SPN, VCR was set for S1 E1

It should have made you feel ashamed; guilty, even. You were putting your family at risk. You had been for weeks. The Turn had brought out the worst in humanity. Rapists, murderers, plunderers. You had heard at least one story of each every single run into the city you made. 

You despised the city, even before the world went to shit. You had grown up in the woods. Being from a small no-name town meant sometimes it was necessary to find your own food. You helped your dad with a small garden, helped him hunt. You took over doing both when the car accident took his leg. Your mom had split when you were a toddler, so your dad was everything. You made sure he knew that by stepping up when the time came for you to care for him. 

You had made sure everything he needed was packed before grabbing anything of your own. The two of you had left to meet up with your aunt and two uncles in the mountains. The further from strangers you were, the better. Family came first. 

That’s why the tree bark scraping your back while eight inches of redneck from a nearby camp slammed into your pussy should have made you feel all sorts of bad. 

Daryl was everything your father had told you to stay away from, but when you stumbled across one another while tracking the same deer, you felt drawn to him in a way that was unfamiliar. He had slung several insults at you that you had boomeranged with some clever ones of your own. You had relented that day, retreating toward your own camp with a watchful eye over your shoulder to ensure you weren’t followed. 

You met him twice more after that. He never seemed to hunt in the same area, which made sense. It also meant that you were bound to run into one another again. It was the second meeting when it changed. He was more tense and you could sense something was different. Even after only a couple of chance encounters, you didn’t feel threatened. So, you did what any girl in your situation would do. 

You offered him a blow job. 

Given your current position, he had obviously accepted. The two of you met up regularly now to “destress.” You never really found time for conversation but you knew two things for certain: 

Daryl Dixon was an excellent hunter. 

Daryl Dixon knew how to fuck.  

“Right there! Fuck, harder!” You clawed at his shoulders, angling your knees outward while your ankles remained locked against his ass. The angle pulled him deeper, his tip pressing even harder against that delicious spot inside you. 

As per usual, you were utterly bare. Daryl had an obsession with being able to touch every inch of your skin. Licking, biting, kissing with an eagerness that made you feel worshiped. He would leave marks that— like your abused cunt— pleasantly ached for a couple of days, only leaving you yearning for the next encounter. 

Daryl, on the other hand, remained clothed. You had never seen more than his cock and a patch of his lower stomach. It was odd and he had snapped at you to stop being a nosey bitch when you had questioned. If it hadn’t been for the shame you could see in those striking blue eyes, things might have gone much differently. You had yet to bring it up again. 

“Takin’ me so well. Can’t get enough’a this, can ya?” He panted against the shell of your ear, dragging his tongue over to your jaw before claiming your mouth. He was swallowing your moans, knowing how loud you could be, especially when you were nearing your end. 

“You feel so good—mmm, ah—inside me.” His grip on your ass tightened, his thrusts becoming harder, more desperate. 

“Yeah? That’s cause this pussy’s mine, ain’t it? Made just for me to fuck.” You could feel the heat churning in your lower belly, your walls fluttering around him as your orgasm crept closer. His words only made you burn hotter. “Say it. Tell me s’mine.”

“It’s yours, Daryl, it’s yours.” You whined, grinding your hips in time with his thrusts, desperate to feel that spiraling pleasure. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it then, woman. Cum for me.” Daryl breathed, already feeling you begin to clamp down around him. He knew from experience to place a palm over your mouth, your screams loud enough to scare the birds from their perches in the canopy. You cried out against his hand, clawing at his back before settling for gathering fistfuls of his tank top as you spasmed and shook in his hold. “Ah, fuck!” 

He followed you over the edge, his warmth emptying into you with each lazy pump of his hips. You both gasped, the feeling too overwhelming for either of you to fully grasp in the midst of the pleasure consuming you. Your walls continued to contract, milking every drop and pulling it further inside of you as the world went from a kaleidoscope of colors back to the quiet greens and browns of nature. 

The redneck was always surprisingly gentle when separating from you. He pressed one last kiss to your mouth, chaste and uncoordinated, as he pulled out and lowered your legs. It was almost intimate. Not something either of you had ever verbalized wanting, but it comforted you. It made you feel less guilty, less dirty, so you never corrected him. 

However, a line was crossed that needed confronting. 

You watched him tuck himself away, already inspecting the area for tracks, while you redressed. You had slipped on your jeans and panties, fastening your bra before you decided he wasn’t going to speak on it first. 

“You came inside me, Dixon.” He gave you a sharp look. He knew exactly what he had done, whether it was intentional or not. 

“Yeah, so?” He shrugged a shoulder and began gathering his weapons and supplies. You weren’t stupid. It had clearly been an accident, but Daryl wasn’t the kind of man to apologize easily. 

“I’m not sure if your parents ever had the talk with you, but what just happened more often than not leads to the creation of these things known as babies.”

“Ain’t stupid, Y/N. I know what it means.” He snapped, his body angled toward you but his gaze off toward the direction of his camp. 

“And if that happens?”

“Won’t.”

“Humor me.” You deadpanned, your own bag now snug against your shoulder and your rifle balanced on your hip. He began to gnaw on the side of his thumb, something he did when he was uncomfortable, you had noticed. 

“We’ll handle it.”

“We?” You smirked, earning a quick lift of his middle finger. 

“Didn’t stutter, did I, Sunshine?”

“Holy shit. You breed me like a rabbit and then give me a nickname? You got a ring in your pocket for me?”

“Fuck off.”

“Three days, midday.” You were nervous, but there was nothing you could do about it now. Daryl was acting like he wasn’t feeling it but his body language screamed otherwise. Maybe he wouldn’t even show up next time. Something about that thought made your heart a little heavier but you wouldn’t linger on that. 

“Alright.” He drawled, taking the first couple of steps away from you. It seemed he had something else he wanted to say, but in the end, he chose to keep walking. 

“Dixon.” You called after him, smiling when he looked back over his shoulder. “Bring condoms.” You were pretty sure that jerk of his head was a nod before he disappeared into the trees. You turned back toward your own camp, grabbing your string of rabbits. 

Your thoughts were consumed by Daryl the entire way back, wondering if you’d ever see him again after that day. Little did you know that he forewent returning to his own camp, making a single run to the outskirts of Atlanta to grab every box of rubbers he could get his hands on. 

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.

“I got ice cream.” He mutters, gaze locked onto yours. “’S gonna melt.”

“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✦

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

But they’ve been chatting for too long. He hasn’t approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And he’s got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. He’s never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.

She’s a bit more out-there than Dean’s usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there aren’t many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that he’s not in the mood for tonight.

You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure there’s about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. You’re just going to have to stick it out until then.

You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.

You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.

Dean is still talking to the woman. She’s laughing now and it’s high and girlish. She’s slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risqué compliment that she’s pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows he’s got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. You’d rather not witness this next part.

“Get you a drink?”

You blink, looking over to your right. It’s the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.

“I got one,” you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.

“One you actually like.”

You shrug, vaguely aware he’s probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.

He doesn’t ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because he’s served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.

When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadn’t. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals. 

“Never seen you here before,” he says, not really looking at you. He’s looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.

“Just passing through.”

“Where you headed?”

“Road trip. I’m with my two friends.”

He points the neck of his beer over in Dean’s direction. “That one of them?”

“Yeah.”

He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. You’re not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.

“Where’s the other one?”

Sam is working late at a library nearby. “Fuck knows.”

He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if it’s exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.

“You came to visit at a weird time, y’know,” he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. “Got some weird shit going on.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. “What kinda weird shit?”

“Bunch of murders. Real nasty ones.”

You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that he’s pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.

“Do they know who did it?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet. They’re all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think it’s someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.” When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.

“Well you don’t have to worry about Dean over there,” you say. “We just got here today. I can vouch for him.”

He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. “Wasn’t trying to insinuate anything.”

You can’t help a laugh and it’s almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but you’ll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, that’s when you’ll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. You’ll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, it’s enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean. 

And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You don’t even know his name and he doesn’t ask yours, but he’s funny and decent enough to talk to and doesn’t try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.

“Buy you another?” 

You’re almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadn’t even fully realised you had been drinking it.

“Isn’t this my round?” You have no intention of buying him a beer, but you’re curious to see what he says. You’re playing with him a bit and you don’t feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.

Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. “Made out good tonight. I can afford it.”

You’re about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.

You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.

“We’re going,” he says, voice flat. 

You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. There’s a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. She’s probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.

A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you can’t say you’re any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.

“You come back here tomorrow,” he says, smiling while you grab your coat. “That drink is yours.”

You don’t answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.

You didn’t drive to the bar since it’s less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but you’re starting to really wish you did. Silence doesn’t feel as sharp when you’re in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. You’re used to long stretches of silence in the car - it’s where you spend most of your time. 

There’s nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Dean’s boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but he’s trying to be sly about it so you’re giving no indication that you notice him. 

You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that you’re distracted and that’s why you’re not talking. You’ve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know you’re not quite playing this off right.

“Hear anything from Sam?” you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like you’re about to explode or crumble apart in the silence. 

“Yeah,” Dean says. There’s a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. “He’s gonna be there another while. Says he’s onto somethin’.”

Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse. 

“It’s still open at this time?” you ask instead. 

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t think so.”

“Oh.”

The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you don’t want to hear that from him right now. You’re not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.

You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time you’re back in the corner of your motel room. It’s like this night never even existed. 

The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he can’t decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.

The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesn’t happen. It’s like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didn’t pick up on the first time. One time, it’s the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, it’s a slow wink. You’re not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.

Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that he’s not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you don’t even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams. 

You can’t say that you’re not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. It’s Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.

The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isn’t really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about ‘exclusivity’ or ‘feelings’ or ‘what does this mean?’. And it’s not like that wasn’t something you were aware of but- fuck.

You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldn’t tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking. 

Because Dean doesn't act like it’s nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then he’ll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he can’t think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart can’t be blamed for turning this into something it’s not.

No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.

You say ‘mostly’ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he won’t say, even to you. And you know that he’s touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.

You’re not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.

Right now, you’re staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.

When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.

When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like he’s working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. He’s not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight. 

You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Sam’s bed and getting under the covers.

You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.

You wake up with Sam’s large body crammed against yours. He’s snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up. 

Dean isn’t in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didn’t put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.

Whatever. Not your problem anymore.

The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face. 

“You need some help gettin’ out from under Goliath?”

His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know it’s just because it’s early, you haven’t fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head. 

Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.

“I was trying not to wake him up,” you say sternly.

“I didn’t,” he protests. “Look at him.”

Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. He’s already drooling a bit onto the pillow.  You’re fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower. 

“Y’know, he’s out cold,” he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.

“I can see that.”

“Probably wouldn’t even notice if I joined you in there.”

You’re battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He can’t be serious. He’s propositioning you? After last night? 

Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldn’t be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things. 

What you hadn’t realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.

The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he can’t be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when it’s convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.

You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.

“Don’t think so,” you say, feeling your smile waver. “You know Sam hates when we do that with him around.”

Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. “Never stopped you before. We can be quiet. Don’t even need to do nothin’.”

“You look like you need your own shower,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. “I’ll be quick.”

You step past him before he has time to react. 

The whole time you’re in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you can’t make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell he’s talking slower. 

He clearly has no idea what’s wrong with you or why you’re acting different. He doesn’t even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but that’s a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because you’re no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And it’s usually fine because he never usually asks for something you’re not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but he’s asking you to sign yourself away this time. And that’s not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.

Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Sam’s notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.

“Where were you this morning?” you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.

“Went down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.”

You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but don’t comment on it.

“What now?”

“We gotta go across state. To another churchyard.”

“Why? You didn’t burn the bones already?”

He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. “I burned someone’s bones, yeah.”

Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. “You burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?”

“Not my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,” he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Sam’s bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.

“He gave you the details of some randomer’s grave?”

“Not some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isn’t the one whacking people. It’s his wife. And she’s buried across state.”

You’re fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Sam’s. “How did you work that one out so fast?”

He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. It’s not fatal but it looks damn painful. “Crazy bitch tried to gank me.”

“What the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.”

He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. “You worry too much.”

You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.

You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesn’t look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin. 

He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.

The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.

“Why are you so sleepy?” you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. “You have sepsis or something?”

His laugh is tired. “What’d I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?”

“Dean, you’re literally passing out on a ten minute drive. It’s not even six o’clock.”

“Spending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.”

You frown. “You stayed up all night?”

“Sure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.”

You’re not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You don’t ask.

“Why? Why not wait?” you ask instead.

“Couldn’t sleep anyway,” he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.

Dean didn't sleep again last night. 

He doesn’t tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like he’s trying to stop himself from nodding off. 

You sit quietly in the back seat and don’t complain that he is playing some Blue Öyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you don’t. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.

Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.

“We getting a place here?” you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.

“Nah,” Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. “If it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. I’m gonna sleep in the backseat.”

Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.

You look at Dean for just a moment. He’s looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.

“I’ll join you in the front,” you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. “I’ll do enough talking to keep us both awake.”

Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You can’t look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.

You don’t talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and there’s a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You can’t seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that he’s trying to work out what’s going on with you.

“So,” Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. “Wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice is dull. You’re almost just saying it to say it - you know there’s no real point in pretending.

“We’re not doing this,” he says. “You guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.”

“Your sleep? I’m the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that you’re a behemoth?”

Sam abruptly laughs. “Yes, I’m aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like you’re just one person anyway.” 

Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though it’s too dark to see anything.

“Did he fuck up?” Sam asks eventually.

No - not really. It’s you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you can’t say that. You just shrug.

Sam sighs. “He doesn’t know what he did. You gotta talk to him.”

“I know,” you say.

“No you don’t. You’re just trying to get me off your back.”

“I have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.”

He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat. 

Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. He’s never known anyone to not feel regret once they’re through with him. 

But it seems to him most of the time that you don’t see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that he’s not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of… caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when you’re lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that don’t block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadn’t worked out just because it wasn’t with you. 

You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.

You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that it’s just because he wants your attention. 

“Don’t you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?” he asks you and you smile and joke that you’re doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit you’ve seen together.

But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if you’re stopping yourself from mouthing the words.

It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you don’t really have ‘your own bed’ - you’re on the road too much - but that doesn’t matter. It’s his daydream and he says it doesn’t need to be burdened by reality. 

You’ll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so he’ll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 o’clock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping. 

He won’t admit that he’s only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what they’re learning in school and you’ll never say it either but you’ll both know. 

He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like. 

He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because he’s a man and he doesn’t need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldn’t join him for showers anymore, and he wouldn’t get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to ‘let it soak in’. 

He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like you’re giving him a facial. You both know it’s a charade when he grumbles about how it’s a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he can’t accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. You’re always happy to pretend you’re making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this. 

In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because “you’re going to look like a leather purse in five years if you don’t moisturise, Dean”. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. He’s been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.

He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how it’s your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him he’s gross.

But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.

There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.

This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time it’s working against him. He can’t seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe he’s just scared of how you’d answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that you’re being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and you’re being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesn’t know why. But he has a few guesses. 

Because Dean is the first person to admit he’s a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammy’s outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though you’re just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesn’t matter that Sam’s hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that you’re running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. He’ll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.

He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldn’t understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husband’s neck was slit in bed.

Because if that was you - Dean wouldn’t make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about ‘getting back out there’ and ‘she’d want you to be happy’ after Jess, but it’s true. He wouldn’t make it and he wouldn’t want to.

But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didn’t care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.

He’s not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t know why you’re pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable. 

Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like. 

So it’s best not to know.

You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and don’t answer. The question is cruel and confusing.

He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesn’t. You’re not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesn’t happen. And you can recognise that it’s probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldn’t have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.

But, having forgiven him, you’re not sure it’s something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. You’re not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.

So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When there’s a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.

Most of the time, you’re just exhausted. Even Sam’s annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people can’t stop you from sleeping well into the day.

Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.

But when you look at Sam, he’s seated on the other bed. And he’s taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that you’ll be sharing a bed with Dean.

The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you don’t move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You can’t wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. You’ll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply he’s hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.

“Coming for a drink?” Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like he’s talking to a kid.

“Not feeling it tonight,” you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. “You guys go ahead, though.”

“Sweetheart, come out for one drink. It’s just across the road.” There’s a thin edge of irritation in Dean’s voice, despite the pet-name.

“I’m not feeling it,” you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.

Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about ‘I’m just gonna-’ and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.

“That’s a loada crap,” Dean bites, hardly noticing Sam’s departure. “You’ve not been feelin’ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Don’t just sit here and mope.”

You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way he’s acknowledging what he’s done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but it’s hollow. You’re mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that ‘the conversation’ is about to happen and it’s probably overdue. But there isn’t a word in this world about this particular subject that you’d like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesn’t make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.

“I don’t know how,” is what you land on, finally.

Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.

You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You can’t decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, “You have nothin’ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.”

Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.

“What does that mean?” you ask softly.

“It means you don’t have to feel… guilty, or whatever. I’m not gonna pretend it doesn’t kill me ‘cause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckin’ zombie. And you don’t gotta worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but it’s once again empty and defeated.

“You still there?” Dean probes gently.

“I’m here,” you say. “I don’t feel guilty. I don’t know why I should feel guilty.”

You’re still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Dean’s voice. “Then what’s all the moping for? I thought-”

There is another stretch of silence.

“My feelings are hurt,” you say. He has won and you’ve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. “I knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you… y’know.”

Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but don’t look at them.

“Before I what? I don’t know. You’re gonna have to help me out here, angel. I’m in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.”

You don’t see how that’s possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but he’s not lying about this. You know.

“The woman, Dean.”

“What woman?”

“There’s been more than one?”

You don’t bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.

“There’s been none, if I’m picking up what you’re putting down.”

Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.

“Then I don’t think you’re picking up what I’m putting down,” you say firmly. “I’m talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.”

Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.

“Jesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.”

You’re horrified that he can’t recall. You hope this doesn’t mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.

“The fuckin’-” Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. “The fuckin’ widow?”

“How the fuck would I know if she was a widow?” you snap. You’re ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like he’s suddenly enjoying this. It’s not how you saw the conversation going.

“That was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husband’s neck was slit the week before. The first case.”

You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. You’re playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You can’t remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadn’t imagined.

“What the hell are you-” you start.

“I didn’t touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.”

You frown. There’s a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.

“You don’t give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.”

“What smile?”

You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like you’re masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t even know I did that until now. But you’re right, I don’t give you that look.”

Your heart plummets. You can’t even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.

“You know why?” he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.

“‘Cause it’s phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.”

“Oh.”

There’s an apology in your tone but Dean doesn’t acknowledge it. He just mimics your ‘Oh’ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.

“Thought I lost you for good,” he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. “I can’t believe you thought I would-”

You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. You’re glad that you’re not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.

“Sweetheart, there’s nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is wobbly. “Yeah, Dean, I’m yours. I’m yours. God, I’m so so sorry-”

“Slow down, angel-”

“I just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, y’know, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I should’ve just-”

“Sweetheart.”

You stop. When you look over at Dean, he’s looking at you too.

“It’s okay. We’re okay. I’m just- fuck. I’m so… I love you.”

You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. “I love you too.”

He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.

He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.

Dean texts Sam to let him know he’ll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.

SAM: Gross. SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.

You’re mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.

You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesn’t tell you that he’s missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.

For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesn’t grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you don’t pretend you’re forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless it’s to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You don’t admonish him for that either just for this one time. He’s hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesn’t try anything in earnest. 

Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Dean’s flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.

“Fuck, angel. You have no idea…” he murmurs. “Never thought I’d be allowed touch you like this again.”

The way he’s kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but you’re too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.

He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.

“Can’t believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckin’ messed up.” He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. “Was having wet fuckin’ dreams. Kept forgetting you weren’t-”. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. He’s trying not to kill the mood.

“Dean-” you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.

“Yeah, baby? You miss me too?” He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.

It is almost criminal how pretty he is. You’ve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks he’s pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.

He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.

“Asked you a question, sweetheart,” he says, nipping at the other thigh.

You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.

“Missed you, Dean. Couldn’t do anything without you,” you say.

“Yeah?” You can’t see Dean’s mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. You’re wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. “She missed me too, huh?”

He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.

But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.

“Yes! She missed you. She missed you so much.”

Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump. 

“Fuck, yeah. Bet she did,” he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. “Never gonna go cold on me again, are you?”

You shake your head wildly. You might whisper ‘Never’ a few times, or maybe it’s just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile. 

“Good girl,” he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before he’s diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.

You can’t help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.

But your mind is still working overtime and you still can’t get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.

“I think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.”

He doesn’t move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether you’re serious.

“You’re- shit- fuck,” you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. “I’m the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.”

That’s when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. “You’re fuckin’ adorable. You think this is for you?” he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. “Quit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.”

If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. “Are you real?” you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesn’t do much to help your problem.

The problem being that you’re about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. He’s lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he groans. “Jesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?”

You’d probably make some lame joke about how he’s the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope it’s sufficient.

“You’re so cute when you’re about to give it to me,” he says, fingers pumping and curling. “Y’go so dumb and needy.”

When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well you’re doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.

You never really come down from that high - you’re horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.

He smiles, even while his eyes darken. “Another one? Already?” “Gimme a break,” you say. “I haven’t gotten off in three weeks.” You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesn’t immediately register as an issue. Maybe you’ll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.

“Three weeks? Shit,” he laughs. “I’ve been jackin’ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so you’re rubbing against the underside of his cock. You’re soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you don’t give much away.

Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. You’re clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you. 

You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and you’re not sure if it’s a reaction to the sight or the sensation.

Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.

You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.

“Fuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?” he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where you’re taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.

“Think you’re just needy,” you whisper, grinding down laxly. You’re teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.

“Damn right I’m fuckin’ needy,” he grunts. “You got any idea what it was like goin’ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?”

Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but you’ll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.

“Gonna need an answer, angel,” he says and he knows he’s being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.

“I don’t know,” you moan, hating him and loving him.

He’s fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.

“You don’t know?” He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way he’s pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. “Don’t know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistin’ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckin’ brother?”

Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information you’re being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.

“I didn’t know. Dean, fuck- I’m sorry.” You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.

“Sh sh sh,” Dean cooes, not all that kindly. “S’okay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didn’t she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And you’re never gonna keep her from me again, are you?”

“No. Never again,” you whisper, eyes rolling back.

He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. “That’s my girl,” he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin. 

He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then he’s sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.

It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far he’s pressing into you but you’re always so wet when it’s Dean and right now you’re wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and that’s a trade you’ll take any day. 

“Jesus-” he chokes out “Hot - wet - tight fuckin’ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one I’ll ever need.”

His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Dean’s words have you gushing.

“I missed you,” he confesses, breathless. “Missed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.”

You’re almost glad that Dean can’t seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression you’re sure you’re sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.

“I missed you too,” you babble. “Missed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, I’m gonna come.”

He twitches inside you once and then he’s leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesn’t stop thrusting into you.

He kisses you, deep and dirty. There’s too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.

“That’s it, baby, there you go,” he gasps, shaking. “Fuck. I love you so much.”

You’re still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each other’s eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.

You’re sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Dean’s cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.

When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Dean’s confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesn’t quite believe that this won’t be taken from him again tomorrow, but you’ll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.

“Might need another shower,” he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.

a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao

🏷 everything taglist: @buckysbbydoll @donuelle @angelryex @kombuchaaaaa @dollfaceglow @vip-hs

🏷 dean taglist: @soullessambs @leyra-giovanni

And you? You’re topless, skin still slick from the pool, your bare tits pressing against Dean fucking Winchester like you’re trying to climb inside his ribs, nipples hardening to aching peaks with every scrape against the damp cotton of his shirt. 

The kiss lingers like lightning in humid air – slow, searing, and inevitable. His mouth is hot and greedy on yours, tongue sliding deep, tasting like the beer he never got around to drinking and pure, pent-up desperation. 

His hands roam – big, calloused palms sliding down your bare back, following the trail of water droplets down your spine, mapping your waist with reverent hunger, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if memorizing scripture written in skin.

You pull back just enough to grin against his lips, wicked and a little sun-drunk, your voice a velvet dare wrapped in saltwater sweetness. “Strip, Winchester.”

Dean blinks, lips kiss-swollen, breath stuttering, those forest-green eyes – now as dark as storm-tossed mangroves – drifting across the empty parking lot. His gaze roams the cracked pavement and Baby gleaming under the lights. There are no guests, no souls stirring, and even Kyle the gator has retreated into the shadows.

“Here?” he croaks, his deep voice sounding like gravel dipped in raw want, cheeks flushed under freckles that scatter his skin like starlight.

You nod, biting down on your bottom lip, water still dripping from your hair down your tits. “Right here,” you confirm, smirking. “Unless the Sunshine State’s finally made you shy. But trust me, Florida’s not gonna judge us.”

He barks a laugh that sounds half-drowned, a mix of disbelief and surrender swimming underneath. “Sweetheart, Florida stopped judging the second that dude grilled fish on his hood.” 

He then reaches behind his neck, grabbing the hem of his tee and yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. And Jesus fucking Christ, the sight of him makes your mouth water. 

Moon-silver and neon-glow illuminate the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, littered with cinnamon freckles across tanned skin, tracing the soft give of his stomach and the light trail of hair arrowing downward and disappearing inside his jeans like an invitation.

Boots thud against concrete next. Then his belt. He pops the button on his jeans slowly, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to look away, but you never would. His stare alone causes liquid heat to pool low in your belly. The denim then slides down those thick thighs and bow legs, and fuck, the outline of his bulge in his black boxers is already obscene – impossibly hard, straining painfully, and completely ready for you.

The second he kicks the jeans aside, you barely manage to wait and surge forward, crashing your lips back to his. Tongues tangle, wet and messy. Your bare breasts press against his bare and warm chest now, nipples pebbled from the cool night air and the way his hands cup them, thumbs brushing over the sensitive buds until you moan into his kiss.

And then, with a playful grin and a wicked laugh, you shove.

Dean’s eyes go wide as he stumbles backward, arms windmilling for half a second before he hits the pool with a spectacular splash. Water explodes around him in bursts of turquoise fire and diamond spray. 

When he surfaces, water streams down his gorgeous face as he pushes wet strands of hair from his forehead. You can’t help but giggle when he looks at you equally shocked but stupidly turned on as well.

“You little–” he starts, but you’re already launching yourself in after him, bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips. 

You hit the water smoothly, gliding over to him, and the second you’re close enough, his arms band around you, hauling you against him. You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his soaked boxers. He groans, low and wrecked, hands palming the globes of your ass as you kiss him again – filthy, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue and years of finally, finally, finally.

Your teeth tug cheekily at your lower lip as your thumbs hook into the sides of your bikini bottoms, shimmying them down your legs underwater. You make a show off it, making sure he catches every second of it as you toss the soaking-wet fabric onto the concrete by the lounge chairs. 

Dean’s jaw goes slack, ravenous juniper eyes devouring every naked inch of you. “Fucking hell, sweetheart…”

Your smile curves like the crescent moon above. “Your turn, Winchester. Fair’s fair in Florida.”

He doesn’t argue or even hesitate, shoving his underwear down his hips and kicking it somewhere toward the shallow end. Even through the aquamarine blur of pool water, you recognize the sheer size of his cock – perfectly long, thick, and heavy, tip flushed a deep rose. 

God, you’d kill to take him into your mouth and see how far he’d get till you choke around him. Maybe if Sam doesn’t return anytime soon, you still might find some time to try in the motel room later. 

For now, though, you just pull him close and wrap your legs around his waist again, naked skin meeting naked skin underwater. You claim his plush lips, slow and deep, tongues dancing like the palm fronds above in the ocean breeze. His cock slides hot and heavy against your belly, and Dean hisses at the contact, forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck, baby… you sure?”

He’s never called you baby before. In fact, you can’t remember if you ever heard him call anyone baby before, except for his beloved car, and your heart flutters a little at the thought. 

You still can’t believe you did this. Maybe you did get hexed or possessed down here in Florida after all. God knows you never behaved like this in any of the other forty-nine states. But there’s an undeniable electricity vibrating through your blood that you’ve never felt before, and you’re still not sure if Florida is truly to blame or if it’s all just Dean Winchester’s fucking fault. 

You answer by reaching between you, wrapping your hand around his length and stroking him slow and tight, your fingers not even closing fully around his massive girth. He’s rock-hard, velvet over steel, the head already leaking. 

“Been sure for years,” you whisper against his lips, his little grunts of pleasure like the most beautiful song in your ears. “Now shut up and touch me.”

Dean doesn’t wait to be told twice, letting his hands explore with exquisite and maddening patience now, no longer rushing. Calloused palms wander up your ribs, groping your tits with worshipful weight, rolling your nipples between fingers till sparks explode behind your eyelids. 

His mouth trails kisses down your throat, sucking gently at the fluttering pulse there, then lower and lower, lips closing hot and wet over one sensitive peak, teeth scraping skin. You arch into him with a throaty moan that echoes softly through the empty motel lot.

One hand then slips between your thighs, fingers parting your folds and finding you soaked – hotter than the Florida night, slicker than the pool. Two thick digits circle your entrance teasingly before pushing inside your pussy with barely any warning. 

When he curls them just right, deeply stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy, you cry out, head tipping back. The water laps at your tits as he pumps them in and out before his thumb finds your clit, drawing lazy, firm circles that make your hips jerk against his hand and scream for more. 

“Look at me,” he murmurs, voice husky and commanding. 

His green eyes are hooded now, pupils blown wide with lust, swallowing the color until only a thin ring of emerald fire remains. He watches every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, as he pumps his fingers faster, scissoring them, pressing deeper. The water splashes around your joined bodies in rhythmic waves, cool against the burning heat building inside you.

“Goddamn,” he growls against your neck, sucking a mark there that will surely bloom in more beautiful colors than the Florida sunsets have to offer. “So fucking tight. This what you’ve been hiding from me? This pretty little pussy dripping for me all this time?”

You clench around his fingers, rocking your hips harder against his hand. “Dean–… Oh God–”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, thighs trembling around his wrist. He doesn’t relent even for a second, adding a third finger that stretches you beautifully while his mouth claims yours again, swallowing every desperate sound. 

The coil in your belly tightens and tightens – sharper, brighter, hotter – until it shatters. 

You come hard on his fingers – clenching, pulsing, a broken cry spilling into the night. Unfathomable pleasure crashes through you in golden, syrupy-sweet waves, leaving you boneless and gasping against his shoulder as you cling to his chest like you’d drown without him.

But Dean’s nowhere near done. 

He pulls his fingers free, spins you around gently yet firmly, and presses your front against the cool tile of the pool wall. Your elbows brace on the edge, tits deliciously squished against the slick surface as you still try to catch your breath. 

Dean crowds in behind you, his massive frame enveloping you, cock sliding hot and heavy between your thighs. He teases relentlessly – dragging the thick, velvety head along your drenched slit, nudging your swollen clit with every pass, coating himself in your release.

“Dean,” you whimper, pushing back, chasing friction. “Please…”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath scorching against your skin. “Want to feel every inch, baby. Want you dripping for it.” 

Those lust-drunk eyes stay locked on your face as he notches the head at your entrance, pressing in the barest fraction before pulling back, again and again – torturous, perfect torment.

Only when you’re shaking, begging in broken whispers and moans, does he finally thrust forward – slow, inexorable, stretching you open inch by inch around his considerable girth till he’s buried to the hilt, balls-deep in the tight heat of you. The fullness is fucking harrowing in the best way possible, bordering on overwhelming, a delicious burn that melts into liquid bliss.

“Fuck, yes,” you moan, the sound echoing off the motel’s stucco walls. He feels enormous like this, the blunt tip pushing against your cervix. 

“Son of bitch, sweetheart…” Dean’s groan is guttural, animalistic as his forehead drops to your shoulder, the scruff on his cheeks and jaw scraping your skin. “You’re practically strangling me.” 

Then he begins to move – deep, rolling strokes that send water splashing in time with his hips. He pulls back and slams in again and again, and the angle is destructively perfect – his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes like supernovas. 

One hand then snakes around to rub your oversensitive clit while the other grips your hip tighter, anchoring you as he fucks you against the wall – harder, faster, hotter. The pool water sloshes wildly around you, cool against overheated skin, and every thrust sends ripples outward like you’re the center of some filthy hurricane. 

Dean’s mouth is on your shoulder, teeth grazing and biting skin, deep voice rough in your ear. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Been dreaming about this pussy for years. Fuckin’ years. You and me in this stupid state… finally losing our goddamn minds together.”

You push back against him, meeting every merciless thrust, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter again. “Give it to me, De. Want you to ruin me.”

He snarls – actually fucking snarls – and fucks you like the world might end tomorrow (which to be fair, it always could in this life). The night spins in watercolor blurs of neon rose, chlorine blue, and moonlit silver. Your second orgasm builds slower but deeper, a gathering storm fed by every filthy praise growled against your ear and the relentless slap of wet skin on wet skin.

His strokes are deep and punishing till all you see is buzzing neon and twinkling stars above. His fingers work your clit faster, pinching and rubbing until your thighs shake. 

It hits you like a tidal wave, stronger than the first, vision breaking into prisms of color as you clench hard around him, crying out his name into the humid Florida night.

Dean fucks you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. “Fuck, baby, gonna–… where–”

“Inside,” you barely manage to gasp. “Come inside me.”

He buries himself deep and follows with a choked moan, throbbing hot and thick inside you, ropes of cum marking your fluttering walls and filling you to the brim as pleasure wracks his powerful frame. 

His forehead then drops back to your shoulder, breathing ragged, strong arms wrapping around your waist like he plans on never letting go. The water settles slowly around you both, lapping gently now, as if even Florida is giving you a minute to breathe.

For a long moment, there’s just panting and the buzz of the motel sign then, cicadas humming a lullaby as the two of you stay locked together, not wanting it to end. 

Then, Dean begins pressing soft, reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder before scoffing an amused laugh against your damp skin. “Florida’s still a goddamn circus, but I think I just found the main attraction.”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to catch his lips in a lazy, sated kiss. “Told you. Sink or swim, Winchester.”

He chuckles against your lips. “Well, Florida can still eat my ass.”

You grin broadly and wiggle your brows. “Pretty sure that’s my job now.”

Hope you enjoyed this smutty little summer treat, friends! I'll see you guys back next Friday for another smutty treat with Russell Shaw that will get your heart rate up 😉❤️‍🔥

On July 31, we're then diving back into Glitch 🔮 (If you can't wait that long, Interlude II, Chapter 7, and Chapter 8 are already on Patreon, with Chapter 9 coming this Sunday 🤓)

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Their brilliant plan was to trick Crowley into a Devil's Trap lasted all of three minutes.

Dean sighed heavily. He was too tired for games. "Where is she?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Where's who?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly, nose scrunching in frustration. "You know exactly who." When he looked up again, there was nothing but exhaustion in his expression. "Where's Y/N?"

"Oh," Crowley said with mock understanding. "You mean the little mouse who stumbled right into my trap?" Dean's jaw clenched. 

You'd been missing for two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. Not that he's been counting.

His biggest fear at first has been that you'd left. Packed your bags. Walked away. Dean knew it was irrational. You wouldn't do that to him. Would you?

One drunken night in a motel room somewhere in Nebraska, he'd admitted something he'd never told anyone before. That people leaving terrified him. Whether they wanted to or not, they always left. You'd listened quietly. Then promised him you weren't going anywhere. 

Dean wanted to believe that promise. Which only left one possibility. Someone had taken you. And whoever it was had covered their tracks damn well.

Dean had been losing his mind trying to find you. You'd disappeared during a vampire hunt. One minute you were heading to the bakery across from the motel to grab breakfast. The next? Gone.

The bakery just happened to sit beside the truck stop the vampires had been using to lure victims. Coincidence wasn't exactly a word that existed in Dean Winchester's vocabulary anymore.

The nest had paid for it. Him and Sam had torn through every single vampire inside that building. When the dust settled, all they'd found were bodies, severed heads, and an empty warehouse.

No sign of you. No clues. No trail. No stone had been left unturned. Bobby had been called. Jody had been called. Every lead had been chased. Every rumour investigated. Every hunt within three states followed. Which had eventually led them here.

Crowley

They'd actually come to ask for his help. Their last resort.

Of course, the plan had been subtlety. The plan had gone out the window the moment one of Crowley's demons had smirked and said:

"Finally come looking for your bitch?"

After that? Dean honestly didn't remember much. Just red. A whole lot of red. The resulting demon massacre had gained Crowley's attention remarkably quickly.

Which was how he'd ended up tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse while the King of Hell looked at him like he was watching reality television.

"By the way," Crowley said casually, "thanks for wiping that vampire nest. They were absolutely murdering my market share."

"Crowley, please."

The demon actually looked offended. His hand flew dramatically to his chest. "Is Dean Winchester begging me?" he gasped. "My, my. How hopeless you've become."

Dean lowered his head. Defeat tasted bitter. "Just tell me she's here." His voice cracked slightly. "Please."

Crowley's expression faltered for half a second. Then his usual smirk returned. "Well." He sighed theatrically. "This is getting embarrassingly pathetic." He clicked his fingers.

The double doors behind him swung open.

Dean glanced up slowly. Two demons stepped into the room, dragging a smaller figure between them by thick silver chain wrapped around their waist.

His breath caught.

You.

You looked exactly the same as the day you'd disappeared. The oversize hoodie that doubled as your comfort blanket. The leggings. The worn trainers. There was no blood. No bruises. No cuts. No signs of torture. Which somehow made it worse. 

What the hell had they been doing to you?

Your eyes lifted through the curtain the hair. "Dean?"

The whisper barely reached him. Dean bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Relief crashing into him so violently it almost hurt. You were alive. You were here. You hadn't left him.

He'd found you.

"You okay, sweetheart?" Immediately, he wanted to punch himself. Of course you weren't okay. You'd been kidnapped by demons.

You gave a weak shrug. "Been better."

Despite everything, Dean laughed. A sad, broken sound. Of course you were making jokes. "You hurt?"

You shook your head. "No."

Crowley groaned dramatically. "Oh, enough with the touching reunion. Honestly, it’s making me nauseous."

"Let her go." Dean strained against the ropes again. He needed to get to you.

"And where," Crowley asked lazily, "would the fun be in that?"

Dean glared at him. "What do you want?

Crowley's smile widened. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Whatever it is, you can have it."

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Dean swallowed hard. "Take me instead."

"Dean, no!" You lunged forward instantly. The demons yanked hard on the chain. You crashed to the floor with a cry. Dean surged forward in the chair.

"Y/N!"

"Careful," Crowley mused. "You'll hurt yourself."

"She has nothing to do with this!"

Crowley looked positively delighted. "Oh, but she has everything to do with this." He stepped toward you. "Because we've discovered something rather fascinating." Dean's jaw clenched. "Apparently little Y/N here is the secret to destroying Dean Winchester."

Dean froze. "What?"

"You become remarkably irrational where she's concerned." Crowley smirked. "You slaughter vampire nests, start demon massacres, and throw yourself into deals without so much as blinking." His grin widened. "So naturally I thought—why not use that?"

A laugh echoed through the warehouse. Crowley stopped speaking. The laughter got louder. Your shoulders shook.

"Y/N," Crowley warned.

You wiped beneath your eyes. "I'm sorry," you said between laughs. "I really couldn't hold it anymore."

Dean frowned. "What the hell is going on?"

You stood. The chains around your waist slipped away effortlessly, falling to the floor with a metallic clang. "God, get this off me." You pulled your hoodie over your head, tossing it aside. You stood in leggings and a low V-neck tight shirt.

Crowley's grin mirrored your own. "Mouse here joined the dark side."

You raised an eyebrow. "Joined is a strong word."

Crowley waved dismissively. "Fine. Strongly encouraged. Forced almost."

You stepped back until you stood beside him. Dean stared. "This isn't you."

You gasped dramatically. "Dean Winchester, are you saying you don't like the new me?" You slowly turned in a circle. "New and improved."

Dean said nothing. That hurt more than it should have. You moved toward him slowly, swapping your hips with each step. Rested your hands on his shoulders and leant down slightly. His eyes betrayed him immediately, enjoying the view.

You smirked. "Oh, there he is." Dean groaned. "You should join us, Dean."

"Never gonna happen, sweetheart."

You leaned closed. "Not even if I asked nicely?" You swung one leg over his lap.

Dean sat bolt upright. "Uh..." His brain had officially left the building. "What exactly are you doing?"

You smiled, sinking into his lap. "I liked you, you know." Dean blinked. "The old me. " Your fingers brushed along the stubble on his jaw. "God, I fell for you the second I met you." His breathing stopped. "I wanted you so bad." You leaned closer. "Still kinda do."

"Y/N..." His voice came out strangled. "Please stop talking."

A throat cleared behind you. "Do you two need a room?"

You looked over your shoulder. "Could we?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Fine. But clean up after yourselves."

The doors slammed shut behind him. Dean immediately snapped back to himself. "Y/N, listen to me. This isn't you."

You traced your thumb over his bottom lip. The tip of his tongue poked out before realising what was going on. "We could have fun, Dean."

"Now is really not the time."

You pouted. "But I like you like this." Your hand slid into the hair at the nape of his neck. "At my mercy." Dean swallowed hard. "I've actually imagined this before." His eyes widened. "You tied up." Your hand tightened slightly in his hair. "Me in charge." You pulled his head back gently. "I think you like a woman taking control."

Dean's smirk finally returned. "Never said I didn't."

Your grin widened. As you shifted on his lap—

Oh.

Well

This is interesting.

You leaned toward his ear. "Looks like someone agrees with me."

Dean closed his eyes. "Oh, this is my personal hell."

You rolled your hips slightly. His head hit the back of the chair. "Definitely my personal hell."

Your lips ghosted along his throat. A strained groan escaped his mouth. "I'm gonna enjoy this."

Dean's eyes opened. "Oh, I'm gonna enjoy it too."

You frowned, pulling back from him. "What?"

Pain exploded through your side. You looked down. Ruby's knife protruded from your side.

Sam stood behind you. Very much not unconscious.

You barely had time to register the betrayal before your vision filled with a flash of red before fading to black.

You woke up hours later in your room at the bunker. Cas had already healed the stab wound. Also checked the rest of you after the possession.

You sat on the bed with your face buried in your hands. Dean sat beside you looking entirely too amused. "I'm not gonna lie," he said. You already hated where this was going. "I liked the demon you."

"Oh my god." You groaned louder. "Shut up."

Sam leaned in the doorway. "You practically gave him a lap dance."

You looked up in horror. "I did not."

Sam nodded seriously. "You absolutely did."

"I was possessed."

"I still had to sit there and watch it happen whilst playing dead."

Dean pointed accusingly. "Yeah, could've stabbed her sooner, bitch."

Sam laughed. "Could've stopped enjoying it sooner, jerk."

You froze.

Slowly, very slowly, you turned towards Dean, who suddenly became fascinated by a crack in the wall. "What?

Dean shrugged. "Nothing."

"Dean Winchester."

"Nothing happened."

"You got turned on by demon me"

"I did not."

"You absolutely did." You looked to Sam for confirmation, who just nodded.

"I was tied to a chair."

"Because it was me?"

Dean's head snapped toward you. "Y/N." He warned.

Your eyes widened. "Oh my god."

Dean stood immediately. "Oh no."

"It was because it was me."

"Nope."

You crawled across the mattress toward him. "I can recreate the scene if you want."

Dean nearly tripped over his own feet backing toward the door. "I'm good."

"I can even dress up."

"Absolutely not."

You followed him into the hallway. "Dean!" He was already halfway down the corridor. "I'll give you a lap dance! Just let me get ready."

"SHUT UP, Y/N." Your laughter echoed through the bunker. Dean's horrified groan followed shortly after.

You were never letting him live this down.

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“that’s it, princess. just like that. ‘letting me in so nicely.”

his praise goes straight to your core, eating up every word. your eyes roll to the back of your head once he bottoms out, his hips slapping against your ass as he beats you into the mattress. strangled moans fall from your lips as his fingers dig into your skin, leaving marks for tomorrow. unable to hold on to anything, your nails cut crescent-shaped indents into your palm. you’re close, and the way you clench around him, he knows it too, but he isn’t going to let you off so easily. with all his willpower, he pushes himself off of you, leaving you feeling confused and empty.

“flip over,” he commands, voice as deep as he once was inside of you.

you listen, and without having to be told, your face smushes against the sheets as your ass waits, poised in the air. without a second to waste, he slips past your folds and into your widened walls. he slides in with ease, and you let out a satisfied and breathy sigh. his first thrust is a warning, but his second promises damnation. you knew that the orgasms he brought you felt like heaven, but how dirty you two were for each other was enough for God to cast you straight into hell.

you try your best to hold your position, but the sharp snaps of his hips make it harder and harder. high-pitched moans turned into screams as he fucks you like it’s your last night on earth. after he finishes with you, it might be. if you died right now, you’d die happy, covered in both of your cums. somehow the thought brings you comfort, and you don’t want to go out any other way.

“j-jay…” you can’t finish your sentence, but he knows that you’re asking to finish.

“you better not cum until i tell you to, you hear me?”

you whine in response, but you’re unsure of how much longer you can last. his tip drives into your cervix, and though it creates some pain, you’ve never felt more pleasure. you love when j gets dominant because not only does it turn you on even more, but you know your body will feel it longer than it normally would. his fingertips dig into your hips as he brings you back to meet his lap, making the room echo with sharp slaps. drool pours out of your mouth, creating a pool on the sheets, the first of your liquids. his rhythm begins to falter, and hope is in sight.

“fuck, baby, cum. cum for daddy.”

"Dear fellow constituents" Bucky started, holding the crumpled and unfolded paper out in front of him "It is my solem duty to say that you are being underserved-"

"Too mopey" You hummed, sitting across the kitchen counter, fiddling with the thread falling loose from your sweater.

"Mopey?"

"Mhm" You nodded, hopping up from your seat, rounding the corner "You need something that'll grab people's attention"

"So I should turn up with a machine gun?"

"No, that'll grab people's gunfire. I mean something with a little more…"

"Oomf?"

"Yeah! Sometimes it's handy that you're ancient"

"I'm old, doll, not ancient"

"Whatever you say grandpa" You took the pen from behind his ear, grabbing one of the thirteen discarded speeches screwed up on the countertop "How about- this"

You presented it to him and he started to read aloud, half waiting for the damn punchline.

"Dear fellow constituents, you're idiots" He looked to you "Nice touch, honey method huh?"

"Well they are! They're too stupid to see that Congressman Fuckface is trying to screw them over!"

"That's not his name, Sweetheart"

"I know" You rolled your eyes, arms encircling Bucky's waist "I just- this whole speech writing thing is bull, you'll do what's right for them, I know you will. They just have to open their eyes and see it"

"Thank you baby" He hummed, pressing a kiss to your head "Whaddya say you get ready for bed while I finish up here? I can come back to it in the morning"

"No, no" You sighed, pushing yourself up to sit on the kitchen bench "You're important to me and this is important to you so that means it's important to me too"

"Have you been seeing Dr Raynor without me?"

"Oh God no that woman's insufferable"

He cracked a smile, a small laugh even, something you hadn't seen in a while.

"Now c'mon" You started, all fake serious, hands on his shoulders "Let's write a motherfucking speech"

"You know you have a foul mouth, right?"

You smirked, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear "Didn't hear you complaining at your desk the other day"

"No" He hummed, his hand squeezing your waist.

You were soon interrupted by an electronic little song, trilling along underneath you.

"Dishwasher" He mumbled, reluctantly pulling back.

He moved to open the door, your legs hanging over it.

"Spread 'em, Sweetheart"

"But Congressman Barnes, what would your dear fellow constituents think?"

"That I'd look weird turning up without an arm on Monday"

"Fine" You sighed exaggeratedly, granting him access to the dishwasher.

He took out his arm, steam flooding out with it, and clicked it back into place, with that added little twirl for effect. He said it was a locking mechanism, but you were happy with the conclusion that he was your Disney Princess, and this was his dress spin.

"That new rinse aid work?" You asked, noticing how shiny it looked.

"Yeah, good call, doll" He pressed a chaste kiss to your lips, eyes flicking over his arm again as he pulled back "Just like new"

"Perfect for speech writing, huh?"

He shook his head, grin betraying him "You really are persistent, aren't you?"

"If I remember correctly-" You grabbed his waist, pulling him in to stand between your legs "That's one of the many, many things that made you fall for me"

"One of many alright"

Bucky leaned in, pressing long, open-mouthed kisses to your neck and jaw, hands skirting up your sides.

"So" You grabbed the fresh notepad you kept in your pocket, stealing his pen again "You wanna talk about taxes, right?"

"God you're stubborn" His forehead fell to your shoulder, grateful for your help but really not wanting it right now.

"Sure am" You scribbled something on the page before using the end of your pen to tilt Bucky's face up, puppy eyes boring into your soul "Nice try, but we're finishing this damn speech if it kills us both"

"Sweetheart, if i'm dead, who's gonna give the speech?"

"I'm sure someone will read it at your eulogy"

"Nice, real nice. Let's just get back to writing it"

"There's the spirit!" Your legs hooked around his hips, keeping him close "Don't worry, Congressman" You cooed "You'll get your reward later"

Bucky immediately snatched the pen from your fingers, writing faster than he'd ever written before. Like, worryingly fast.

Taglist for all of my MCU writing - 45 + more in reblogs!

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Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

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He was standing at the stove wearing jeans, boots, and an old Led Zeppelin shirt, one hand occupied with a spatula while bacon crackled in a pan beside him. There was coffee already brewed, eggs on a plate waiting to be served, and an expression on Dean's face that Sam had learned to distrust over the course of his entire life.

It wasn't excitement.

Excitement was manageable.

This was certainty.

Sam stopped beside the coffee maker and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What."

Dean looked up from the stove. "What, what?"

"That look."

Dean frowned. "What look?"

"The one that says you've made a decision and I'm going to find out about it in the worst possible way."

Dean looked offended by the accusation, which only made Sam more certain he was right. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh huh."

Dean transferred the bacon onto a plate, turned off the burner, and finally faced him fully. There was no grin. No dangerous enthusiasm. No signs of another Summer Solstice campaign waiting to happen. If anything, Dean looked strangely calm about whatever was happening inside his own head.

Then he dropped the bombshell with all the gravity of a man announcing the weather. "We're going to fireworks tonight."

Sam blinked.

The statement sat in the air between them for several seconds while his brain attempted to catch up. "...Fireworks."

"Yep."

"Fourth of July fireworks."

Dean slid a plate onto the table and pulled out a chair for himself. "That's generally when they happen."

Sam ignored that. "We haven't done Fourth of July in years."

Dean shrugged as he sat down, reaching immediately for the coffee pot. "Seems like a good year to start again."

That gave Sam pause.

Not because Dean was wrong, exactly. They'd certainly had years where celebrating holidays had ranked somewhere below preventing apocalypses and somewhere above remembering to pay motel bills. But there was something about the way Dean had said it that caught Sam's attention.

Not excitement.

Not nostalgia.

Decision.

The kind of decision Dean made when something mattered to him.

Sam settled into the chair opposite him and studied his brother over the rim of his coffee mug. Dean was focused on pouring cream into his coffee with the kind of concentration that suggested he was deliberately avoiding eye contact.

That, more than anything, made Sam suspicious. "Okay," Sam said carefully. "What's going on?"

Dean finally looked up. "Nothing's going on."

"Dean."

"It's the Fourth of July."

"Dean."

Dean pointed at him with his coffee mug. "People celebrate the Fourth of July, Sam."

"Normal people celebrate the Fourth of July."

Dean stared. "I have no idea how to respond to that."

Sam ignored him and pressed on. "You hate crowds."

"Selective crowds."

"You hate traffic."

"Bad traffic."

"You hate standing around waiting for things."

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it again. "...Okay, fair."

"And yet," Sam continued, "you're announcing fireworks at breakfast like this is a military operation."

Dean leaned back in his chair and considered that for a moment. Then he shrugged. "I just wanna go."

Simple.

Matter-of-fact.

No jokes.

No deflection.

For some reason, that answer unsettled Sam more than if Dean had shown up with brochures and a countdown calendar.

Dean wanted to go.

Not because there was a hunt.

Not because there was a mystery.

Not because there was a monster hiding behind a patriotic festival.

He just wanted to go.

Sam took another sip of coffee and watched his brother for a long moment over the edge of the mug.

Somewhere above them, America was apparently preparing for parades and barbecues and fireworks displays. Somewhere above them, kids were probably already waving sparklers around in driveways while parents shouted warnings about keeping them pointed away from faces and dry grass.

Down here, beneath layers of concrete and steel, Dean Winchester had decided they were going to participate.

"We're driving separately if you buy illegal fireworks."

Dean looked genuinely scandalized. "Sam."

"Dean."

"I would never."

"You absolutely would."

Dean considered that for exactly two seconds. "Okay, but in my defense, they're significantly cooler than legal fireworks."

Despite himself, Sam laughed.

The sound earned him a small grin from across the table, quick and fleeting enough that he almost missed it. Whatever this was, whatever had put the idea into Dean's head, it clearly mattered enough that Dean was trying very hard to play it cool about the whole thing.

Unfortunately for him, Sam Winchester had spent his entire life learning to read his brother.

And this?

This wasn't enthusiasm.

This was something else.

Something quieter.

Something older.

Sam wasn't sure what it meant yet.

But he had a feeling he was going to find out.

Dean did not mention the fireworks again for almost three hours.

That should have reassured Sam.

Instead, it somehow made him more suspicious.

Normally, when Dean became interested in something, everyone within a five-mile radius knew about it almost immediately. The Summer Solstice Festival had come with eight days of facts, historical context, educational ambushes, and what Sam still maintained was psychological warfare involving Castiel and astronomy.

This was different.

Dean simply... carried on with his morning.

He washed dishes after breakfast. He disappeared into the garage for a while. He emerged smelling faintly of motor oil and grease, grabbed another cup of coffee, and wandered into the library with a maintenance manual under one arm. If not for the fact that Sam had known him for over thirty years, he might have believed the fireworks comment had been entirely casual.

It wasn't.

Sam knew it wasn't.

Because every once in a while, when Dean thought nobody was looking, he'd glance at the clock on the wall.

Not anxiously.

Not impatiently.

Just checking.

As though mentally measuring the distance between now and sunset.

By late morning, Sam had migrated to the war room with his laptop and a stack of lore books, mostly because old habits died hard and because research felt productive even when there wasn't an active case attached to it. Across the table, Dean had somehow acquired a newspaper and was pretending to read it while very obviously not reading it at all.

Sam watched him turn the same page three times. "You know you're holding that upside down, right?"

Dean looked down.

The newspaper was, in fact, upside down.

He flipped it over without a trace of embarrassment. "Testing you."

"Sure you were."

Dean grunted and folded the paper.

For a few minutes, silence settled comfortably around them, broken only by the soft rustle of turning pages and the distant hum of the bunker ventilation. Then Dean spoke without looking up.

"They're doing food trucks this year."

Sam looked over his laptop. "What?"

"The fireworks show." Dean shrugged as though this were completely normal information to possess. "Lebanon's got food trucks coming in this year."

"You looked it up."

Dean frowned. "I glanced."

"You researched fireworks."

"I did not research fireworks."

"Dean."

"Okay, maybe a little."

Sam leaned back in his chair. There it was. Not excitement exactly.

Investment.

Dean wasn't the kind of person who casually looked up event schedules and vendor lists. This was a man whose vacation planning generally consisted of getting in the car and seeing where the road went.

"You know," Sam said carefully, "we don't actually have to stay for the whole thing if you don't want to."

Dean looked up immediately. "What makes you think I don't want to?"

The answer came too quickly.

Too automatically.

Sam held up both hands. "I'm just saying. Crowds, noise, traffic—"

"I'm aware of what fireworks are, Sam."

"Okay."

Dean held his gaze for a moment longer before looking back down at the newspaper. "I wanna stay for the whole thing."

Simple.

Definite.

Again.

Sam frowned slightly.

There it was again, that strange certainty from breakfast. No joking. No sarcasm. No carefully constructed cool-guy act to pretend he wasn't invested in something deeply sentimental.

Just honesty.

Dean wanted to go.

Dean wanted to stay.

Dean cared.

The realization sat oddly with Sam.

Not because Dean wasn't allowed to care about things. God knew Dean cared about things deeply and fiercely and often to his own detriment. But Dean usually hid it beneath layers of sarcasm and humor and carefully cultivated indifference.

This felt... exposed.

Around lunchtime, Dean disappeared into town and returned carrying two grocery bags.

Sam looked up from the couch as Dean dropped them onto the kitchen counter. "What'd you get?"

"Stuff."

"Specific stuff?"

"Very specific stuff."

That immediately narrowed the possibilities to either food or explosives.

Dean began unloading the bags.

Hot dogs.

Hamburger buns.

Potato salad.

Chips.

Beer.

More beer.

Sam nodded approvingly. "Okay, barbecue supplies make sense."

Dean continued unloading.

Ketchup.

Mustard.

Paper plates.

Napkins.

Then, finally, Dean reached into the bottom of the second bag and carefully set a long rectangular box on the counter.

Sam stared.

Dean stared back.

The box sat between them.

Sparklers.

Not fireworks.

Not Roman candles or bottle rockets or anything likely to get them arrested.

Just sparklers.

For some reason, the sight of them hit Sam like a physical thing.

Heat.

Summer air.

Smoke hanging in the darkness.

A field.

The Impala.

Something tugged at the edge of memory before slipping away again.

Dean saw him looking. "Oh." His voice softened slightly. "Yeah."

That was all he said.

No explanation.

No joke.

Just... yeah.

Sam looked from the sparklers to his brother and back again.

The feeling of almost remembering lingered stubbornly at the edge of his thoughts.

Somewhere deep in his memory, something was trying very hard to be found.

Dean picked up the box and set it carefully aside with the rest of the supplies. "We should leave around seven," he said, almost casually. "Get there before the crowds get bad."

Sam looked up sharply. "You're planning arrival times now?"

Dean pointed a hot dog package at him. "Preparation prevents suffering."

"You mocked me for saying that in Minnesota."

"Different context."

"Same sentence."

Dean shrugged. "Growth."

Sam laughed despite himself.

Across the kitchen, Dean grinned.

For just a moment, he looked younger somehow.

Lighter.

Like there was something he was looking forward to with both hands.

Sam wasn't sure he'd seen that look on his brother's face nearly enough over the years.

Whatever this was, he thought as he watched Dean disappear into the pantry with hamburger buns under one arm, maybe it was worth the mystery a little longer.

By six-thirty, the bunker had taken on the peculiar atmosphere that always accompanied departures that weren't hunts.

There was no frantic scramble for weapons. No last-minute checks of ammunition supplies or lore books shoved hastily into duffel bags. Nobody was researching local disappearances or suspicious deaths or unexplained animal attacks in neighboring counties.

Dean was packing a cooler.

Sam stood in the kitchen doorway and watched his brother carefully arrange bottles of beer between bags of ice with the kind of concentration he usually reserved for rebuilding engines.

"You know," Sam said, "most people just buy drinks when they get there."

Dean looked up. "Most people also pay eight dollars for a bottle of water at baseball games."

"Fair."

Dean nodded once and returned to his work. A few moments later he added, almost as an afterthought, "Besides, parking lot food before fireworks is tradition."

Sam frowned slightly. "Since when?"

Dean shrugged. "Since always."

That wasn't an answer.

Dean knew it wasn't an answer.

But he also clearly wasn't interested in elaborating, so Sam let it go.

For now.

The drive into town was quieter than Sam expected.

Not awkward quiet.

Not heavy.

Just comfortable.

Kansas rolled past outside the windows in shades of green and gold as the sun slowly began its descent toward the horizon. The fields surrounding Lebanon seemed to stretch forever in every direction, the summer heat softening the edges of the landscape beneath a sky so blue it almost looked artificial.

Dean drove with one arm hanging out the open window, fingers tapping absently against the door in time with the music drifting from the speakers. He looked relaxed in a way Sam hadn't fully appreciated until he saw it.

Not distracted.

Not forcing it.

Relaxed.

No case waiting in the bunker.

No apocalypse breathing down their necks.

No phone waiting to ring.

Just an evening.

Just fireworks.

The realization felt stranger than it should have.

By the time they reached the fairgrounds, the town was already beginning to gather.

Cars lined the roads leading toward the fields, and clusters of people moved through the warm evening carrying folding chairs, blankets, coolers, and enough snacks to survive a siege. Children darted through the crowds waving glow sticks while parents called after them with varying levels of success.

Dean parked farther back than necessary.

Sam noticed. "You hate walking."

"I hate parking lot exits more."

Also true.

They climbed out of the Impala and were immediately greeted by the sound of distant laughter and country music drifting across the grounds. Somewhere nearby, somebody had started grilling hours ago, and the air smelled like charcoal, barbecue sauce, and fresh-cut grass baking beneath the last heat of the day.

Dean closed the driver's door and stopped for a moment.

Not long.

Just long enough to look around.

Sam watched him do it.

Families spread blankets across the grass. Teenagers tossed footballs back and forth while waiting for darkness to arrive. A little girl in a red shirt ran past carrying sparklers bigger than her forearm while her older brother followed close behind looking equal parts annoyed and protective.

Dean's expression softened.

There and gone again.

But Sam saw it. "You okay?"

Dean blinked and looked over. "Yeah."

The answer came easily.

Honestly.

Not defensive.

Just yes.

For some reason, that unsettled Sam more than if Dean had brushed him off.

They found a spot near the edge of the field overlooking the fairgrounds and set down the cooler. Dean seemed oddly particular about where they sat, adjusting their location twice before finally settling on a patch of grass with a clear view of the open sky above the trees.

"Good enough?"

Dean glanced around. Then nodded. "Yeah."

Again with that certainty.

Sam lowered himself onto the blanket and stretched his legs out in front of him while Dean remained standing, hands shoved into his jacket pockets despite the warmth of the evening.

Around them, the crowd continued to grow.

The sky had begun its slow transformation from blue to gold now, the sun hanging low enough to cast long shadows across the field. Somewhere in the distance, someone tested a firework prematurely and a small burst of red exploded against the horizon.

The sound cracked through the evening air.

Dean's hand immediately twitched toward his hip.

Sam turned instinctively toward the sound.

For one ridiculous second, both brothers froze.

Then they looked at each other.

Dean snorted first.

Sam followed a second later. "Conditioning," Sam said.

"Yep."

Neither of them mentioned that Dean's hand had gone for a gun that wasn't there.

Neither of them mentioned that Sam had immediately started scanning for threats.

Some habits settled too deep to ever fully disappear.

Another small firework popped somewhere in town.

This time neither of them reacted.

Progress.

Dean dropped onto the blanket beside him and reached for the cooler. "You want a beer?"

Sam accepted the bottle automatically.

As Dean settled back against his hands and looked out over the growing crowd, Sam caught that expression again.

Not excitement.

Not exactly.

Recognition.

And suddenly, standing in a Kansas field as the sun slipped lower toward the horizon, Sam felt that memory tug at him again.

The Impala.

Fireworks.

Smoke.

A field.

Dean driving.

His eyes narrowed slightly. "...Dean."

"Hm?"

"This wasn't your first choice of spot, was it?"

Dean glanced over. "What do you mean?"

"The field."

Sam looked around at the open grass surrounding them. "The edge of town. Open sky. Away from the crowd."

Understanding flickered across Dean's face. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Dean looked back toward the horizon. "No," he said quietly. "It wasn't."

And suddenly Sam knew they weren't really talking about parking anymore.

Dean was quiet for a while after that.

Not evasive quiet. Not the kind of silence that meant he was building walls or looking for an exit from the conversation. This was different. Softer. More like someone standing in front of an old photograph they'd forgotten they still owned.

Around them, the fairgrounds continued to fill. Someone nearby was arguing good-naturedly about the proper way to grill a hamburger. A group of teenagers kicked a soccer ball back and forth near the tree line while younger kids darted through the grass wielding glow sticks like tiny lightsabers. Somewhere off to their right, a radio played an old country song that Sam was fairly certain Dean secretly liked and would deny under oath.

The sun continued its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the fields in gold.

Dean cracked open his beer.

For a long moment, Dean said nothing at all.

Then, quietly: "I was seventeen."

Sam turned toward him.

Dean wasn't looking at him. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon where the last traces of sunlight were bleeding out of the sky.

"You were thirteen," he continued. "Dad was gone on a hunt somewhere. Nebraska, maybe. Oklahoma. One of the square states."

Sam laughed. "Most of them are square states."

"Yeah, well, geography's never really been my thing."

That was difficult to argue with.

Dean rolled the beer bottle between his palms for a moment before continuing. "Dad left instructions."

Sam snorted. "Which means you ignored them immediately."

Dean looked offended. "I considered them."

"You stole the Impala."

"Borrowed."

"You stole the Impala."

Dean considered this carefully. "...Temporary unauthorized borrowing."

"That's called stealing."

"Agree to disagree."

Sam shook his head, laughing despite himself.

The memory was beginning to return now, not in flashes anymore but in actual moments. The humid summer air. The smell of cut grass. The deep, impossible excitement of being told to get in the car because Dean had somewhere they were going.

Not a hunt.

Not a motel.

Not another town they'd forget by morning.

Somewhere else.

Somewhere normal.

"We found one of those roadside fireworks tents," Dean said. "You know the ones. They show up for about two weeks every year and somehow sell enough explosives to finance a small country."

Sam barked out a laugh.

"That's actually pretty accurate."

"We bought sparklers."

The memory clicked into place.

"And fireworks."

Dean grinned. "Oh, we bought so many fireworks."

"You bought Roman candles."

"Absolutely."

"Firecrackers."

"Yep."

"Bottle rockets."

"Oh, definitely bottle rockets."

Sam stared at him. "Dean, where did you get the money for all of this?"

Dean frowned thoughtfully. "I honestly don't remember."

"That's because you spent all of it on fireworks."

"Entirely possible."

The grin widened slightly. "Worth it, though."

And suddenly Sam could see it perfectly.

Dean standing beside the Impala with a lighter in one hand and all the confidence of a seventeen-year-old boy who had never seriously considered the possibility of consequences. Sam standing nearby with sparklers while Dean insisted that this next one was going to be awesome.

Smoke hanging in the summer air.

Sulfur.

Laughter.

Freedom.

Then: "Oh my God."

Dean glanced over. "What?"

"The field."

Dean immediately winced. "...Yeah."

"We set the field on fire."

Dean held up a finger. "We set part of the field on fire."

"Dean."

"It wasn't the whole field."

"It was enough of the field that we had to put it out."

Dean considered this. "That's fair."

Sam was laughing now.

Not because it wasn't dangerous.

Not because it hadn't been monumentally stupid.

Because it had been so spectacularly, perfectly Dean.

"You told me not to panic."

"Solid advice."

"You were panicking."

"I was managing the situation."

"You yelled, 'Get the Sprite!'"

Dean pointed immediately. "It was the nearest liquid."

"It was lemon-lime soda."

"It was an emergency."

"You threw soda on a grass fire."

"And eventually the grass stopped being on fire."

Sam stared at him.

Dean stared back. "...Technically successful."

The laugh that escaped Sam this time was helpless.

Beside him, Dean was laughing too, shaking his head at the memory. "You know Dad would've killed us."

"Oh, absolutely."

"He would've buried us in that field."

"He would've buried me in that field."

That, at least, was undeniably true.

The laughter faded slowly after that, settling into something quieter as the sky overhead darkened another shade and the first stars began appearing above the fairgrounds.

Dean took another sip of his beer and looked back out over the crowd. "Still worth it, though."

The words came easily.

Without hesitation.

Without qualification.

Sam looked over.

Dean shrugged. "Come on. We had fireworks. We had sparklers. We committed minor arson."

"Minor arson."

"Moderate arson."

"Dean."

Dean grinned. "My point is, it was a good Fourth of July."

The simplicity of it landed harder than Sam expected.

Because thirteen-year-old Sam had remembered the fireworks.

He'd remembered the sparklers.

He'd remembered the excitement of doing something forbidden and wonderful and loud beneath an open summer sky.

What forty-something Sam saw now was something else entirely.

Dean had been seventeen.

Seventeen.

Still a kid himself.

And somehow his first instinct when John Winchester left town had been to look at his little brother and decide: He deserves a Fourth of July.

Not a hunter's Fourth of July.

Not another night in a motel room waiting for Dad to call.

A real one.

Messy.

Loud.

Potentially flammable.

But real.

Sam swallowed against the unexpected tightness in his throat. "You know," he said quietly, "I don't think I ever thanked you for that."

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"The fireworks."

Dean looked genuinely confused. "Sam, it was fireworks."

"No," Sam said softly. "It wasn't."

For a moment, Dean didn't answer.

Then he looked back toward the darkening sky and shrugged one shoulder.

"Figured you deserved one."

Simple.

Matter-of-fact.

As though he were talking about lending Sam twenty bucks or picking up groceries on the way home.

Not stealing one ordinary summer night from a childhood that hadn't offered many of them.

Not giving his little brother something Dean himself had never really gotten to have.

Just Dean.

Just being Dean.

And somehow, Sam thought, that made it mean even more.

The first firework exploded overhead.

Both brothers flinched.

Dean's hand twitched toward his hip.

Sam's head snapped toward the sound.

For one absurd second they sat there in full hunter mode, scanning a fireworks display for threats.

Then Dean looked over.

Sam looked back.

Dean started laughing first.

The sound was warm and helpless and genuine.

"Oh, that's sad."

"We're broken people."

"Little bit."

Another firework bloomed across the sky, red fading into gold above the fairgrounds.

This time neither of them moved.

Instead they leaned back against the blanket and watched the colors spill across the darkness overhead while children cheered around them and applause rolled through the crowd.

For once, loud noises didn't mean gunfire.

For once, explosions didn't mean danger.

For once, they were just fireworks.

When he lifted his gaze and saw you standing on the stairs, something changed in his green eyes.

For a second, the man who had always carried you on his shoulders and taught you to shoot with a bow in the backyard disappeared. Only that dark, heavy gaze remained, almost guilty.

"Stay upstairs," he told you with a hoarse, low voice, as if he could still protect you from all of this.

Your father stood beside him, his face drawn, saying nothing as the officers lifted him up. He didn't resist. He only looked at you one last time before they led him out the door, his head slightly inclined, but his back straight.

Ten years had passed since that night.

Your father's car drove along the secondary road that led to the state prison. The sky was gray, heavy with low clouds, and the silence inside the vehicle was uncomfortable. You sat in the passenger seat with your arms crossed, looking out the window without really paying attention to the landscape. You were not happy to be there.

"Why do I have to come with you?" you finally asked, breaking the silence. "You could have come alone."

Your father sighed long, not taking his eyes off the road.

"Because he was important to this family for many years. And because I'm asking you, just this once."

You crossed your legs and rested your head against the glass. You had accepted reluctantly. You knew your father felt indebted to him, but that didn't mean you had to be part of this reunion.

After a while, curiosity got the better of your irritation.

"And why isn't his wife coming to pick him up? That's what wives are supposed to do, right?"

Your father took a few seconds to answer.

"They're going through a rough patch. He preferred she wouldn't come."

You frowned. You didn't even know he had gotten married. The idea seemed strange to you: how was it possible to get married while in prison? Apparently it was, because he had done it. With a woman you and your father knew practically nothing about. Only that her name was something like Lisa or Laura... you weren't sure. A stranger who had entered his life while he served his sentence.

It took about ten more minutes to reach the exit area. The access road to the prison was long and flanked by barbed wire and guard towers. Your father drove in silence, hands gripping the wheel, and just a few meters before coming to a complete stop, you saw him.

He was standing outside, next to the curb, with a dark canvas bag at his feet.

He had changed a lot. He was no longer the man you remembered. His figure had broadened, his shoulders wider and his arms stronger, as if the years in prison had hardened him rather than broken him. He wore a worn beige jacket over a denim shirt, his brown hair a bit longer and disheveled, and a thick, well-groomed beard that covered his strong jaw. His green eyes were still intense.

A strange sensation ran through your body at seeing him: a mix of nerves, curiosity, and something you didn't want to identify. Your heart beat faster and you felt uncomfortable warmth rise up your neck.

Your father stopped the car. Barely turning off the engine, he got out quickly and walked toward him. The two men met halfway and embraced with force, patting each other's backs.

"I missed you, brother," your father said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "It's been too many years."

He returned the embrace with the same intensity, though his expression remained more contained. When they separated, he took a step back and looked toward the car. His eyes landed directly on you.

"Is that her?" he asked with a half-smile, that deep, hoarse voice that seemed to have matured with time. "Damn... you've grown so much."

Your father let out a low laugh and waved you over with his hand.

"Come on, come here."

You hesitated for a second, but finally got out of the car. You closed the door and walked toward them with slow steps. When you were close enough, he looked you up and down with that disarming intensity. You leaned forward slightly and kissed him on the cheek.

In that instant, you felt the brush of his thick beard against your skin. It was rougher than you imagined, but warm at the same time. A shiver ran down your spine and, for a moment, you liked it more than you were willing to admit. He smelled of soap, fresh air, and something masculine that felt unsettlingly familiar.

He went still for a second, as if he had felt something too from that brief contact, and then gave you a small, almost private smile.

Your father patted his friend's shoulder and nodded toward the car with his head.

"Come on, get in the car. No point in staying here any longer."

You moved first and got into the back seat without saying anything, leaving the front seat for him. It was the most logical thing to do, but you still felt a slight tension as you settled in. He took his bag, left it in the trunk, and sat up front. The aroma of his jacket and his skin filled the interior of the car subtly but inevitably.

When your father started the engine and began driving away from the prison, he broke the silence:

"We have a room ready for you at home. She helped me get it ready these past few days," he said, looking at you in the rearview mirror with a grateful smile.

He turned his head slightly back, observing you for a moment.

"Thank you," he murmured with that deep voice. "It wasn't necessary, but I appreciate it."

Your father nodded, visibly happy to have him back.

"We have a lot to talk about, friend..."

You couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at you.

"And why don't you go with your wife?" you asked, looking at his neck. "I also wanted to know... where does she live?"

The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Your father gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"That's enough," he cut you off with a firm tone. "You shouldn't ask those questions."

He, however, raised a hand in a calm gesture.

"It's fine," he said calmly, turning slightly to look at you over his shoulder. His green eyes met yours through the rearview mirror. "I'm not going with her because we're going through a rough patch. And she lives in Texas."

You nodded, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

"I'm sorry," you murmured. "I didn't mean to be nosy."

You settled better in the back seat and stayed quiet for the rest of the trip, looking out the window as the fields sped by. However, you couldn't help but be aware of his presence. Every time he spoke with your father, his hoarse voice reached you and, from time to time, you felt his gaze shift toward the mirror to watch you.

They arrived at the house as the sun began to set. Your father parked at the entrance and everyone got out. He took his canvas bag from the trunk and slung it over his shoulder with ease, as if it weighed nothing.

"Come on, I'll show you your room," you said, trying to sound natural.

You guided him down the first-floor hallway to the guest room that you had helped prepare. You opened the door and stepped aside to let him pass. The room was clean, with fresh sheets, folded towels on the dresser, and a window overlooking the back patio.

"Thank you," he said in a low voice, setting the bag on a chair. His green eyes scanned the space before resting on you. "I really appreciate this."

"It's nothing," you responded, shrugging your shoulders. "Make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, let me know."

You left the room somewhat nervously, your pulse a bit quickened. You closed the door behind you and headed straight to the kitchen. You opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, and poured yourself a glass. You drank a long sip, trying to calm that strange unease you'd felt since seeing him outside the prison.

Less than two minutes had passed when you heard footsteps. Both he and your father appeared in the kitchen entrance.

"Your boyfriend's at the door," your father announced with a half-smile, gesturing toward the front entrance.

You let out a sigh of annoyance and set the glass on the counter with more force than necessary.

"He's not my boyfriend," you protested, irritated. "I've told you that several times."

Without waiting for a response, you left the kitchen and headed toward the front door, feeling the gaze of both men on your back. Especially his.

That night you came home quite late. You had spent the rest of the day with your "boyfriend," trying to distract yourself and get away from the strange tension that had settled in the house since his arrival. Your father didn't scold you for the hour; you were always late coming home.

You walked down the hallway in silence, shoes in hand so you wouldn't make noise. Your room was at the end, just after the one he now occupied. As you passed his door, you noticed it was slightly ajar. A warm light came from inside, along with the clear sound of his deep voice.

You couldn't help but stop.

He was standing in the middle of the room, shirtless. The lamp light highlighted every line of his torso: the broad shoulders, the chest and abdomen muscles marked by years of hard exercise, even in prison. A thin layer of hair ran down from his chest and disappeared below the waistband of his pants. He was speaking on the phone in a low but clearly angry tone.

"...don't start with that again. You know perfectly well why I'm here," he said, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "No, I'm not going to discuss this now."

He turned and dropped into the chair next to the window. As he sat, his pants tightened against his strong thighs, and for a second your gaze dropped without you being able to help it. Everything was clearly visible on him. He was large. The word appeared in your mind before you could stop it, accompanied by sudden warmth that rose through your stomach.

You shook your head quickly, trying to erase that thought. What the hell is wrong with you? you reproached yourself silently. He was your father's best friend. He had just gotten out of prison. He was married.

You took a careful step back, your heart beating hard. Before he could turn around and see you, you moved away down the hallway and entered your room, closing the door softly behind you. You leaned against the wood, breathing heavily.

You went to sleep with your head in a mess, but sleep took a long time to come. You tossed and turned in bed for hours, with the image of his bare torso and that deep voice arguing on the phone repeating in your mind. When you finally fell asleep, it was restless sleep.

The next morning you woke up in a bad mood. You had dark circles under your eyes and a slight headache. All you wanted was a strong coffee. You walked barefoot to the kitchen, still in your pajamas, expecting to find the coffee pot full like every morning, but the pot was empty.

That finished making you furious.

You entered the living room with a frown.

"Why is there no coffee?" you asked grumpily.

Your father, who was sitting on the couch reviewing some papers, looked up.

"Sorry, honey. He finished it," he said, nodding his head toward the other side of the room.

There he was, sitting in one of the armchairs with a cup in his hand, already dressed in a tight black t-shirt and jeans. He looked at you calmly, but you gave him a sharp look in return and went back to the kitchen furious, opening and closing doors with more force than necessary.

Not even ten seconds passed when you heard his footsteps behind you.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he said, coming into the kitchen. "I didn't know it was your coffee. Let me make another one, no problem."

"I don't want anything," you responded without looking at him, opening the refrigerator just to do something. "I just want you to leave."

He stayed silent for a moment. Then he spoke with a lower but firm voice.

"You're being very rude. I was just trying to help you."

"I don't need your help," you replied, closing the refrigerator with a bang.

He sighed and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement made the t-shirt tense across his shoulders.

"You weren't like this when you were little," he commented, looking at you with a mix of surprise and something like disappointment. "You were a sweet girl who was always smiling."

You turned to him with fire in your eyes.

"A lot of years have passed," you answered curtly. "I've changed. And so have you."

Without waiting for a response, you left the kitchen angrily, brushing his arm as you passed. The brief contact sent a shiver through you that you preferred to ignore as you headed back to your room.

You sat on the edge of your bed with a heavy sigh and picked up your phone, scrolling through messages without much interest. You were still angry, but the anger was beginning to mix with a feeling of guilt. About ten minutes had passed when you heard two soft knocks on the door.

"Come in," you said.

The door opened and there he was, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He had changed t-shirts and his presence filled the doorway. He entered carefully, as if he didn't want to invade your space.

"I brought this," he said, extending the cup. "And I wanted to apologize again for drinking your coffee. I didn't know you were so territorial about it."

You accepted the cup with a small embarrassed smile. The aroma was perfect.

"Thank you..." you murmured before taking the first sip. The coffee was exactly how you liked it. "I'm sorry for how I treated you earlier. I slept terribly last night and waking up without coffee was awful. I got in a really bad mood."

He nodded, accepting your apologies. Then, without asking permission, he sat down next to you on the bed. The mattress sank noticeably under his weight, tilting you slightly toward him. Being this close made you very aware of his size, his body heat, and the slight smell of soap and clean skin that he gave off.

You looked at him sideways.

"Can I ask you something?" you said.

He raised an eyebrow and gave a half-smile.

"You're already asking," he replied with a teasing tone.

You laughed softly, feeling some of the tension ease.

"Another question," you clarified. "Why did you go to prison?"

He was silent for a few seconds, looking at the cup in your hands. Finally, he spoke in a calm voice.

"I was involved in illegal business. Mainly weapon trafficking and stolen goods. They caught me in a big operation. It wasn't something planned to hurt innocent people, but it was still serious."

You frowned.

"I thought it had been something much worse... given how many years you served."

He let out a low, dry laugh.

"They gave me more years than I deserved because during the trial, I lost control and beat up the judge. It wasn't my best moment."

You looked at him surprised, your eyes wide.

"Really?"

"Yes," he confirmed, looking directly into your eyes. "Really."

The silence stretched between you for a moment. Then he stood up.

"I have to go, your father is waiting for me to talk about some things."

As he stood, he placed his large, strong hand on your thigh to push himself up. The contact lasted just a few seconds, but it was enough. You felt the weight, the heat, and the firmness of his palm through the thin pajama fabric. A shiver ran across your skin and all the hair on your arm stood on end. It was a big hand, calloused, powerful.

He withdrew his hand and left through the door, closing it softly behind him, leaving you alone in the room with your heart beating hard and the coffee still warm in your hands.

The rest of the week passed in a strange but growing routine of cohabitation. Little by little you learned to share the same space without the atmosphere becoming too tense. You arrived home late almost every night, after spending time with your friend or simply trying to distract yourself.

Every time you came into the house, he was usually awake. Sometimes he was sitting in the living room watching television with the volume low, and he would greet you with a simple "you're home" or a slight nod of his head. Other nights, you would pass his half-open door and hear him arguing in a low voice with his wife. His tone was always grave and tired, and you forced yourself to keep walking toward your room without stopping.

During the day, he helped your father with everything he needed: fixing things in the garage, moving furniture, mowing the lawn, or simply accompanying him on errands. You tried to keep your distance, but you couldn't help noticing how, from time to time, his gaze landed on you with more intensity than necessary.

When you cooked, when you read on the couch, or simply passed through the hallway. And you... also looked at him. More than you wanted to admit.

By the end of the second week, the tension between you had become more palpable, though neither of you said anything.

That afternoon you were in the kitchen preparing dinner while you waited for your father to come home from work. You were cutting vegetables with precise movements when you felt his presence. He came in and leaned against the counter, observing you with his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a gray t-shirt that fit his shoulders and arms, and he looked at you with that calm half-smile that was starting to seem dangerous to you.

"Are you just going to stand there watching?" you asked without looking up from the knife.

He let out a low, hoarse laugh.

"I can't help much, I don't know how to cook."

You rolled your eyes but smiled a little.

"Help me anyway. Hand me that pan behind you and the oil from the top shelf."

He obeyed, stepping closer than necessary to hand you the things. As he handed you the pan, his fingers brushed yours for a second.

"Of course, princess," he said softly, using the old nickname he used to call you when you were a child.

You went still for a moment and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow.

"Does it bother you that I call you that?"

"No," you answered, turning back to the pan. "I like it."

The atmosphere became warmer. He handed you the ingredients you asked for, moving around the kitchen with that imposing presence that filled the entire space. From time to time you felt his gaze on your neck, on your hips, or on the movement of your hands as you cooked.

At one point, his phone rang. He looked at the screen, frowned, and moved a few steps toward the living room to answer. He returned several minutes later with a tense jaw.

You didn't want to ask, but the words came out on their own.

"Who was it?"

"My wife," he answered curtly, putting his phone in his pocket.

"Oh," was all you said, and you continued stirring the food in the pan.

He approached slowly from behind, stopping at a distance that was too short. You could feel the heat of his body.

"She wants to come visit me this weekend," he commented in a low voice.

"That's not my problem," you responded in a neutral tone, though you felt a knot in your stomach. "Tell my father. This is his house, not mine."

He didn't move. Instead, he took another step closer. The smell of his skin and the slight brush of his arm against yours made your breathing accelerate. You moved to the side, pretending you needed something from the other end of the counter.

Just then, the front door opened.

"I'm home!" your father announced from the entrance.

The two of you separated immediately. You continued focused on the kitchen as if nothing had happened, while he turned toward the living room to greet your father.

Neither of you said another word about the subject.

The three of you sat down to dinner at the dining table. The conversation flowed relatively normally: your father asked how his day had been, and he answered calmly, commenting on the things they had fixed together. Toward the end of dinner, he mentioned casually.

"My wife wants to come visit me this weekend. If there's no problem, of course."

Your father nodded without hesitation.

"No problem at all, brother. This is also your home. She can stay as long as she needs."

You remained silent, poking at your food with your fork. You didn't say anything, but you felt an uncomfortable pang in your chest that you preferred to ignore.

After dinner, you began to gather the plates and utensils and he got up too.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"You don't need to," you responded without looking at him. "You can go to sleep if you want. I'll take care of it."

He observed you for a moment, but finally nodded and withdrew down the hallway. Your father went to his room shortly after, leaving the house in complete silence.

You stayed alone in the kitchen, tidying everything with methodical movements. You washed the dishes, cleaned the counters, and put away what you could. However, when you tried to place a heavy glass container on the highest shelf of the cupboard, you realized you couldn't reach it. Even standing on a chair, you couldn't reach it well, and besides, it had to go in a specific position to fit with the other things.

You sighed, annoyed. You didn't want to leave it sitting on the counter. After hesitating for a few seconds, you walked down the hallway and knocked softly on his door.

He opened almost immediately. He was shirtless, his wide, marked torso completely exposed under the dim light of the room. The muscles of his chest and abdomen tensed slightly when he saw you, and that line of dark hair running down toward the waistband of his sweatpants distracted you more than you would have liked.

You swallowed and tried to maintain a neutral expression.

"Can you help me for a second?" you asked, gesturing toward the kitchen. "There's something I can't put away up high."

"Of course," he answered without hesitation.

He followed you down the hallway. Once in the kitchen, you grabbed the heavy container with both hands.

"Put it there," you instructed him, pointing to the upper shelf. "It has to be pushed toward the back so it closes properly."

He approached from behind. When he stretched his arms to take the container, his body pressed against yours. His broad chest brushed against your back, and you could clearly feel the heat of his bare skin through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. His height and build made you feel completely surrounded.

For a moment, your traitorous mind imagined what it would be like to lean back, arch against him, and let him touch you right there, just for him. To feel those large, strong hands holding you. The idea hit you with force and heat.

No. This is wrong, you mentally scolded yourself. He's older. He's married. He's dad's best friend. There's nothing good in this.

As soon as he finished adjusting the container, he lowered his arms, but didn't move away immediately. His body remained pressed against yours for a few more seconds, firm and warm. Then he took a step back.

"Done," he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.

"Thanks," you said, not meeting his eyes.

He gave you a long last look before heading toward the hallway.

"Good night, princess," he said in a low voice.

"Good night," you responded, almost in a whisper.

When you heard his door close, you released the breath you didn't know you were holding and leaned against the counter, your heart racing and uncomfortable heat coursing through your entire body.

That night you had planned to go to bed early. You were tired after a long day and the heat wasn't helping, but your phone vibrated on your bed.

It was Tony, asking you to go out for a bit. You hesitated for only a few seconds before responding that you would.

You changed quickly in your room, opting for something cooler: a thin sleeveless t-shirt and a short cotton skirt that felt light against your skin. It was too hot that night. You fixed your hair a bit, grabbed your keys and phone, and left down the hallway, trying not to make noise. You wanted to avoid your father knowing you were going out so late, but as you passed the door of your father's best friend, it suddenly opened.

He was there, shirtless again, only with sweatpants low on his hips. He looked you up and down with a frown.

"Where are you going?" he asked in a low but firm voice.

You quickly put a finger to your lips, silencing him.

"To see Tony," you whispered. "I don't want my dad to know, it's already late."

He crossed his arms over his chest, marking his muscles even more.

"What you're doing is wrong. Going out at this hour without your father knowing..."

"You're not the one to tell me what's right or wrong," you answered curtly, meeting his eyes. "You're the last person to give lessons."

At that precise moment, the sound of your father's bedroom door opening at the end of the hallway was heard.

Without giving you time to react, he grabbed your arm and dragged you inside his room with a quick but controlled movement. He closed the door carefully, almost without sound. Suddenly you found yourself pressed against his body. Your back was against his bare chest, and one of his large hands firmly positioned itself on your stomach, pulling you against him to keep you from moving. You could feel the heat of his skin, the firmness of his muscles, and the strong beat of his heart against your back.

You stayed completely still, nervous, with your pulse racing. The smell of his skin surrounded you and you felt every inch of his body pressed against yours.

Neither of you moved.

You heard your father walk down the hallway, open the bathroom door, and after some eternal minutes, return to his room and close the door. Only then did he loosen his hand on your stomach and slowly open his door.

He took a step back, creating distance between you.

"Sorry," he murmured, looking at you with intensity. "I didn't want him to see you."

You said nothing. You had rapid breathing and flushed cheeks. You just looked at him for a second longer before leaving his room without a word and walking quickly toward the front door.

You felt his gaze fixed on your back until you left the house.

You left the house without looking back and got into Tony's car. The night didn't go well. Things between you had been tense for weeks, and that outing ended in a strong argument. You got home around 4 in the morning, with eyes swollen from crying. You tried to come in as quietly as possible, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

But as soon as you closed the front door, you saw him.

He was sitting on the living room couch in the dim light, with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked up as soon as he heard the door and stood immediately, his expression changing when he saw you.

You tried to hurry past toward your room, but he was faster. He caught you gently by the arm before you could escape.

"Wait..." he said in a low voice. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you murmured, trying to free yourself and without meeting his eyes. "Let me go."

He didn't let you go. Instead, he turned you toward him carefully, and seeing your red eyes and tears still fresh on your cheeks, his expression hardened.

"Tell me what happened," he insisted, more gently this time.

As you didn't respond, he raised a hand and gently took your face, forcing you to look at him. His palm was large and warm against your cheek. His green eyes observed you with an intensity that disarmed you.

"Talk to me," he asked in a low voice.

You ended up telling him everything between contained sobs: the argument, how Tony had made you feel, how frustrated you were. He listened without interrupting, with a frown and tense jaw.

"You're not going to see him again," he said when you finished, with a firm and protective voice. "He doesn't deserve you. You deserve something much better than that."

You stayed silent for a moment, processing his words. Then, with a trembling voice, you asked.

"Can I hug you?"

He nodded without hesitation.

You moved closer and hugged him tightly, burying your face in his bare chest. His arms wrapped around you immediately, completely enveloping you. One of his large hands slowly caressed your back, while the other rested on the back of your neck. You felt small and protected against his warm, strong body. He smelled like him, something deeply masculine. You stayed like that for several seconds, letting him comfort you.

"Why are you awake?" you asked without separating.

"I couldn't sleep until I made sure you got home safely," he answered with a hoarse voice, still holding you.

You slowly separated from him, though part of you didn't want to. You stood on your tiptoes and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek, very close to the corner of his lips.

"Thank you," you whispered. "I'm going to sleep. Good night."

"Good night," he responded, looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.

You walked toward your room feeling his gaze fixed on your back. You closed the door and leaned against it, your heart beating hard and a mix of emotions you didn't know how to handle.

You spent two days avoiding him as much as possible. You barely exchanged words with him, left early and came home late, or locked yourself in your room with some excuse. He seemed to notice, but didn't pressure you. He just watched you from afar with that intense gaze that made you nervous.

The weekend arrived and you woke up around 10 in the morning in a very bad mood. You didn't know exactly why, but you felt strange, irritable, and with a heavy sensation in your chest. You got up, put on an oversized t-shirt and some shorts, and headed to the kitchen. Your father was alone, drinking mate at the table.

"Where is he?" you asked while making your coffee.

"He went to pick up his wife at the airport," your father answered naturally. "They should be arriving soon."

You felt an uncomfortable pang in your stomach. Jealousy? Maybe. You didn't want to analyze it too much. You just nodded in silence and continued making your coffee, trying to make sure your expression didn't give anything away.

Around 11:30 you heard the sound of a car parking in front of the house. Your heart jumped. You didn't want to go out to greet them, so you quietly approached the living room window and peeked through the curtains.

He got out of the car first. He looked imposing as always, with dark jeans and a black rolled-up shirt. He walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger door.

Then you saw her.

His wife was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She had long, dark, wavy hair and a voluptuous body: pronounced curves, wide hips, and generous breasts. She dressed casually but elegantly, with fitted pants and a blouse that marked her forms. She was beautiful, with a confident smile and a presence that filled the space.

She looked nothing like you.

That bothered you more than you were willing to admit. You felt a knot in your throat and an unpleasant heat in your chest. You moved away from the window before they could see you, with your heart beating hard and a discomfort you couldn't explain.

You heard the voices outside: your father coming out to greet them, the introductions, the polite laughs. You stayed in the kitchen, pretending to wash your coffee cup, though really you were just trying to calm yourself.

After a few minutes, you managed to calm down enough. You took a deep breath, fixed your hair a bit, and went out to the front of the house with a forced smile.

"Hi," you said as you approached.

He looked at you immediately. His expression was unreadable, but you clearly felt his eyes landing on you.

The woman turned toward you with a friendly smile and extended her hand.

"Hi, I'm Laura," she introduced herself with a warm, confident voice.

"Nice to meet you," you responded, shaking her hand. You tried to smile as best you could, though you felt like it wasn't quite natural.

You moved instinctively closer to your father, almost seeking protection, while you felt his gaze fixed on you. Laura started talking animatedly with your father about the trip and how grateful she was to be received. You barely heard her. Your attention was on something else: his large hand resting possessively on Laura's waist, not letting go at any moment. His fingers looked firm against the fabric of her blouse.

That image stirred something inside you. When everyone came into the house, Laura looked around with interest and smiled.

"If you don't mind, I can cook something," she offered enthusiastically. "I'm pretty good in the kitchen and I want to make a good impression."

Your father accepted immediately, clearly pleased.

"Of course! That would be great."

You didn't open your mouth. You knew that if you spoke at that moment, you would probably say something sharp or out of place. It bothered you deeply that someone else would invade "your" kitchen, the space that felt like your own. You'd never been good at hiding that kind of emotion: your expression became more serious and your body visibly tensed.

Laura seemed to notice, but said nothing. She continued talking with your father as they headed to the kitchen. He, on the other hand, stayed a few seconds longer and looked at you intensely, as if measuring your reaction.

You avoided his gaze and followed them in silence, with an uncomfortable knot in your stomach and a mix of jealousy and anger that you didn't want to feel.

You stayed in the kitchen watching her.

Laura moved around with confidence, as if she already knew the place. She cut vegetables, seasoned the meat, and talked animatedly with him, touching his arm or back from time to time. She acted as if he hadn't spent more than ten years in prison, as if she hadn't practically abandoned him as soon as he got out. Every laugh, every touch, irritated you more.

You couldn't take it anymore.

"I won't be able to have lunch," you announced suddenly, interrupting the conversation. "I have things to do."

Your father frowned, visibly annoyed.

"That's very disrespectful, honey. We have a visitor."

"I'm not hungry," you answered curtly. "I'm going to see Tony. I'll be back later."

You took the keys from the table and left through the front door without waiting for a response, ignoring the heavy gaze fixed on your back.

You came home near midnight. You had spent all day with Tony, though being with him felt increasingly like torture. The conversations were forced and his goodbye kiss in front of the house tasted empty. Still, you reciprocated, letting him kiss you with more intensity than you really wanted.

What you didn't know was that from the living room window, he was watching you.

You came into the house trying not to make noise. Everything was silent and dark. For a second you hoped to find him awake, like the other nights, but there was no one there. That disappointment fell on your chest like a weight. You went straight to your room, changed clothes, and got into bed with your phone.

An hour later, when you were already half asleep, you heard it.

At first you thought it was your imagination. Muffled moans, the rhythmic sound of the bed against the wall. But no, they were real and they came from his room. That made your blood run cold.

You got out of bed with your heart racing and opened your room door. You walked barefoot down the hallway, attracted to the sound as if you couldn't help it. His door was barely ajar, letting out a hazy beam of dim light.

You approached and looked.

He was on top of Laura. Completely naked, his back and arm muscles tense as he moved forcefully against her. His thrusts were deep and forceful. Laura moaned without shame, with her nails dug into his back and her legs wrapped around his waist, clearly enjoying every movement.

His large hand gripped one of her hips with possession.

It churned your stomach. A knot of nausea, jealousy, and something much darker tightened your chest. At that moment, he turned his head toward the door.

His green eyes met yours directly, and for one eternal second, neither of you reacted. His gaze was dark, intense, almost animal, as he continued moving inside Laura. You stayed paralyzed, mouth dry and pulse pounding in your ears.

Finally, you managed to react. You stepped away from the door and walked quickly down the hallway back to your room, with burning cheeks and a whirlwind of emotions you couldn't control.

That night you barely slept at all. Every time you closed your eyes, the images came back: his muscular back moving forcefully, his large hands gripping Laura's hips, her moans.

You remembered too clearly how big he looked, how deep and powerful every thrust was. And the worst part was that part of you couldn't stop imagining what it would be like to be in Laura's place... to be the woman underneath him.

You were so embarrassed.

The next day you didn't leave your room all morning. The mere idea of seeing him made you feel a knot of anxiety and humiliation in your stomach. You couldn't look him in the face knowing what you had seen, knowing what you had wanted.

Around midday, your father knocked softly on your door.

"Are you okay?" he asked from outside.

"I don't feel well," you answered with a dull voice. "I think I'm going to stay in my room today. I have a really bad headache and body aches."

Your father sighed, but eventually accepted.

"That's fine, rest. If you need anything, let me know."

You were alone again, curled up in bed. The shame wouldn't go away, and with it came a much more painful feeling: the certainty that you weren't enough.

Laura was a woman his age, mature, with a voluptuous body, pronounced curves, and generous breasts, and a confidence you still didn't have. You were very young compared to him. You had a good body, slender, firm, attractive, but it was nothing like hers. You didn't have those wide hips, or that generous bust, or that presence that seemed to fill a room. What could you possibly offer him that could really call his attention? He was an experienced man with a wife who, despite their problems, shared his world.

You were just the daughter of his best friend.

Too young. Too... insufficient. That idea ate away at you inside as you covered your face with the pillow, wishing all those thoughts would disappear from your body before you had to face him again.

You spent the afternoon locked in your room, but around five in the afternoon your father knocked on the door.

"We're going to the beach. Laura wants to cool off a bit. Do you want to come?"

You jumped out of bed.

"Yes, I feel better," you said quickly. "I'll be ready in ten minutes."

You hurried to get everything: a towel, sunscreen, sunglasses, and your best bikini. You chose a black one, high-waisted with a pronounced neckline that made you feel confident in your body. You changed quickly, put on a light dress over it, and went out with your things, acting as if nothing had happened.

You got into the back seat of the car next to Laura. During the entire drive, you barely spoke. You answered with one-word responses when they asked you something and kept your gaze fixed on the window.

When you arrived at the beach, you all got out and settled in a good spot near the water. Laura was the first to want to go into the water.

"I'm going to cool off," she said with a smile, taking off her summer dress and revealing a red bikini that highlighted her voluptuous curves. She headed toward the water, swaying as she walked.

You desperately hoped he wouldn't follow her immediately. And he didn't. He stayed sitting on the towel, with his legs stretched out and his gaze fixed on the horizon.

That put you in a better mood.

You slowly took off your dress and left it to the side. You stretched out on the towel face down. You could feel his eyes scanning you, even though he said nothing.

Your father got up a little later.

"I'm going to buy something to drink. Do you want anything?"

Both of you shook your heads, and your father walked away across the sand. You stayed alone, and after a few minutes of silence, you decided to break it.

"Can you put sunscreen on my back?" you asked in a casual tone, handing him the bottle.

He looked at you for a moment, tensing his jaw.

"That's not a good idea," he answered in a low voice. "It can be misinterpreted."

You felt offended, turned your face to the other side, and rested your cheek on your arms.

"Never mind then," you murmured.

Not even two minutes passed when you felt his presence closer. You heard the bottle opening and, shortly after, his large, warm hands rested on your back.

You smiled to yourself, hidden against your arms.

His hands were firm but careful. He started with your shoulders, spreading the sunscreen with slow, circular motions. He moved down your spine, pressing lightly with his thumbs. He reached your waist, and then his fingers brushed the edges of your bikini, going a bit further than necessary.

"You're very tense," he commented in a hoarse voice, almost a murmur. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"

"Now I am," you responded softly, without turning around. "Thanks."

His hands continued, spreading the sunscreen with slower and more deliberate movements. The warmth of his palms and the pressure of his fingers caused you pleasurable shivers.

"Is that okay?" he asked, his voice deeper than usual.

"Mm... yes," you whispered. "You can go lower if you want."

He hesitated for a second, but his hands continued, extending the sunscreen with movements that were slower and more deliberate. The atmosphere between you became dense, charged with something neither of you named.

He removed his hands from your back just as he saw your father returning in the distance with drinks in his hand. He moved away a bit and sat on his towel as if nothing had happened. You remained there, face down, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your skin and the pleasant tingle you still felt where he had touched you.

A little later, Laura returned from the water, shaking out her wet hair and smiling. She sat down near your father and started talking enthusiastically.

"This is delicious. Now that I'm here, my husband can come back with me to Texas whenever he wants. It's time we got our lives back together."

Your father nodded, though his expression became nostalgic.

"It's a shame. He's just back and already leaving. I'll see him very little."

Laura smiled with understanding.

"They can visit us whenever they want, or he can come back to visit. Our house is big and there's always room."

Those words hit you like a bucket of cold water. The idea that he would leave, that he would go back to Texas with her, caused a deep discomfort in your chest. You didn't want him to leave, you didn't want him to abandon you, but you couldn't say anything. You just tightened your jaw and kept your gaze fixed on the sand.

He noticed the change in your expression. He watched you in silence for a few seconds before speaking with a calm but firm voice.

"I'd really like to stay a bit longer," he said, looking at your father. "I've missed so many years away from you, brother. If you don't mind, I'd like to stay a few more weeks."

Your father's face lit up.

"Of course it doesn't bother me! In fact, I love the idea. Stay as long as you need."

Laura seemed a bit surprised, but maintained her smile.

"As you wish, honey," she said, though her tone had a slight undertone of discomfort.

You, on the other hand, felt an immense relief that you tried to hide. You lowered your head and smiled slightly against your arm, without anyone seeing you.

The rest of the afternoon turned out to be more fun than you expected. After a while taking in the sun, everyone got into the water. The waves were perfect, and between laughs, splashing, and light conversations, the atmosphere became more relaxed. Laura seemed to be in good spirits, your father was happy to have his friend nearby, and you managed to enjoy the moment despite everything.

At one point, while you were near the shore, a boy approached you. He was tall, with light-colored hair and blue eyes, probably a few years older than you. You started talking and didn't take long to laugh at his comments. He was fun and knew how to keep a light conversation. You felt flattered, and for a few minutes you forgot about everything else.

Suddenly, he appeared at your side.

"Your father is calling you," he said in a neutral tone, but with a look that didn't allow for discussion.

You looked toward where your father was and didn't see him particularly rushed, but the boy politely excused himself and you moved away with him.

You walked together across the sand, away from the water.

"I don't like that boy," he commented in a low voice, not looking at you.

"Why?" you asked, still with a small smile on your lips.

"He looks too old for you."

You shrugged.

"I don't mind age."

He stopped for a second and looked at you with intensity.

"You need to stay away from that type of boy."

You suddenly stopped on the sand, forcing him to stop too.

"Why?" you asked directly, looking him in the eyes.

He took a few seconds to respond. His jaw was tense.

"Keep walking," he said finally, with a deep voice.

You obeyed, but the question hung between you for the rest of the afternoon.

When it was time to leave, you gathered everything and headed to the parking lot. There you ran into some family friends who had also gone to the beach. After exchanging greetings warmly, the friends asked if you could give them a ride to a certain point because their car had broken down.

Your father accepted without problem.

"Of course, but we'll be a bit crowded."

Everyone managed to fit the bags and towels in the trunk. Your father organized the seats:

"You sit up front with him," he told you, since you were smaller, they would fit better. "Laura, do you mind sitting in the back with them?"

Laura shook her head, though her smile seemed a bit forced.

"Not at all."

Your father sat behind the wheel and Laura sat in the back with the two family friends. You stayed standing next to the passenger door, nervous.

He had already settled into the passenger seat. He looked at you and opened his legs a bit to give you space.

"There's no other option," he murmured just for you.

You took a deep breath and got in. You sat carefully on his lap, trying not to lean too much. But it was impossible. His body was large and solid, and you ended up completely settled on his thighs. His chest was pressed against your back, and one of his hands naturally positioned itself on your waist to stabilize you.

The trip became a slow, silent torture.

Every bump in the road made your body move against his inevitably. At first you tried to keep yourself as rigid as possible, but it was useless. With each jolt you clearly felt his strong thigh under you, the heat emanating from his body, and slowly, something more. It seemed to grow under your weight, pressing against you in increasingly obvious ways.

He tensed. His hand on your waist tightened slightly and his breathing became deeper near your neck. You knew it was making him uncomfortable. It wasn't the right time, place, or person. Laura was sitting right behind, talking with the family friends, and your father was driving concentrated on the road.

You didn't know how to feel either. A mix of shame, excitement, and nervousness ran through your entire body.

At one point, you took his right hand, the one on the side of the door, where no one could see, and simply squeezed it. You didn't say anything. You just interlaced your fingers with his and held them tightly, seeking an anchor as you felt every small movement of the car.

He didn't pull his hand away. On the contrary, he returned the squeeze, his large, warm palm wrapping around yours.

The rest of the journey was spent in silence, only the conversations from those in the back and the engine noise could be heard. You kept your gaze forward, with your cheeks burning and your heart beating hard.

When they finally arrived at the house, everyone started getting out of the car. You stayed a moment longer inside, pretending to arrange something in your bag to give the others time to get out first. You needed Laura and your father to move away a bit.

He didn't move immediately either. He waited until the others started taking things out of the trunk. Only then did he release your hand that he still held and speak in a very low voice, almost against your ear.

"You can get out now."

You got up carefully, clearly feeling his body react to the movement. You got out of the car without looking directly at him and helped unload the things, trying to act normally.

You helped carry some things inside the house, but as soon as you set the bags down in the living room, you murmured that you were tired and went straight to your room.

You closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, breathing heavily.

You'd had too many sleepless nights, too much tension built up. Your body was desperately asking for release. You felt both embarrassed and excited. You took off your still-damp bikini and lay in bed wearing only a thin t-shirt. With shame and excitement mixed together, you closed your eyes and let your hand slowly move down your body.

You thought of him. Of his large hands spreading sunscreen on your back, of how they felt against your skin, of his body pressed against yours in the car, of that growing hardness you had clearly felt under you. Of the image you had seen that night through the half-open door: him moving with force, powerful, dominant.

Your breathing became faster as you touched yourself, imagining that it was his hands that were exploring you, that it was his hoarse voice whispering in your ear. You felt guilty and ashamed, but that only increased the intensity. You came with his name muffled in your throat, biting the pillow to avoid making noise.

When you finished, you stayed for a few minutes staring at the ceiling, chest heaving and deep shame invading you. What am I doing? you thought. He's my father's best friend... he's married...

You got out of bed on shaky legs and went straight to shower. You let the hot water fall hard on your body. His presence seemed to have gotten under your skin, and it wouldn't wash away easily. Some time later you came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, with wet hair and your mind still in a mess.

You left the bathroom wrapped in a soft towel, wet hair dripping over your shoulders. You changed in your room with slow movements: you chose a loose cotton t-shirt that barely reached the middle of your thigh and simple black lace panties. You didn't put anything else on. The afternoon heat was still clinging to your skin, and the excitement of what you had done in bed was still pulsing between your legs.

You walked barefoot to the living room. The house was silent. You heard your father's shower running in the main bathroom and, from down the hallway, the distant sound of Laura moving in the guest room, probably changing clothes.

You dropped yourself onto the big couch, stretching your legs across the cushions. You rested your head back and closed your eyes for a moment, trying to calm the whirlwind that was still spinning inside you. The cool leather of the couch against the back of your thighs made you sigh.

Not even two minutes passed when you felt his presence.

He entered the living room without making a sound. He stopped for a second when he saw you, as if deciding whether to approach or not. Finally he sat down next to you, leaving barely a palm's width between your bodies. The couch sank under his weight, tilting you slightly toward him.

Neither of you spoke at first. The silence was dense, charged. You could hear his slow, deep breathing. You felt the heat coming from his bare leg so close to yours. Your heart started beating faster, but you stayed still, pretending you were just resting.

After a long while, he spoke. His deep, hoarse voice was barely a murmur, just for you.

"Sorry for what happened in the car. That shouldn't have happened."

You slowly turned your head toward him. His green eyes looked at you with a mix of guilt and something much darker. You were so close that you could see the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw and the pulse beating in his neck.

"Don't be sorry," you whispered, holding his gaze. "I liked it."

He closed his eyes for a second, exhaling sharply through his nose. His large hand rested on his own thigh, his fingers tense.

"You shouldn't say those things," he murmured, with an even lower voice. "You're my best friend's daughter. This... is wrong."

You bit your lower lip and turned a bit more toward him, letting your knee gently brush against his thigh.

"I would do it again," you said without hesitation, almost defiantly.

He turned his head to look at you. His gaze had darkened. For a moment he only observed you: your parted lips, your damp hair falling over your shoulders, the way your t-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the curve of your collarbone.

"You're perfect," he said finally, almost painfully. "And very foolish for wanting me."

A slow, soft smile appeared on your lips. You felt powerful and vulnerable at the same time. Without saying anything, you slid your hand across the couch until your fingers brushed the edge of his thigh. You moved upward slowly, feeling the hardness of the muscle under the thin fabric of his shorts. He tensed visibly, but didn't stop you immediately.

"I can be whatever you want," you whispered, moving your face a little closer to his. "Just tell me."

Your hand continued moving up until your fingers brushed the bulge that was starting to form under the fabric. He let out a very low growl, almost inaudible.

Suddenly, his large, strong hand caught yours, stopping it just above his groin. His fingers wrapped around yours with firmness, but without pushing you completely away.

"No," he said with a hoarse voice, almost pleading. "There are people in the house. Your father... Laura..."

"I don't care," you responded in a trembling but determined whisper. You moved your fingers under his hand, gently caressing the hard shape that was growing against your palm. "I want to feel you. Just a little. Please..."

He swallowed hard. His jaw was so tense you could see the muscle flexing. For one eternal second, only the breathing of both of you could be heard, each breath heavier than the last.

Finally he released your hand... but only to move his up to your face. His large, warm palm gently cupped your cheek. His thumb slowly brushed your lower lip, parting it slightly.

"You're so beautiful when you ask for something," he murmured, his voice so deep you felt it vibrate in your own chest. "Too beautiful."

You leaned slightly into his touch, kissing the base of his thumb softly. Your fingers, now free, resumed their movement over him with slowness, exploring the long, hot, hard length that was hardening more under the fabric. You stroked him from top to bottom with your fingertips, feeling how it pulsed and grew with each touch.

He didn't stop you this time.

His breathing became deeper, and his eyes closed to half-mast as he let you touch him. The hand on your cheek moved slowly down your neck, stopping at the curve where your pulse raced. His fingers spread across your skin, possessive but controlled.

The sound of your father's shower continued running in the background. Laura hummed something softly in the distant room. And in the living room, the air was so charged that it seemed like everything could break at any moment.

The tension in the living room was so thick you could almost touch it. Your fingers continued moving slowly over him, feeling his erection growing and pulsing under the thin fabric of his shorts. He had his eyes half-closed, his breathing heavy, and his large hand still held your face like he was afraid you would disappear.

Suddenly, you heard soft footsteps down the hallway.

Laura.

He reacted with speed. In one smooth movement, he grabbed one of the large cushions from the couch and placed it over his lap, covering himself. You pulled your hand away just in time and settled back into your place, pretending you were just checking your phone. Your heart was beating so hard you thought Laura would hear it.

She appeared in the living room entrance, already in pajamas: a soft camisole and short shorts that marked her curves. She looked at both of you with a tired smile.

"I'm exhausted," she said with a yawn. "I'm going to sleep. Are you coming, honey?"

He cleared his throat, keeping his voice calm.

"I'll be right there. I want to shower first, I'm full of sand."

Laura nodded, barely paying attention, and headed to the bedroom. When she disappeared down the hallway, he looked at you. His green eyes were burning.

You got up from the couch on shaky legs with a secret smile on your lips. You walked toward your room without looking back, feeling his gaze fixed on your back.

Once inside, you closed the door and leaned against it. A low, happy laugh escaped your throat. You brought your hands to your hot cheeks. He had confirmed it. He wanted you. As much as you wanted him.

You smiled like a fool against the door, with your stomach full of butterflies and a dangerous warmth between your legs.

That night no one had dinner. Everyone was exhausted from the beach day. Your father went to bed early, Laura also. The house fell silent before ten.

You heard the shower turn on in the main bathroom. You thought he was actually going to shower... until, a few minutes later, your door opened carefully.

You jumped slightly in bed, scared. You were lying down with just a black lace underwear set, the light sheet covering you up to your waist. When you saw it was him, fear turned into a slow, bright smile.

He closed the door behind him with great care and turned the key. The sound of water still running in the shower was perfect cover.

He approached the bed without saying anything at first. You sat on the edge, watching him. He stopped in front of you, observing you from head to toe: your damp hair, your smooth skin, the black lace contrasting against your younger, more delicate body.

"You look like an angel," he murmured in a hoarse voice, almost reverent.

You stood up and wrapped your arms around his neck naturally, pressing your semi-naked body against his. You could feel the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt.

He took your face in his large hands, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. His green eyes dropped to your lips. He leaned down slowly, giving you the chance to pull back.

You didn't.

His lips brushed yours with surprising softness. First it was a light touch, almost tentative. Then, with more pressure, more hunger. He kissed you slowly, deeply, savoring you. His tongue gently caressed yours with slowness, exploring, while one of his hands moved down your bare back to rest on the low curve of your waist, pulling you more against him.

You melted into his body. The kiss became more intense but still controlled, as if he were holding himself back with all his strength. When you finally separated, both of you were breathing hard.

"Do you really like me?" you asked in a vulnerable whisper. "I look nothing like your wife... I don't have her curves, or her experience, or anything to really offer you."

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His expression was serious, intense.

"You're more than perfect," he said in a deep, low voice, almost a vow. "The most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life. It's not just your body... it's the way you look at me, the way you tremble when I touch you, how you dare to ask me for what you want."

His hand slowly moved down your back, tracing your spine with his fingertips, stopping just above the fabric of your panties.

"I don't need you to be like her. I want you exactly as you are."

He kissed you again, this time with more urgency, while pressing you against his body. You could feel his hard erection pressing against your belly through his pants. His large hands explored your back, your waist, moving downward with slow possession until gently gripping your ass, lifting you slightly against him.

A soft moan escaped you against his mouth and he smiled against your lips.

"Shhh..." he whispered. "You have to be quiet, princess."

He gently pushed you toward the bed. You lay down on your back, looking at him with shining eyes full of desire. He undressed with a single movement, revealing his broad, marked torso covered by that fine layer of dark hair. He climbed on top of you, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you.

He kissed you again while one of his hands moved slowly down your body. He slid his fingers under the fabric of your lace bra, touching your already hardened nipple. He squeezed it gently, then with more force, drawing a gasp from you. He moved his mouth down to your chest, pulling the lace aside with his teeth. He sucked on one of your nipples hard while his free hand moved between your legs.

His thick fingers brushed the wet fabric of your panties.

"Damn, you're so needy..." he growled against your skin, feeling how soaked you were.

He moved the fabric to the side and slid two thick fingers between your folds, caressing your swollen clit with slow, circular motions. Then he lowered them and pushed one inside you, deep and slow. You moaned, biting your lip to keep quiet.

"So tight..." he murmured, adding a second finger. He started moving them in and out with a torturous rhythm, curving them to touch that spot that made you tremble.

Your hand moved down to his pants, seeking his erection. You felt it huge, hot, and pulsing. You stroked it over the fabric at first, then put your hand inside and wrapped your fingers around it. It was thick, heavy, much bigger than you had imagined. You masturbated him slowly, feeling how it swelled even more in your hand.

He growled against your neck.

"Fuck, you're doing it so well..."

He pulled off your panties with an impatient movement and lowered his pants just enough to free his cock. It was large, veined, with a thick head glistening with pre-cum. He rubbed it against your entrance, sliding it between your wet lips, hitting your clit with each stroke.

He looked into your eyes as he positioned himself.

"Fuck, it won't fit..." he murmured in a hoarse voice, almost concerned, seeing the difference in size.

"I want to try... please," you pleaded, opening your legs more for him.

He pushed the thick head against your entrance. It was slow, very slow. You felt how he opened you, stretching you in an almost painful but delicious way. Inch by inch, he entered you. Your insides squeezed him tightly, pulsing around his thickness.

"Go ahead, take it like a good girl," he whispered against your ear when he was already more than halfway in. "Breathe... that's it."

You moaned softly when he was finally completely buried inside you. You felt completely full, completely filled by him. He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing your neck and breasts while his large hands gripped your hips.

He started moving. First with slow, deep thrusts, coming out almost completely to re-enter all the way to the bottom. Each time he reached the bottom, a muffled moan escaped from your throat.

The rhythm gradually increased. His hips collided with yours with more force, but controlled. The wet sound of his cock entering and leaving your pussy filled the room.

You clung to his broad shoulders, digging your nails into his skin. He looked directly into your eyes as he fucked you harder.

"You belong to me. Just me. Say it. Just me."

"Just you..." you gasped, barely able to speak. "Just you... please..."

"Again," he demanded, accelerating the rhythm, hitting that spot inside you with each deep thrust.

"Just you... Damn, just you!"

He kissed you hard to muffle your moans while he fucked you faster. One of his hands moved between you and he rubbed your swollen clit with his thumb, pushing you to the edge.

"Come for me, princess," he growled against your mouth. "I want to feel how you squeeze me."

The orgasm hit you hard. Your insides contracted violently around his thick cock, trembling and squeezing him while waves of pleasure ran through your entire body. You bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He kept fucking you through your orgasm, deeper, wilder, until with a low, hoarse growl, he came inside you. You felt the hot bursts filling you, his cock pulsing hard while he filled you completely.

He stayed inside you for a long time, both of you breathing heavily, sweating, and trembling. He kissed you softly on the lips, on your forehead, on your cheeks, as if he couldn't stop touching you.

"You're mine now," he whispered against your skin, still buried deep inside you.

You remained connected for several more minutes, with him still buried deeply inside you. You felt his cock pulsing gently inside, his warm cum filling you completely. Neither of you wanted to move. He stroked your hair with one hand while the other moved slowly down your back with gentle caresses.

"I could fuck you all night..." he murmured against your neck, with a hoarse and satisfied voice. "I wouldn't get tired of this."

You smiled, still trembling from the orgasm, and tightened your internal walls around him.

"You could let me..." you whispered, kissing his jaw. "You could do whatever you want to me, all night."

He let out a low, deep laugh that vibrated against your chest. He lifted his head to look at you, with that dangerous half-smile you loved so much, and kissed you deeply, slowly, and affectionately this time.

When he separated, he rested his forehead against yours.

"I have to go, princess," he said softly.

"No..." you protested in a low voice, wrapping your legs around him more tightly. "Stay a bit longer. I feel so full... I like having you inside."

He closed his eyes for a second, as if struggling with himself.

"I need to go back with Laura," he said gently. "If I don't, she'll suspect."

Those words felt like a blow to your chest. Suddenly you felt a knot in your throat and, without being able to help it, tears started falling down your cheeks. You tried to turn your face away so he wouldn't see them, but he didn't let you.

"Hey..." he whispered tenderly. He carefully pulled out of you, causing a moan of emptiness to escape your lips. He lay down beside you and pulled you against his bare chest. "Don't cry, please."

He cleaned your tears with his thumbs, kissing each one of them. His lips brushed your eyelids, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"Everything will be okay," he murmured against your skin. "This is complicated right now, but I'll fix it. I'll see you later, yes? I promise."

You nodded in silence, though the knot in your chest didn't fully disappear. He kissed you again, this time softer, longer, as if he wanted to carry your taste with him.

Then he got out of bed reluctantly. You stayed lying there, watching him as he got dressed: first his pants, then his t-shirt. Each movement of his muscles reminded you of what had just happened.

When he was ready, he bent over you one last time. He took your face in both hands and gave you a kiss so deep, so long, so desperate that it seemed like goodbye.

"Go to sleep," he whispered against your lips.

He dedicated one last look, charged with desire and something softer, and left your room with the same care he had entered. He closed the door softly.

You were left there, naked on the rumpled sheets, with your legs still open and his cum slowly running between your thighs. You felt full of him, marked, used in the best way possible.

A silly smile appeared on your lips as you brought a hand to your belly, still feeling the echo of his thickness inside you. You were happy. Very happy. But at the same time, a deep sadness settled in your chest when you heard his footsteps moving away down the hallway toward the room he shared with Laura.

You turned to your side, hugging the pillow, and closed your eyes. Happiness and sadness mixed strangely inside you.

You had crossed a line that had no turning back... and part of you didn't want it to.