pressing closer, nose buried against you, breathing you in like he can’t get enough. his shoulders shift as he works you open, fingers thrusting slow and deep while his mouth stays glued to your clit, sucking and licking in a rhythm that has your thighs trembling around his head.
“you taste so fucking good in the morning,” he mutters, voice muffled under the sheet. he drags his tongue through your folds again slowly, collecting every drop of wetness. “could stay here all goddamn day.”
you reach down blindly and grip his hair through the fabric, tugging. just enough to tell him you’re losing your mind. he chuckles darkly and rewards you by sliding a third finger inside, stretching you open while his tongue circles your clit faster.
your legs shake harder. the coil in your stomach winds tighter with every wet stroke, every curl of his fingers against that spot that makes sparks explode behind your eyes.
you’re panting now, chest heaving, free hand clutching at the sheets beside you.
he senses it. soldier boy already knows exactly when you’re about to fall apart. he doubles down, sucking your clit between his lips and humming while his fingers fuck you deeper, faster, slick sounds filling the quiet room.
your body tips over the edge with an ugly, breathless gasp you barely manage to bury against the back of your wrist. every muscle draws tight at once, then breaks apart beneath the force of it. the sheets twist under your fingers. your head pushes back into the pillow. your legs clamp around his shoulders before you remember that breathing is generally considered useful.
ben keeps you there through it.
not stopping. not letting you squirm away even as you’re twitching and oversensitive, he keeps licking slow, lazy stripes through your soaked folds, fingers still buried inside you. gentle now, but insistent. like he’s not ready to let the moment end.
“ben… fuck, i can’t—” your voice is wrecked.
his mouth brushes your thigh once more.
“you can,” he answers, voice rough and smug under the covers. “give me one more, baby. i’m not done with you yet.”
you stare at the ceiling, hair messy against the pillow, chest rising hard beneath the shirt you never bothered pulling off. “you are so incredibly pleased with yourself right now.”
he pushes the sheet back just enough to look up at you. his hair is a mess, lips shiny and swollen, eyes dark with pure hunger. the sight alone makes your stomach flip. he looks like he’s having the time of his life down there, cheeks flushed, stubble wet with you.
“you say that like i didn’t earn it.”
you let your hand fall over your face. “i hate you.”
“no, you don’t.”
he presses one last open-mouthed kiss to your soaked folds before crawling up just enough to rest his chin on your lower stomach. the sheet pools around his shoulders now, revealing the broad expanse of his back, the thick muscle shifting as he settles between your legs again.
you peek at him from beneath your arm, still trying to catch your breath. your body feels liquid, humming, but the ache is building again under his gaze. soldier boy looks up at you through his lashes, green eyes dark and heavy, lips glistening with your release. he looks obscene. beautiful. entirely too proud of himself.
he turns his head and presses a slow kiss to the inside of your left thigh. his stubble scrapes gently against the sensitive skin, sending a shiver racing up your spine. then another kiss, higher this time, closer to where you’re still throbbing and slick. his rough thumbs stroke soothing circles on the backs of your thighs, holding you open for him, keeping you exposed.
you can’t look away.
his eyes stay locked on yours the entire time, watching every flutter of your lashes, every small twitch of your mouth. it feels more intimate than it should—the way he studies your face while his mouth worships your skin. like he’s memorizing how you fall apart for him.
“ben…” you whisper.
he answers by dragging his tongue in one long, slow stripe up your inner thigh, tasting the mess he’s already made of you. then he dips lower again, nose brushing just above your clit as he kisses the crease where your thigh meets your body. his breath is hot against your soaked center.
you feel yourself clench around nothing, aching for more.
finally, he lowers his mouth again. this time it’s gentler. almost reverent. his tongue slides through your folds in one smooth, unhurried drag, collecting the fresh wetness that’s leaked out of you since your first orgasm.
he groans quietly.
his thumbs keep stroking your thighs, rough pads pressing into soft skin, grounding you while his mouth works you open again.
you let out a shaky breath, fingers threading back into his hair. he hums in approval and pushes his tongue inside you.
the sensation is overwhelming in its softness. he fucks you with his tongue in slow, deep strokes—pushing in, curling slightly, dragging back out. wet, filthy sounds fill the room as he laps at you, savoring every drop. his nose nudges against your clit with every forward thrust, giving you just enough friction to make your hips twitch.
“fuck, ben…” you moan softly.
his eyes flick up to yours again. they’re half-lidded, drunk on the taste of you. he holds the eye contact as he pulls his tongue out and replaces it with two thick fingers, sliding them in easily. then his mouth returns to your clit, licking slow, broad circles around the swollen bundle of nerves. the combination is devastating.
he doesn’t rush. every movement feels luxurious. his fingers pump in and out of you in a steady rhythm while his tongue traces lazy patterns over your clit—circling, flicking, then pressing flat and dragging up. every time your breathing hitches, he adjusts, finding the exact angle that makes your thighs start to tremble again.
you’re so wet it’s embarrassing. you can hear it. the slick glide of his fingers, the obscene sounds of his mouth devouring you.
your arousal coats his chin. drips down toward the sheets. soldier boy doesn’t seem to mind. if anything, it makes him more eager. he groans deeply when a fresh rush of wetness meets his tongue, like the taste of you is driving him insane.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against your pussy, voice thick. “give it to me, baby. let me feel you gush.”
his words send heat flooding through you. you roll your hips against his face, chasing the building pleasure. he lets you use him, eyes never leaving yours, watching with dark satisfaction as you start to lose control again.
his free hand slides up your body, pushing your shirt higher until he can palm one of your breasts, rolling your nipple between rough fingers. the added stimulation makes you cry out softly, back arching. the floorboards creak in the hallway. he pinches lightly, then soothes with his thumb, all while his mouth stays working between your legs.
you’re trembling harder now. the second orgasm is building slower than the first but deeper—a heavy, coiling heat low in your belly that threatens to drown you. your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging harder. soldier boy moans in response, the vibration making your toes curl.
he curls his fingers inside you again, stroking that perfect spot with every thrust. his tongue flicks faster over your clit, matching the rhythm of his hand. the floorboard outside the bedroom door creaks a second time. closer. you can feel yourself getting wetter, slick sounds growing louder as your body prepares to give him exactly what he wants.
“ben—fuck, i’m close again,” you pant, voice breaking.
he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he presses closer, burying his face deeper between your thighs. his shoulders flex as he works you harder, fingers pumping faster, tongue relentless. his groans are constant. low and hungry, like he’s getting off just from the way you’re falling apart on his mouth.
your thighs start shaking uncontrollably around his head. your breathing turns ragged. the pleasure coils tighter and tighter until it feels almost unbearable. you’re right there— right on the razor’s edge, muscles locking up, vision starting to blur at the edges—BANG BANG BANG!
the sound tears through the room hard enough to punch every thought clean out of your head.
you jolt.
not gracefully. not in any way your body will forgive once the adrenaline wears off. one second, you’re hovering right on the edge of something devastating, fingers twisted in soldier boy’s hair, every muscle pulled tight around the promise of release. the next, panic fires through you on instinct and your legs clamp shut around his shoulders before shoving outward with considerably more force than either of you expects.
the sheet shifts violently.
the mattress jerks beneath you.
soldier boy disappears.
there’s a heavy thud beside the bed, followed by a silence so complete it feels medically concerning.
your eyes widen. your chest is still rising too fast, skin flushed, legs trembling from an orgasm you were approximately three seconds away from having before the universe decided you had experienced enough joy for one morning.
outside the door, butcher speaks with infuriating calm. “need you in the kitchen, love. five minutes.”
you stare at the empty space between your thighs where ben’s head had been moments ago.
then you lean cautiously over the side of the mattress.
soldier boy is on the floor. actually on the floor. one broad shoulder is pressed against the rug. the sheet has followed him halfway down and is now tangled around his waist in a undignified knot. his hair’s wrecked, mouth still wet, expression blank with the pure disbelief of a man who has survived bullets, explosions, decades of torture, and the collapse of several governments only to be thrown out of bed by a startled woman with questionable reflexes.
for one horrible second, neither of you speaks.
his eyes lift slowly to yours. “what… the fuck?”
you wince, still breathing hard, thighs trembling from the ruined orgasm. soldier boy is sprawled on the floor like a disgruntled greek god who just got kicked out of olympus. the sheet is barely covering his hips, doing nothing to hide the very obvious, very angry erection curving against his stomach.
“i panicked!” you whisper-shout, sitting up on your elbows. “butcher knocked like he was trying to break the damn door down.”
soldier boy pushes up on one elbow, glaring at you with pure betrayal. “you threw me.”
“i didn’t throw you.” you try, but it sounds weak even to your own ears.
he completely ignores you. “with your legs. i was two seconds from making you come so hard you’d forget your own name and you launched me like i was a fucking football.”
“you’re the one with super strength! how was i supposed to know i could actually move you?”
“i was distracted,” he growls, gesturing sharply at his glistening chin and the very obvious evidence of how thoroughly he’d been enjoying himself. “my face was buried in your pussy.”
your face burns despite the fact that modesty left this room a long time ago. “yes, benjamin. i was there.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
“oh, please. you survived.”
“barely.”
you stare at him. “you’re bulletproof.”
“not the point.”
outside the room, butcher’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. soldier boy pushes himself upright with the offended dignity of a man attempting to pretend he didn’t just get launched—nay, yeeted—off a mattress in nothing but a tangled sheet. he stands, muttering under his breath while he searches for his clothes.
you bite the inside of your cheek. “you know, training really has paid off.”
his head turns slowly. “don’t.”
“hips first,” you continue, unable to stop yourself. “shoulder follows. fist last. apparently, legs are also very effective.”
“keep talking.”
“maybe tomorrow we can work on your balance.”
he catches his shorts from the floor and drags them on with an irritated movement. “you caught me off guard.”
“grandma at bingo all over again.”
his eyes narrow. “you think this is funny?”
you look at the sheet still hanging crookedly from the bed, then at his wrecked hair. “a little.”
“unbelievable,” he mutters, bending to retrieve his shirt. “my girl throws me off the goddamn bed seconds away from seeing heaven, and thinks it’s funny.”
the words pass so naturally beneath the rest of his complaining that you almost miss them. your mouth parts, but he’s already pulling his shirt over his head, too busy being insulted by the entire morning to notice the silence that follows. by the time his face emerges again, you have rearranged your expression into something far safer.
“butcher’s waiting,” you remind him.
he looks at you for a beat. then he steps back toward the bed.
“ben.”
“relax.”
one hand catches the back of your neck. he kisses you before you can argue, rough and unhurried enough to make your breath catch. the taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, warm and indecent, and the smug bastard knows exactly what he’s doing when he deepens the kiss for one lingering second before pulling away.
his thumb brushes the edge of your jaw. “we’re evening the score later.”
then he walks out, leaving you flushed, disheveled, and staring after him while butcher calls your name from the kitchen again.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ a too-friendly little town keeps stranding couples for sacrifice, so dean decides the obvious solution is pretending you’re together—which would be easier if it didn’t feel so natural.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 1310 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ fluff
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ canon-typical case danger, fake dating, scarecrow monster, mild violence, flirting, banter, almost-feelings
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the town is too cute, which almost makes everything worse. white fences, flower boxes, a tiny main street with a diner that sells pie by the slice and a mechanic who smiles too hard when dean pulls the impala into the shop.
there are pumpkins stacked outside the grocery store even though halloween passed two weeks ago, and everyone waves at you with this shiny, neighborly cheer that makes your skin itch.
it’s the kind of place where people say things like we take care of our own and somehow make it sound less like a promise and more like a threat.
dean clocks it before you even reach the motel.
“couples,” he says, leaning over the hood of the impala while the mechanic pokes around under it with the world’s fakest concerned face. “all the missing people were couples. newlyweds, honeymooners, road-trippers. car trouble. small-town hospitality. then poof.”
you glance toward the garage office, where the mechanic’s wife is watching you through the blinds with a coffee mug held near her mouth and not a single sip taken. “so they’re sabotaging cars.”
“yep.”
“and feeding people to whatever’s in the orchard.”
“probably.”
“great. very rural.”
dean’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay sharp. “which means we need bait.”
you already know what he’s going to say before he says it. worse, he knows that you know. the grin spreads slow and smug across his face, all dangerous charm and bad ideas, and you hate that your stomach reacts before your brain can file a complaint.
“no,” you say.
“i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
“my face is handsome and innocent.”
“your face is about to suggest we pretend to be a couple.”
he points at you, delighted. “see? this is why we work.”
you stare at him.
he leans closer, lowering his voice just enough that the mechanic can still see the shape of intimacy without hearing the words. “come on. little hand-holding, little sweet-talking, maybe you call me honey if the mood strikes—”
“i’m not calling you honey.”
“baby?”
“absolutely not.”
“snookums?”
you almost smile. “i will leave you here to get sacrificed.”
“hot. committed to the role already.”
the mechanic comes back wiping his hands on a rag that looks cleaner than any rag should coming from a garage. “looks like you folks might be stuck here overnight.”
dean’s expression changes instantly. warmer. easier. he slides an arm around your shoulders, as if the weight of him tucked close to your side is something your body has always known how to make room for.
“that so?” he asks, disappointed in a way that is almost convincing. “well, damn. guess that ruins the anniversary plans.”
you blink. anniversary.
right. you turn into him because if he wants a show, you can give him one. your hand lands on his chest, fingers spreading over the worn softness of his shirt, and you feel him inhale under your palm. almost nothing. but there.
“it’s okay,” you say, looking up at him with your sweetest, deadliest smile. “we’ll make our own fun.”
dean’s eyes flick down to yours.
the mechanic clears his throat.
you win.
by sundown, the entire town thinks you and dean are married, or engaged, or disgustingly in love depending on who you ask—because dean keeps changing the story just to annoy you. at the diner, he tells the waitress you met during a bar fight. at the motel, he says you proposed after saving him from drugs, which earns him a kick under the check-in counter hard enough to make his smile twitch. later, walking down the quiet road toward the orchard, he holds your hand because people are still watching from their porches, and you tell yourself that is all it is.
his palm is warm and rough against yours, fingers lacing too easily. every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckle, casual in a way that makes you want to accuse him of doing it on purpose. the worst part is he isn’t even talking that much now. the case has settled over him, sharpening the edges of his attention, but the fake closeness stays. shoulder bumping yours. hand firm around yours. his body angling slightly ahead when the road darkens.
“you’re quiet,” you comment.
he hums, “thinking.”
“dangerous.”
“about us.”
your heart trips.
then he adds, “our fake marriage. i think we need a dog.”
you exhale through your nose, trying not to laugh. “you’re insufferable.”
“and yet, you married me.”
“fake married.”
“vows are vows.”
the orchard rises ahead, black against the fading sky, rows of trees scratching at the air. the sweetness of rotting apples thickens with every step, and beneath it there’s something older—wet earth and old blood. your grip tightens around dean’s before you can stop it.
his teasing drops immediately. “hey,” he murmurs. “you good?”
he says it softly, and that’s a problem, because there’s no audience, no performance… just dean, close enough that his breath warms your temple, looking at you like your answer matters more than the thing waiting between the trees.
“yeah,” you say. “i’m good.”
he nods once, but he doesn’t let go.
the town makes its move near the scarecrow post, of course. three men come out with shotguns, the mechanic among them, all apologetic smiles and dead eyes, saying things about tradition and harvest and how you seem like such a nice couple.
dean keeps himself between you and the guns, mouth running because fear and fury both turn into sarcasm on his tongue.
“hate to break it to you,” he says, backing up with you toward the field, “but our relationship is actually in a really fragile place right now. sacrificing us would be super insensitive.”
you elbow him. “dean.”
“what? communication is important.”
then the scarecrow moves. not creaks. not falls. it moves—wooden limbs snapping loose, burlap head twisting toward you, black pits where eyes should be. the townies scatter fast, cowards underneath all that civic pride, and dean shoves you behind him for half a second before you shove back because you are not decorative bait, thank you very much.
“dude,” dean blurts, staring up at the thing as it lurches out of the dirt, “you’re fugly”.
“focus,” you snap, grabbing the kerosene from his bag.
“i am focused. on how ugly he is.”
the fight is messy and fast. you duck under a swinging arm that smashes into an apple tree hard enough to split bark. dean fires salt rounds that barely slow it down, and somewhere between the shouting and the panic, he grabs your wrist and yanks you out of reach with such hard, automatic terror that it punches through all the fake feelings.
you burn the scarecrow together.
flame catches straw, then burlap, then whatever old evil is stitched into the thing. it screams in a voice made of dry leaves and bone, collapsing into the dirt while the orchard glows orange around you. dean stands beside you, breathing hard, soot on his cheek, hand still wrapped around yours.
the town is quiet now.
you look down at your joined hands. so does he.
“guess we can get a divorce now,” you say, because if you don’t make a joke, you might say something honest and ruin both your lives.
dean’s smile comes slow, but it doesn’t reach all the way. “nah,” he says, voice rougher than usual. “we survived a sacrifice. pretty sure that’s legally binding.”
you laugh, soft and breathless, and the sound shakes more than you want it to. his thumb brushes your knuckle again, not for the town, not for the case, not for anyone hiding behind curtains.
you should pull away. you don’t. and when you finally walk back toward the impala, your hand still in his, the pretend part feels a little too far behind you to reach.
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Like most outlandish ideas, this one bloomed over spilled whiskey at a bar.
It was loud. The ever-amplifying chatter of people blended together with the increased volume of classic rock. If you sniffed a little too hard you’d be able to smell the regret that permeated the room. Bodies collided on the dance floor like tectonic plates.
You and Dean are sequestered in a corner, underneath a soft glowing light. It shines down on him. From your spot across from him, you’re able to see the way the alcohol had tinted his cheeks pink. The rosy hue makes him look so much more beautiful.
He’s fiddling with a straw wrapper absentmindedly. His fingers fold the paper into shapes you couldn’t recognize. But that didn’t matter. He was currently in one of those rare moods that allowed him to let his guard down, lips loose and comfortable.
“Y’know you’re the only girl I’ve ever… been scared of losing?” Though his voice comes out quiet, the booming noise of the building doesn’t drown him out.
Your heart does a little trick in your chest. It fills with a mixture of admiration and slight confusion. Dean was known to get a little sappy when he was drunk. Usually, those moments didn’t consist of talking points for a heart-to-heart. But this one does.
The chill of the glass seeps into your skin. Condensation trickles down the sides, dampening your fingers. You set it down and turn your full attention to him.
“Never had anyone like you, sweetheart.” He hums low in his throat. “Wanna keep you forever.”
A soft laugh leaves your lips. The alcohol makes you feel weightless but his words make you feel like you’re flying. “Forever?”
Dean looks into your eyes, viridian irises glowing beneath the light. A big grin spreads across his face, a little crooked because of his intoxicated state.
“Why don’t we just get married?”
The hustle and bustle of the bar comes to a complete stop.
Your pulse skips as the breath in your lungs gets stuck. Those were words you’d never expect the mighty Dean Winchester to say.
With wide eyes, you gape at him. Not even sure what to say next—or if you could say anything.
His grin doesn’t falter. “C’mon, baby. Been together f’so long. There’s a sparkle in his eyes that tell you he’s thought of this before. “Saw a little chapel down the road.”
“Dean—“
“Just say yes.” He grins, perfect smile on display. “Nobody’ll know.”
It’s only then do you see what he was making. The paper straw had been folded to resemble a ring. Dean’s warm hand gently touches yours, looking up at you for your response. The paper ring settles frozen at your ring finger.
Were you really going to consider this?
Sneaking away into a chapel to get married? In the Dead of night?
It’s Dean. Of course you were.
“Yes.” you breathe, laughter bubbling up in your throat. “Okay. Let’s… god, let’s get married!”
“That’s my girl.”
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WARNINGS: angst. canon-typical violence. mentions of suicide. my obsessive love for this man. thank you amy lee for writing tourniquet.
“Dean.”
He hums absentmindedly, his chest rumbling under you, the sound hoarse and drained. Your hand tightens on his clean pajama shirt, the torn pieces of his old flannel long gone and burned along with all your other bloody clothes.
Sam lays on the bed next to yours, all three of you too exhausted and shaken by the terrible night to even attempt to sleep in separate rooms—Dean would get angsty not having an eye on Sammy, you’d wake up at the mere suggestion of noise filtering through the thin drywall, and Sam would inevitably end up knocking on your door because he “had a bad dream, and just wanted to make sure–you know.”
You do. So Dean rented a room with two queens and you all shuffled quietly inside, taking turns scrubbing your skin raw in the shower and patching each other up, fingers still trembling and faces still colorless.
You squirm, your throat tightening, making Dean hiss as you accidentally push your shoulder against the gauze around his ribs. Like a broken film reel, it all comes back to you.
The darkness engulfing you, the faint hint of moonlight through the thick forest canopy, the sudden crack of branches. The beast, foam-covered fangs and blood-dripping claws, bursting from the bushes. The smell of wet fur, corroding sulfur, and death.
Now in slow motion: The beast pouncing on you, its putrid breath just inches away from your face, Dean pushing you out of the way. Dean being shoved down to the ground, the crack of his skull against a rock, gashes on his chest and canines on his arm.
Sam yelling, Dean grunting, you screaming. Your gun in your hand, your unhesitating finger on the trigger, the thump of the monster’s body against the ground. Blood, so much fucking blood. Spilling from the back of Dean’s head and drenching his shirt and spluttering from his mouth.
Dean’s eyes slowly closing as you held onto his body with tears streaming down your face, begging him to stay awake, to stay with you. Sammy trying to stop the bleeding as best as he could, eyes glossed over and breath shallow, fingers slippery with his brother’s gushing life source.
Dragging Dean back to the Impala, your hand firmly wrapped around his wrist, the throb of his pulse against your palm the only thing keeping you sane. Dean’s pale face as you stitched the worst gashes as best as you could under the glow of Baby’s headlights, his chest barely moving, his lips dry and motionless—no silly teasing or stubborn reassurances, only silence. Eternal silence.
“Dean,” you repeat, because you can feel him slipping away. Probably the pain killers you forced down his throat.
“Hm?” His arm around your waist tightens as much as it can, still so faint, his whole body weak like it’s never been before. It feels fundamentally wrong, like someone ripped out your spine and still expected you to keep walking straight.
“If you die—” The room pauses. The scratch of Sam’s book pages freeze and Dean stops breathing, even the TV signal drops out. You continue with a shaky voice, your eyes burning again. “If you die, then I have nothing.”
You keep your head on his chest, not daring to look into those beautiful green eyes that almost shut down forever tonight. The first tear slides down your cheekbone and falls onto Dean’s shirt, being swallowed by the fabric.
“What are you—?”
“You have Sam, and you have Bobby, and you’re resilient. You can afford to lose me.” A growl vibrates on the back of his throat, and you know he’s about to protest. You don’t give him enough time. “I can’t lose you, Dean. Without you, I have nothing. You’re my whole world, and if you’re gone, then I’m gone too.”
“Sweetheart…”
“No.” You try to sound firm and level-headed, it comes out pathetic and psychotic. Just like that, you’re back in the woods, holding onto Dean’s limp body as tremors seize your body, crying like a little baby. “Listen to me, Dean Winchester. If you die, I die as well. I can’t live without you, I simply won’t do it. So if you think you’re saving me by putting yourself in the way of danger, if you think that dying for me is some kind of sacrificial noble act you’re supposed to perform—you’d just be killing us both.”
The implications are loud, the silence is louder.
Dean’s heart thumps against his ribcage so hard that you can feel it against your temple, and you cling onto the sound, the throbbing reassurance that he’s alive. That he’s here, with you, and that you haven’t been left unanchored to wander the depthless shadows of the universe without a star to orbit.
“Don’t say shit like that, baby.”
“I’m serious, Dean.” If the tears weren’t enough of a clue, the way your voice shatters is. You’re not being dramatic, you’re not shellshocked, you’re being completely fucking earnest. There's enough thin scars on your wrists to prove so.“There’s no me if there’s no you. So don’t kill us, please.”
‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙
Two months later, Sammy dies for the first time. A year after that, you’re forced to watch as he and Bobby dig up Dean’s grave. Not a day later, the barrel is between your lips—Dean’s silver colt, one last frigid kiss.
Just like back then, your finger on the trigger is unhesitating.
If you’re gone, then I’m gone too.
NOTES: i'm sorry? i'm really fucking sad at the moment, so i wrote this in an hour last night. kinda don't wanna live anymore, YAY. back on my emo shit hell yeah. dean winchester i would bleed myself dry for you<3
