vivi

He kisses you, long and lingering, when Sam’s around, before you go to work or while you’re setting the table for dinner. No quick pecks, but deep kisses that have your spine tingling, his hand traveling up your side until his thumb presses into the softness of your breast. Some of them are jokey, with him smooching your face all over, making you giggle. You break them, with a breathless chuckle, run your finger over your bottom lip, eyes going to Sam. 

Often, he’s looking away, blushing, or lips parted, broad chest rising and falling. A few times, you catch him watching. Eyes narrowed, gaze going over you. Like he’s studying you, your reactions. You don’t know what to make of it, only that it makes your heart beat faster and your cheeks heat up. Your mouth dry.

You hate it and crave it at the same time.

One afternoon after work, you pick up food, add a piece of pie for Dean. The three of you eat in the apartment and when Dean gets up to get a fork for his dessert, he comes back with three. Both you and Sam make fun of him a little, assume he’s sick because he’s willing to part with some of his precious pie. You hold your hand up to his forehead to test his temperature and he swats it away.

“You two are goddamn dorks,” he says, forking up another bite. “It’s better when it’s shared.”

“You’re so sweet,” you say, ruffling his hair. Dean wiggles his eyebrows.

“I’m generous,” he says, and you snort. “And sharing with Sam isn’t sharing at all, it’s just…” He shrugs, lets the sentence end there. You stare down at where you’re picking up your fork. Try not to allow his words their obvious double meaning.

The way Dean speaks to you when you fuck changes. You’re riding him, fingernails gently scratching along his chest and he grabs two handfuls of your ass.

“Can’t get enough, can you?” he asks, a challenging smile on his lips. “Wouldn’t hurt if there were two of me, huh?” You give a broken chuckle. Try to convince yourself that he’s really talking about two of him. Not one of him and one of his brother.

He comes out into the living room in the morning, chuckling. 

“Hope we weren’t too loud last night, Sammy,” he says and you feel heat shoot to your face. You try to be quiet. Sometimes Sam blushes, shakes his head, but sometimes he only raises his eyebrows at his brother. You walk past him to the coffee machine.

“Dean,” you say, grabbing the pot and turning around. “Can you be, I don’t know, a little less of a weirdo?” But Dean grins at you, leans back in his chair, checking you out shamelessly. 

“I’m just saying,” he replies, “a man’s gotta be proud of the work he does.” Sam snorts and you do too. Dean looks between the two of you, grinning.

Maybe you should be more shocked. Maybe it should turn you off. Maybe you should tell Dean to stop it. But you don’t. 

Sam’s birthday is on a Tuesday and you both have to work the next day, so you save the celebrations for the end of the week. He’s turning twenty-three, and you have plans to go to the bar you used to work at, but you want first to hang out in the apartment a little so as not to spend more money than necessary on drinks. 

You’re sipping on yours when Dean realizes he forgot to buy ice. There’s a small corner store down the street, so he offers to get it quickly. You turn on some music as he leaves the apartment, and you start bobbing along to it. 

You turn around and catch Sam looking at you. You’re not a self-conscious person, and you wouldn’t read anything into it, but Sam looks away so quickly, so pointedly, that it’s very clear he was staring at you. He shifts around, looking purposefully casual. It makes you feel immediately awkward as well as something else, something you don’t look at too closely. So you sit down across from him instead, scratching your fingernail over your glass, looking down. You hear Sam clear his throat. 

“Sorry,” he says, and you look up. 

“For what?” you ask, frowning. 

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he answers, and he seems to have a hard time meeting your gaze. Social custom would dictate that you both pretend you didn’t catch him looking at you, but leave it to Sam to not do that, to not take an out when he’s offered one. 

“That’s alright,” you mumble, shifting around as well now. Silence, for a moment, noise on the street and then Sam speaks up again.

“You looked really pretty,” he says, and you’re almost sure you imagined it. You blink, look at him. He sits in the middle of the couch, legs wide, knees high the way they are so often on him. The beer bottle in his hands looks small, and his thumb is peeling at the label. 

You wonder what would happen if you got on your knees now and crawled over to him. If he would let you touch him when you reach him, push yourself up by his knees and lean in close. You imagine being caught by Dean, but rather than needing to hide, you see him lean against the doorway, that one-sided cocky grin on his face, while he watches you undo the button on his brother’s jeans.

You see Sam shift again, one hand pressing into the couch below him, like he’s about to stand, and he looks at you intently. Instead, he leaves his hand there then slowly moves it to the edge of the couch, palm down. It could be mistaken for a casual gesture. But you know it’s not.

“Do you–” he says, and just then the apartment door flies open, Dean coming in with as much hoopla as a single person is able to. 

He makes new drinks for the three of you, then sits down, chair close to you, lays his arm over the back of yours. You push your leg against him, needing whatever that exchange between Sam and you caused out of your system, cause what it makes you feel is needy, feral. Empty. Dean smiles at you, runs his fingers over your shoulder. Then turns back to Sam, the two of them chatting about something you are too distracted to listen to.

It’s not long before you tune back in. It’s something Dean says that brings you back to the moment.

“We should get you laid tonight,” Dean says, bobbing his head along to the music. Sam makes a face, while you ignore the fact that the idea of Sam going home with some random girl, a stranger essentially, makes violent bile bubble up in you.

“Okay, dude,” Sam says, shaking his head while he takes a sip. 

He’s not the type, you think, Dean shouldn’t push him like that, just because he used to be into sex with strangers. 

“Sure there’s some cute co-ed who’d get all hot and bothered over that abandoned degree,” Dean adds, then chuckles, like it’s the funniest thing in the world. You force a smile that feels like a grimace on your face.

“I don’t need help getting laid, okay?” Sam says.

“Listen, man,” Dean responds, leaning forward, “if your college girlfriend was the last time you knocked boots, you must be pretty backed up.” 

The look Sam throws you is minimal, could almost be missed, but you see it. You don’t know what it means. Don’t know at all.

“Dean,” is all you say, but your boyfriend throws you a look you can’t place. 

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “the closest thing to action he’s probably gotten is listening to us. But then we know how much you like that.” You raise your eyebrows at Dean, who’s looking between you and Sam. 

“What the fuck, dude?” Sam says and all humor is gone from his face and voice. 

“What?” Dean says. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. Hell, if I wasn’t involved, I’d be getting off on it too.” You clear your throat, lay your hand on Dean’s leg. 

“Let’s change the topic, okay?” you say, hoping to slow this runaway train of awkwardness. You’ll have a talk with Dean when you’re alone. He can be crass, and mostly it’s fun, but tonight he’s getting a little carried away. Dean shrugs, like he has no idea what’s gotten into the both of you. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he explains, very much not dropping the topic. “I’m not saying that—shit, come on, guys.” Dean spreads his arms, and he genuinely seems upset that you and Sam aren’t getting what he says. You roll your eyes, get up. Change the song that’s playing, even though there’s no need.

“We’ll find you someone sexy,” you can hear Dean saying behind you. “‘Course, I got the sexiest one of them all.”

You think about turning around at the compliment, smiling at Dean. But you can’t. You stand turned with your back to them, much longer than you need to.

The bar is busy, and you need to press through groups of people to get in. The mood between the three of you has calmed again, and you are chatting and laughing as you take off your jackets, sit down in a booth not far from the bar. 

One of the girls you used to work with sees you and walks over. She gives you a hug, smiles at you as you exchange pleasantries. She knows about Dean, so she greets him too, before turning to Sam.

“And who’s your friend?” she says, smiling at Sam who gives her a tight-lipped smile back. 

“This is Dean’s brother, Sam,” you say, watch as she gives him an appreciative onceover. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, then turns back to you to take your order. 

When you’re done, she turns, walks away, and the way she swings her hips makes you unspeakably mad.

“Wow,” Dean says, leaning back, looking across the table at his brother. “You are in, man.” Sam huffs, pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket. Dean leans his head towards you until his mouth is close to your ear, but what leaves his lips is no whisper.

“Sounds like we finally get the apartment to ourselves tonight,” he says. You slap his chest. Dean laughs, then turns back to Sam. “Got everything you need? Condoms? Lube?”

“Dude,” Sam says, not really answering.

“Just making sure you’re safe,” Dean says, one of his hands traveling to the inside of your thigh under the table, squeezing there. 

“I’m sure Sam can handle himself,” you say, hoping to cut him off, and only a second later you realize the accidental double meaning of your words. “I mean, it. As in, the–”

Dean laughs again, and you see a bashful grin build on Sam’s face too.

“You two have your minds in the gutter, you know that?” you say, smiling as well. Surprisingly, it’s Sam who answers, not Dean.

“Takes one to know one,” he says, briefly holding your gaze. Which is when your drinks arrive.

After the second round of drinks, you are leaning back in the booth, Dean’s arm slung around your shoulders, and the three of you are talking about the past.

“You must have watched that VHS over a hundred times,” Sam says, chuckling, as he raises his bottle to his lips. You raise your eyebrows at him.

“It’s a classic, Sam,” you reply, voice purposefully dramatic. Sam raises his hands defensively. 

“I’m not saying it’s not!” he replies. “Just… after seeing it five times, I thought we got the gist of it.” You scoff, turn your head so you can look at Dean.

“Will you talk some sense into your brother?” you ask. Dean turns to Sam.

“It annoyed me too,” he says and while Sam laughs you make an offended noise, sit forward. “Besides, you just had a crush on that guy with the crazy hair.” You scoff.

“Okay, his name was Rufio, and he was the leader of the Lost Boys,” you correct him. “And I did not have a crush on him, I was in love with him.” Both brothers snort, and you look down at the table.

“It was just…” you mumble, unsure if you should continue.

“It was what?” Sam asks. Your gaze shoots up, meeting his. His expression is soft.

“I liked that the Lost Boys didn’t grow up,” you say, your voice quiet. “But they still got to be away from home. They got to be kids, but they didn’t have parents. They had to survive together. And they knew things the adults didn’t. Were stronger than them, in some ways.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling embarrassed. You look down, wonder if the two drinks have made you tipsy. But a second later, you feel Dean’s hand on your back, gently rubbing it.

“That’s our girl,” he says and when you turn to him, he has a sweet smile on his face. “Always thinking the big thoughts.”

It hangs in the air like molasses. Our girl. You look at Dean, and he doesn’t correct himself. Just keeps your gaze, warm and open.

Both of you turn when Sam clears his throat. 

“I gotta use the bathroom,” he mumbles, but he’s looking at the table and the next second, he is scooting out of his seat. You just have time to frown when he’s already walking away from the table.

You turn to Dean, look at him. He’s looking after Sam too, his hand still absentmindedly rubbing your back, but then he looks at you. His hand wanders up, all the way to your jaw, thumb gently dragging along it.

“Are you okay?” you ask, studying his face. Dean purses his lips.

“Always,” he says. You keep watching him, keep looking for the cracks in his mask that you are sure must be there.

“It’s just…” you continue. “You’ve been acting a little strange.” Dean raises his chin, the outside of his fingers now caressing your cheek.

“I guess,” he says, looking at where his fingers are touching you. “I guess I just wanna get it right this time, you know?” You frown at him.

“What do you mean?” you ask. Dean takes a slow breath through his nose, looks into your eyes again.

“I really fucked things up the first time,” he says. “The sleeping around, and the never settling. I know, I know.” He says this last part when you open your mouth to protest.

“It was difficult and we were young,” he adds, and you close your mouth. “But I just wanna do it right. You know?”

“Dean,” you say, raising your hand and taking his in yours. “You are doing it right. You’re doing it wonderfully.” You run your thumb over his knuckles, but keep his gaze. There is something in Dean’s eyes, something soft and yearning, but also something intentional.

“I want you to have everything you ever wanted,” he says. “Everything you ever might want. Everything.”

The laughter behind you is shrill, loud and familiar, which is the only reason you turn around and away from Dean. When you do, you feel your heart sink.

It’s the girl you used to work with, and she’s standing in front of Sam, so close you could barely fit a sheet of paper between them. Her hand is on Sam’s arm and if you didn’t know it any better, you’d think Sam was staring at her tits, put perfectly on display with her vibrating laugh. She’s pretty, and she’s looking up at him with widened eyes.

Suddenly, deep sadness strikes you. Your eyes fill with tears before you even know what’s going on, and the sadness is followed immediately by panic. 

You get up, nearly knocking your bottle over, mumbling something in Dean’s direction about needing the bathroom. You don’t look back to see if he notices anything. It’s too scary to think about. 

There’s a few women in front of the toilets, so you walk up to the sinks, lean over one, try to calm your breathing. What the hell is happening to you? You turn on the water, cup your hand and bring some drops of it to the back of your neck, close your eyes at the feeling. 

You don’t want Sam to go home with that girl. Plain and simple. Because he’s not the type for a casual hook up, because he doesn’t even know her. You press your lips together, look up at your reflection. 

Because you’re jealous. 

It hits you like a bolt of lightning. You’re jealous, and that’s all this is. It’s the same feeling as seeing Dean with girls in the back of the Impala when you were younger. He wasn’t yours then, and still the jealousy made you feel like you were going to throw up. Before Dean and you broke up, you’d torture yourself, lying in bed late at night, wondering if he was with someone else. You’re not a jealous person, you like to think, but it’s the same now. It sits like acid in your stomach. 

Because of Sam. Because of your boyfriend’s little brother. 

You wipe the back of your hand over your face, and walk out. You need to distract yourself. You need to stop. This is a momentary lapse in judgement that doesn’t mean anything. You’re just used to Sam being there and him being a little bit in love with you. Nothing more. 

You don’t make it back to the table. You literally run into Sam, his shoulder colliding with your forehead. 

“Sorry!” he says immediately, raising a hand, but you lay yours over your forehead, take a step back. 

“All good,” you say, despite the fact that there’s a light, dull pain pulsing there. “Nothing happened.” You drop your hand, dare to look up at Sam. 

Big mistake. He looks at you in a way that tells you he wasn’t just on the way to the bathroom, but looking for you. He gets that look, that impossibly soft look when he’s worried about you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, and you wish he didn’t, emotions, shame chief among them, rushing over you. 

“Yeah,” you say, avoiding eye contact, “I’m good.” You don’t look at him.

“Is this about that girl?” he asks, voice low, and your gaze shoots up. He’s looking at you, but there’s no cockiness in his expression, no pride. He’s not asking you to stroke his ego, he genuinely wants to know. But you don’t know how to answer him. 

Because if Sam is asking you this, he knows. How couldn’t he? He’s been there with you this whole time. But he’s acknowledging it, that there is something between you, and you feel anger brewing in you, because this makes it real. Not just a figment of your imagination. You feel relieved at the same time, for exactly the same reason. 

“Do you not want me to go home with her?” Sam asks, and his words, the earnestness with which he manages to say them, makes you feel like you’re gonna break wide open. 

“Don’t ask me that, Sam,” you reply, your voice cracking a little at your inevitably rising feelings. “Please don’t ask me that.”

Sam blinks, and whether it’s at your denial to answer or at the fact that the denial is a sort of confession in itself, you don’t know. And it doesn’t matter either, because just in that moment, Dean comes walking over to you. He steps close, wraps one arm around you, kisses your cheek. 

“Everything okay?” he asks and you tear your eyes away from Sam. 

“Yeah,” you say, voice sounding a little thick so you clear your throat. “All good. I just think I’ll head home, I’m kinda tired.” You notice Sam shift out of the corner of your eyes, but you don’t look at him. You’re avoiding Dean’s gaze too. 

“I’ll come with you,” Dean says, finally making your eyes snap back to him. If he comes with you, you won’t have the time you were hoping to have to yourself. The time you need to screw your head on right and get over this, figure out how not to ruin your relationship with the man you love the most in the world. 

“Stay with Sam,” you say to Dean, motioning in his brother’s direction without looking. “You two have some fun.” 

“I think I’m actually also good to go,” Sam says. You take a sharp breath through your nose, look at him. You could be wrong, but there’s something almost challenging in his eyes, like he’s saying you still owe him an answer. 

“It’s your birthday,” you say, frustration with him and the entire situation making your voice thrum. “There’s a hot girl at the bar waiting for you to come home with her and screw her brains out. Why the hell would you want to come with us?” 

It’s more coarse than it needs to be. There’s no point, but you just don’t understand why Sam wouldn’t take the out of not being in your vicinity for a little bit. He pushes the corners of his mouth down, looking pissed now.

“I’m good,” he says, looking at you intently. “I’m not interested.” 

“So it’s decided,” Dean says, looking between you two, and you don’t point out how strange it is that he isn’t talking Sam into getting laid anymore. 

It’s quiet in the car, all three of you looking out into the night as you drive through the familiar streets. None of you are saying anything, but the air feels thick. 

Sam walks ahead of you up the stairs, and you try to keep your distance without bumping into Dean behind you. He rests his hand on your back, just to touch you, and guilt so sharp you think it’ll cut you open runs through you. Once you’re in the apartment, Sam walks ahead a few paces. 

“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” he mumbles, and then walks towards the door, shuts it behind him without another look at you. 

You’re standing in the middle of the room, run your hand over your chest, take a deep breath while Dean shuts the apartment door behind you. You close your eyes, hope you can quiet the turmoil inside of you, when you feel Dean’s arms wrap around you from the back, his lips pressed against your shoulder. 

“Hey,” he says, and you drop your hands, lay them over his and turn your head to the side. 

“Hey,” you say and when Dean kisses your cheek, you wrap your arms tighter around his. 

“You look really hot,” he says and you huff. 

“Not feeling particularly hot currently,” you reply, hoping that maybe you can blame your foul mood on something more hormonal, make Dean not question it. But your reply seems to do the opposite. Dean’s hands wander, first to your hips and then up your torso. 

“Well, you are,” he says, voice quiet and low. “You’re the sexiest goddamn thing in the world.” You close your eyes. 

How could you be so stupid? How could you be so dumb and let your heart roam when you have this man? This man you love so much it hurts you sometimes with its intensity? You turn your head slightly. 

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper and in response, Dean pulls you back against him, the nature of his touching suddenly changing, the tips of his fingers grazing your breasts, his hips pressed against you. 

“I love you, sweetheart,” he replies, and then one hand drops back to your hip again as he roughly pulls you against him. “Let me show you how much.” 

Dean turns you and when he pulls you close, he kisses you. Slow and deep, the way he knows is bound to get you worked up. You run your hands into his hair, and at that, he begins walking you backwards. Your legs bump into the couch, and you sling your arms around Dean’s neck when both of you drop down into the pillows. Dean’s next to you, making sure not to squash you, and he leans in, kisses your neck while his hand begins wandering down your body.

“Dean,” you say, quietly, as his fingers circle your nipple through the fabric of your shirt before running down to your stomach. “Let’s go to the bedroom.” But Dean’s shaking his head against you. 

“Sammy always takes a long time, needs to fix that hair of his,” he whispers to you, and it nearly makes you laugh, the familiarity of his teasing. 

“Besides,” Dean continues, as his palm runs over your jeans-covered crotch, “need you right now or I’m gonna go crazy.” 

You moan and Dean takes that as his signal, brings his hand up to unbutton your jeans and pushes his hand inside. His fingers go over your panties, the pads running over you as if to warm you. Your eyelids flutter closed at the touch. 

You shouldn’t, you should just move into the bedroom, this is downright creepy to do to Sam, but the thought of getting caught, of being caught by Sam is intoxicating. You can feel Dean grin against your neck.

“Let me guess,” he says, “the white, lacy ones?” A cracked chuckle leaves you at his correct guess regarding your underwear and you nod while Dean keeps touching you, fingers beginning to draw smaller circles over the center of your pleasure. 

“I fucking love them on you,” he says and you press your head against him, wish his voice was inside your head. “They look so nice and clean, but you love being dirty, don’t you?” You whimper at that. 

“I’m sure Sam would love to see them too,” Dean continues, and you just have time to frown through your arousal, before he adds: “Isn’t that right, Sammy?” 

Your eyes fly open and Sam is standing right there. You grab Dean’s wrist, stilling him, but when you turn to him, you see his eyes are open. 

He knew Sam was standing there. He knew. 

Your foggy brain desperately tries to come up with something to say while the look on Sam’s face registers with you. It’s not shock or horror or even disgust. His eyes are narrowed, his broad chest rising and falling, his lips parted. Just the slightest pink blush to his cheeks. Your brain is scrambling to catch up, oscillating between apologizing to Sam, pulling Dean’s hand from your pants, or begging him to keep going. But Dean speaks first. 

“Your girlfriend in college,” he says, and only by his words you know that he’s not addressing you, because he is running the tip of his nose over that spot under your ear that makes goosebumps break out all over your body. “You ever finger her, Sammy?” 

You look at Sam, and just see him look down at your chest, to where you’re pretty sure he must see your hardened nipples through your shirt. 

“Yeah,” he answers, to your surprise. He sounds like he’s in a trance. 

“Ever make her come from that?” Dean asks next, slightly moving his fingers inside your pants again. For a second, you shift your body, as if to move it away from Dean’s touch, but then you stop. You don’t want to stop feeling him. You can see Sam swallow. 

“Yeah. I mean, I think so,” he says, voice soft. Dean chuckles against you. 

“Oh, believe me,” he says, “you’d know.” 

Dean raises his head and you turn to look into his eyes. His expression is soft but you don’t know what else you’re reading there. 

“You wanna show Sam?” he asks quietly. You blink at him. The moment feels momentous. Could this be a trap? Could Dean have noticed what has been going on with you, is trying to test your loyalty? Or is this for him? Does he want to see you with Sam or, in some weird way, just want his brother close while he fucks you? Are he and Sam that joined at the hip? 

You remember that morning at the motel, where Dean started touching you, telling you he’d make you feel better and that he was sure Sam wouldn’t mind. Or when he asked you to kiss Sam in the Impala. You assumed it had just been crude jokes, something to get on his little brother’s nerves, but what if Dean was serious? 

You take a slow breath, and then nod. 

“Yes,” you say and Dean blinks slowly, a smile forming on his lips. You turn to Sam, to him standing there, watching you and Dean. You lick your lips before you speak, anticipation and arousal having made them dry. 

“Would you like that, Sam?” you ask, voice a little shaky. You watch as Sam takes another breath, maybe going through the same thought process you just went through. 

“Yes,” he finally says, looking into your eyes. Dean presses his lips to your jaw again, then moves his head back. 

“Take your jeans off,” he says. You move your hands, bring them to your side, and begin pushing down your already opened jeans. Sam’s still frozen in place, but when your jeans are down around your ankles and you’re struggling to kick them off, he suddenly moves forward. 

He grabs the legs, helps you pull them off and you look up, into his face. His gaze is resting on your naked thighs or maybe your crotch, but he looks up at your face quickly. 

“Thanks,” you say and he nods. Then, and it makes heat break out all over your body, Sam kneels in front of you, just as Dean picks up his touching again. You look at Sam while Dean does it, and Sam is watching, concentrated, as if he really is just trying to learn. 

Sam looks up at your face again, and you see he’s breathing hard, seems almost shaky, and you wonder if he is going to watch you come like this, when Dean uses the fingers to move the crotch of your underwear to the side, revealing you to Sam. His breath hitches in his throat, and he swallows again, before shifting where he’s kneeling. 

“You can start with one finger,” Dean says and you blink to look at him, and just as you turn your head, he leans his forehead against yours, looks deep into your eyes. “But you like two, don’t you?” 

You need to bite your lip before you nod. There’s nothing wildly explicit about what Dean is saying, not the words themselves, but the fact that he is describing to Sam how you like to be touched and brought to orgasm is making you feel crazy. 

“Yes,” you force out, voice rough, as you turn back to Sam. He’s watching your face, as if to make sure you are telling the truth and then he looks down at where Dean is touching you again. You can see his hand come up, moving towards your entrance, two fingers extended and then the pads of them are right there, right where you can feel yourself open up. 

“Go slow,” you say and your gaze meets Sam’s again, and he nods. He does. His fingertips swirl your entrance, as if he’s collecting honey from a glass to taste. That’s the moment - Dean’s fingertips making slow, soft circles on your clit and Sam’s finger about to press into you. The moment you think you lose your mind.

Sam pushes into you and your legs drop open, your head back. A sound you can’t describe leaves you. 

“It’s okay,” Dean mutters. “We’ve got you.”

Sam’s fingers feel different than Dean’s, you notice as you clench down on him involuntarily. Dean’s are thick, perfect to fill you up just with two, middle and ring finger the perfect length to press down exactly where you need him. Sam’s are slightly thinner, bonier, and longer. Softer too, you notice. Because you’ve been looking at them. God, you can’t deny it, you’ve been looking at them, imagining what they feel inside you, what they taste like on your tongue. If you’re going to hell for this, you can’t seem to care enough. 

Your body arches up, Dean still gently rubbing you and you open your eyes again, look at him, then at Sam. Both concentrated on you.

“Curl your fingers,” Dean is just saying, but it feels like his words need to fight through thick cotton buds to get through to your brain. Sam does what his brother tells him and your stomach clenches.

“Oh God,” you mutter, your eyes wanting to be closed again, but you fight to keep them open. It’s too perfect, what you’re seeing. Dean looking down at your body, your tits, your naked legs, what’s between them. Sam’s face framed by your thighs, a mask of concentration, the way it is when he’s reading or listening to something. Your heart flutters, along with all of you.

“Is that good?” Sam asks, his eyes wandering up, meeting yours. His pupils are wide and blown big. He’s not asking it sexily, the way Dean would, with an inflection that tells you he knows it’s good. He asks it inquiringly, curious.

“Y–yes,” you mutter, “can you go a little harder?” Sam nods, then his gaze drops back between your legs. He licks his lips, then does what you asked him to do.

The pads of his fingers push against your softest part, and you whine and pull your shoulders up. Dean quickens where he’s stroking you, and it’s like the two find a rhythm, their strange way to communicate without words making the two feelings kiss perfectly inside you, become one.

“Yes, like that,” you moan. Dean latches his plush lips onto your jaw, sucking on the skin there and Sam’s free hand goes to your thigh, resting on the outside of it. You feel his thumb caressing your skin.

Your moans become louder as the feeling becomes more intense, more intense than you’ve ever felt it, maybe. Dean’s panting against you, pressing himself close. He’s hard against your thigh, his erection pressing and rubbing against you, the jeans material rough.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Come on. Come on. It’s right there, huh?” But your body needs no encouragement.

You come, sounds loud and uncontrolled, hands going out for the need to hold on to something, because you’re sure you will lose your mind if you don’t. One goes up to Dean’s face, dragging him closer. The other to Sam’s hand on your thigh, squeezing it. 

You go quiet, only made of pleasure and light for a few seconds. Then your body drops back down to earth.

Your head lolls to the side and Dean kisses your lips immediately. You’re barely able to return the kiss, your eyelids endlessly heavy. Dean’s hand travels away from where he touched you, up to cup your face, pull you in close. Your hand is still on Sam’s, and you feel violently aware of it.

“Fuckin’ want you,” Dean mutters into your mouth, and then he’s rolling himself over you, begins pushing his jeans down. Sam drags his hand away, his fingers out of you, moves out of the way, presumably, and you pull at Dean’s shirt. He doesn’t have the patience to take off all his clothes, but at least you manage to wrangle him out of one layer. He’s hard against your thigh, really hard, and you reach down, touch him, making him moan. He grips your thigh, presses it against his side.

The couch cushions shift under you, and you look to the side to watch Sam drop down on them. He’s breathing hard, lips parted and you look into his face. He returns your gaze, and then you let your eyes roam down his body. As if given permission by you, his long fingers fly to his jeans, begin opening them. You feel Dean pushing against you, and you widen your legs, pulls him close, and he enters you.

“Oh fuck,” Dean grunts into your ear, and you bring your hands up, grab on to the hair at the back of his head. He presses his opened mouth against your neck and begins thrusting. 

You’re still tight and hot from your orgasm, and you moan when Dean starts moving. He’s looking for closeness, keeps kissing your face and you hum at the feeling, at least until you hear another sound coming from next to you.

He begins stroking himself immediately, a deep frown on his face, and then he opens his eyes and looks straight into yours. You keep his gaze. At your periphery, you can see the roll of his hips, feel its phantom copy inside yourself. You turn your head again, press your cheek against Dean’s. Let your hands wander down from his neck over his back, to his ass. He presses himself up on two arms, looks down at you. You squeeze where you’re holding him, and he goes faster.

Dean watches you for a few seconds, tongue pressed against the inside of his teeth. His eyes study you, something unknowable in them.

“Look at him,” he finally says, voice low. You blink up at him, unsure how to react. Your lips move. But then Dean lowers his head, his nose pressing against your cheek, his mouth close to your ear. “I want you to see how much he wants you.”

You turn your head, look at Sam again. His pink lips are parted, his chest rising and falling. You let your eyes wander to where he is holding himself. Can’t help but lick at your bottom lip when you see him. He looks different than you imagined him. And you have been imagining him. Not just his hands. This too.

Dean changes the way he rolls his hips, and your eyes flutter shut. He brings his mouth to your neck, gently nuzzles it.

“Isn’t she so fucking sexy, Sammy?” he mumbles and you bite your bottom lip, thick arousal exploding inside you at Dean’s words. “Isn’t she the best thing you’ve ever seen?”

And you know Dean’s voice like this, know the way he likes to mumble and mutter when he’s inside you, slow, salacious praise falling from his lips, know the depth of his voice when he gets like that. So hearing the way Sam sounds when he speaks feels like someone cutting through the air.

“She is,” he says, tone cracked, and your hands shoot to Dean’s arms, needing something to hold on to. You open your eyes again, blink at Sam. He’s watching you and you feel so naked, so put on display, but in a way that is perfect, freeing.

“You’re beautiful,” Sam says, looking into your eyes, his arm still moving. So sweet, so innocent, all while Dean is still fucking you thoroughly. It makes you feel like you’re gonna cry with the intense feelings it gathers in your chest. “Make her come again, Dean.”

“Fuck, Sam,” you moan, your body shivering from his words.

Dean leans back a little, folding one leg and bringing the knee up on the couch. It makes it easier for him to drive into you, changes his angle in a way that has you arching your back.

“Touch yourself for us,” Dean pants, and you moan, let your hand wander to between your legs, rubbing yourself just above where Dean is entering you. 

“That’s it. That’s good.”

You go fast and hard almost immediately. You know it won’t take much, not with the thick, steady rhythm of Dean, not with the show that is being offered, of the two men so close to you.

“Is that good?” Dean asks, still watching you.

“So good,” you breathe, your other hand going up to your breast, squeezing your nipple through the fabric. Dean grins at your willingness.

“You like both of us watching you?” he asks. You nod along. Dean grabs your hip, squeezes it. “Wish you could feel this, Sam. Could feel how hot and tight she is right now. Nothing like it.”

“Wanna feel it,” Sam says and your head snaps to the side, your eyes open. You look at him and he is looking at you, into your eyes, still pumping himself, fast now. “I wish I could feel it.”

“Oh fuck,” Dean grants in that moment, collapsing forward. His hand shoots up, buries itself in the hair at the top of your head as he starts snapping his hips faster. “Oh fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come.”

You squeeze Dean where you’re holding him, all words and thoughts carried away with the way he is fucking you, his loud moaning in your ear, undercut by the deeper grunts of Sam right next to you.

You wish you could touch both of them, is the last thing you think before you come so hard you break out into sobs. You wish you could touch and see and kiss them both as they come.

But then you need to drop your head back and only feel.

Next time on SUN BLEACHED FLIES:

Sam’s standing at the kitchen counter, just pouring himself a cup of coffee. His hair is wet and even darker than normal, he’s in boxer shorts and a white t-shirt. You step into the room, clear your throat. 

“Have you seen Dean?” you ask.

Sam spins around, knocking the cup over in the process. Luckily, it’s only half full, but the dark liquid still spreads over the counter.

“Oh, fuck, shit,” he cusses, and you quickly rush forward, grab a kitchen towel slung over the back of one of the chairs and throw it on the spill.

Mysterious Hot Guy (or MHG, for short) is in two of your classes: your 6 o’clock political science class on Mondays and Wednesdays sitting a row down from you, and sitting beside you in your 8:30 biology class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He first caught your eye because, frankly, he looks more like he should be on a movie set than night classes at a dinky community college. He’s drop dead gorgeous, and that’s putting it lightly. Even so, that’s not what has you so intrigued. Something about him is off somehow, strange in such a way that it has you completely captivated. Alluring in a way you can’t quite put your finger on, even outside his appearance. 

MHG hardly ever speaks. You’re pretty sure he’s only said one word to you the entire four weeks of the semester so far, and he sits literally a foot away from you every other day. He’s also, apparently, a genius. He never takes notes, never writes a single thing down, he never asks questions and never answers them either, for that matter. Still, you happened to catch a glimpse of his grade on the test your biology professor handed back last week, and he got a perfect score. 

He also doesn’t have a car. Or, rather, he doesn’t have a car of his own. Every Tuesday and Thursday as you’re walking back to your own car at almost 11 PM, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of an absolutely gorgeous vintage Chevrolet Impala that makes you simultaneously green with envy and desperate for him to push you up against the side of it. Or push you down against the backseat. Or the front seat, which you find out is a bench seat after some minor googling. Car like that, you’re not exactly gonna be picky about where. 

Still, even after all your observing, you don’t learn a single useful piece of information about MHG until six weeks into the semester—two weeks out from midterms—when your biology professor announces that you will be choosing your partners for the midterm project. You barely even let the words leave his mouth before you’re turning to your right, pouncing with what you hope is a normal amount of enthusiasm, although you’re so damn intrigued by this guy that all you can do is pray you don’t come across as a total stalker. “Hey. Would you wanna partner up?” 

MHG turns to you, his eyes wide in a way that leaves you a lot less hopeful about how normal your greeting was. “Uh. Me?” he asks, and his voice is…warm in a way you weren’t expecting. He could do audiobooks, or a podcast, or something—he has a nice voice is what you’re getting at.

You laugh. You’re almost a little starstruck—it makes sense; you’ve definitely turned this guy into your own personal celebrity. “Who else?” you respond, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’m ____.” 

He eyes you for a moment before he clasps your hand and gives it a shake. Jesus, this guy must have anemia or something because his hand is fucking freezing. “Sam. Uh, Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His touch lingers for a moment before he tugs his hand back. “And…yeah. Yeah, we can…partner up.” 

Sam Winchester. Finally, a name to put to the face. No more thinking of him as Mysterious Hot Guy for you; you and MHG are on a first name basis now. “Awesome,” you say softly, and you really, desperately hope your smile looks less manic than it feels. “So. Sam. Would you mind giving me your number or something so we can set up a time and place to meet up?” 

He hesitates, but he does scribble a number down on the corner of his empty notebook page. “I, uh. I can’t do…daytime,” he tells you as he slides it over. 

Okay. Weird way to phrase that, but you assume he’s like you, he works during the day or something. So you shrug and take the proffered paper. “Me neither. I have work.” You pinch it between your fingers with a grin. “We’ll make it work.” 

He smiles at you, a shy sort of thing that makes your chest ache to draw out more. “Yeah. Okay.” 

You plug the number in your phone almost as soon as you get home, but it takes you almost an hour to actually text him. You go through probably a hundred different drafts before you finally land on: ‘hey!! it’s ____. does friday work for you? my only day without classes lol’ 

Once you press send, you figure you’ll probably have at least five minutes to freak out and overthink. Sam doesn’t really seem the type to be glued to his phone. Which is why, you suppose, that you nearly have a heart attack when your phone buzzes with a response no more than 30 seconds later. ‘Friday works. 7 at the library?’ 

‘see you then :)’ You debate over the smiley face for a solid minute and a half before finally sending it and then violently throwing your phone across the couch and screaming into your throw pillow. 

When you do finally work up the courage to pick your phone up again, he’s sent two texts back. ‘See you then.’ And then another one, a small bubble containing two characters: ‘:)’ Embarrassingly, you giggle alone in your living room. Oh, this guy is going to be the death of you. 

You spend the rest of the night googling Sam Winchester and coming up with absolutely nothing. He seems to have absolutely no social media presence at all, not even an old MySpace or a private Facebook account. The only reference you can find to his name at all has it listed as one of two sons of some random serial killer from, like, the 1800s, which is obviously useless. 

You give up your fruitless search with a sigh, closing your laptop and shoving it aside. Your tv is playing on some local news station—doesn’t matter which one, they’ve all been reporting the same story for weeks. You click it off, 100% disinterested in hearing about the blood bags going missing from local clinics for the millionth time this month. 

You go to bed and dream of brown hair and eyes that you just can’t quite place the color of, but you can swear you see them flash red.

Friday finds you at the library almost a full hour early. You’d agonized over your outfit all day yesterday, and for another half an hour after work to boot. In the end, you’d decided to go casual. After all, it is just a study date—and actually, not a date at all! A study meet-up. A study hangout, at best. The fact that you did your make-up and your hair for it is entirely irrelevant. 

It’s 6:45 when a cough draws your attention up from your phone. Sam is standing in front of you with another one of those shy smiles, and two coffee cups in his hands. Coffee cups from your favorite cafe. He shoves one in your direction. “Uh. I’ve noticed that you have drinks from here pretty often. And- I hope you don’t mind, but I…I read one of the cups? So. This is for you.” 

Your eyes flick over him, your heartbeat practically pounding out of your chest. So he’s been watching you too. Or—Jesus, not watching, that makes it sound creepy. Observing is a better word for it. He noticed a pattern in your coffee cups. He read one to find out what it was you were drinking. “Thanks,” you tell him, taking the cup from his hand. Turning it to read the writing, you find he’d gotten it right. Maybe you should find it creepy, actually. As it is, you’re sort of having a hard time not swooning. You beam at him. “I’ll…have to return the favor.” 

For some reason, that makes Sam laugh as he sits down across from you. “Sure.” He opens his backpack and takes out his laptop. “So, this project.” 

Sam, as it turns out, is a genius. Or at least exceptionally smart. A project that would’ve taken you hours on your own is done in record time with him, which leaves the two of you there at 7:30 with a fully completed midterm project and half-empty coffee cups. You don’t want to leave, and it seems Sam doesn’t either, as he closes his laptop and asks, “Why are you taking night classes?” like he’s really, genuinely curious. 

So you tell him. You tell him about trying to get through college on your own, deciding you needed a full time job, how it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had. You ask him the same question, and he tells you about his brother, who is, apparently, the one who drives that fucking awesome car. He drops Sam off at classes, and pretty much anywhere else he needs to go.

The two of you chat for an hour and a half before Sam gets a text that says his brother is literally going to leave him there if he doesn’t shag ass and get in the car pronto. So Sam walks you out of the library. 

“You know,” you blurt out before you can lose your nerve, “I feel like our classes would be a lot easier if we put our heads together like this. You know, regularly. Like, every Friday, maybe.” 

He ducks his head, smiling that same shy smile he’d had when he gave you the coffee. “Sure. Every Friday. Sounds…helpful.” 

You don’t realize until you get home that he never actually told you why he takes night classes. It turns out to be a pattern for him, as the two of you meet up week after week. You simultaneously feel like you know everything and nothing about him, and every week you like him more and more for it. Well, for that and the coffee that he gets you every time. 

It takes a week before he moves seats in your political science class. The Monday after the second Friday you meet up with him, you almost sit in the wrong seat because you’re so used to him sitting two rows ahead of you. Of course, when you realize what’s happened, Sam’s staring at you with an amused grin on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh at you. So, you decide, you are friends, at least. And as far as friends go, Sam’s a pretty good one.

You and Sam text, constantly. Despite seeming relatively unplugged, he responds to you instantly almost every time. You hate to get your hopes up, but by the time finals roll around, you’re starting to really like him. You’re starting to think he really likes you too. 

He finishes his biology final on the last Thursday of classes long before you, but when you leave the classroom, you see him leaning against the wall, waiting. Again, you don’t want to get your hopes up, but when he lifts his head and sees you approaching him, you swear to God, you see his whole face light up.  He looks a little pale, maybe. But it also might just be the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“How do you think you did?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

And, you think, it’s now or never, now, isn’t it? Classes are over. You may never see Sam again (although, you like to think the two of you are close enough now that you would at least remain friends outside of having classes together, but still, the sentiment remains). So you change the subject and ask, “Would you wanna get dinner with me on Saturday?” 

He pauses, freezes in place pretty much, and you stop to match him. “Dinner, like…dinner?” he asks, as if that question makes any sense. 

You laugh, a little awkward, and adjust your backpack straps. “Uh, yeah. Like, dinner.” You don’t want to explicitly mention it being a date. You feel like he likes you, you really do, but if you’re wrong…that rejection is going to sting. So you don’t say it, not explicitly. 

But still, Sam’s face lights up with a grin. “Yeah. I’d…really love to get dinner with you, actually. I’ll have to—I’ll text you. But…yes, yeah. I’d love to.” 

You’re pretty sure the smile on your face matches his. “Okay. Then, I’ll see you on Saturday. And you’ll text me.” 

“I’ll text you,” he agrees. 

The two of you linger for a moment before parting, and you have never been more excited to say goodbye to someone in your entire fucking life. 

When you get home, you have a text message. ‘I’ll pick you up. Does 7 work for you?’

You have to take a moment to squeal into your pillow before answering that yes, 7 does work for you, and you’re excited to see him then. And then, as an afterthought, your address.

God, you need to find something to wear.

Saturday comes around, and you’re fully ready by 6. Sam’s almost always shown up early, after all. Your TV plays news footage, stating that the clinics have taken to putting up extra security around their blood banks to no avail. You couldn’t care less, too giddy and girlishly excited to even think about the stolen blood bags. 

6:45 rolls around. Sam isn’t there. That’s…fine. He’s not obligated to show up early. You set up a time to pick you up for a reason, right? There’s no reason for the sinking feeling in your gut. 

7:00. No sign of Sam. But that’s no reason to worry. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. People are late sometimes, and you don’t need to panic just because Sam’s never been late before. 

At 7:30, you shoot Sam a text. ‘are you okay? don’t tell me you forgot about me :( lol’ You don’t get a response. 

You don’t change back into lounge clothes until 8, and you don’t take off your makeup until 8:30, and that’s only because you’re pretty sure you’re about to start crying and ruin it anyway. 

The real kicker is that you thought Sam, at the very least, considered you a friend. Or at least friendly enough to let you down easy rather than agree to a date and then stand you up. Clearly, you severely misread the entire situation. You entirely misunderstood Sam in general, if he’s really the type of person to do this sort of thing. 

Wiping hot tears off your face, you cork open your expensive bottle of wine. Desperate times, right?

Two hours and half a wine bottle later, you’ve swung from devastated to angry. How dare he stand you up? You’re a catch! You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’ve ignored all of his weird quirks and red flags, and for what? To cry into a glass or five of overpriced wine on a Saturday night? Screw that. You should call him and give him a piece of your mind.

Or…no, you’re pretty drunk, actually, so you probably shouldn’t call him. But you could text him. Yeah. You fumble for your phone, furiously typing out a text and hitting send without a second thought. ‘if u werent interested in me u cldve just said so. didnt have 2 ghost me’ 

Next thing you know, you’re opening your eyes the next morning with a killer headache, a damn near empty bottle of wine, and no response from Sam. While you’re curled over the toilet, the alcohol isn’t the only thing turning your stomach. There’s a worry brewing there too. 

Because the more you think about it, the more that this really just doesn’t feel like Sam. Now that you’re further out from it, you can acknowledge that much. When you ask yourself if you truly believe that the guy who bought you your favorite drink every time you met up, the guy who remembered every single thing you ever told him, the guy whose face totally lit up when you asked him to dinner—when you ask yourself if that guy would stand you up, you truly, honestly don’t believe he would. So the real question is: why did he?

You fight through the worry until about halfway through your shift on Monday when you realize that with finals over, you have absolutely no idea when, or even if you’ll see Sam again. You call him. It rings all the way through until you get his voicemail, and you wish the sound of his voice could calm you, but it only reminds you that he’s not answering. You don’t leave a message, sending him a text instead. ‘seriously, are you okay? please at least let me know you’re not dead.’ You’re not surprised to find you haven’t gotten a response the next time you check your phone, walking to your car at the end of the day. Desperately, heart-clenchingly worried, but not surprised. 

You open your laptop the second you get home, furiously searching anything you can think of. You search for his name again, hoping to find anything that could point you towards family or friends, to the brother he mentioned. You search local obituaries, John Does, anyone who might even bear the slightest resemblance to Sam, but there’s nothing. Nothing, until you accidentally click on one of the articles about the blood theft. There, in a blurry screenshot of footage from the new security cameras one of the blood banks had installed, you see it. You recognize his brother’s gorgeous fucking car. 

Your eyes go wide. Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with a criminal. You scroll up through the article, reading furiously, but it doesn’t even mention the car, focusing instead on the blurry, shrouded figure entering the doors. Is this why Sam went missing? Laying low until he can be sure no one will connect the footage of the car to him or his brother? Why the fuck is he stealing blood bags in the first place? Needless to say, the discovery leaves you with more questions than it does answers. 

The world, unfortunately, does not stop with this revelation. You go to bed. You get up, you go to work, you come home. You think about Sam. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Should you go to the police? It’s not like he’s killing people but…it’s still illegal to steal blood bags. Also morally wrong, probably. Plus, you now have information that could help forward an ongoing police investigation. You’re not entirely sure what counts as aiding and abetting, but you’re not exactly itching to find out where the line is. 

On the other hand, Sam never seemed particularly…criminal-like to you. Strange, sure, but he was nice. Kind, even. You never in a million years would’ve pegged him as some sort of criminal mastermind. That’s got to count for something. Right? At the very least, you think it allows him the benefit of the doubt. So…late Tuesday night, you send him another text, the last one you’ll ever send him. Probably. ‘hey so keep ignoring me if im wrong but are you the one stealing blood from the clinics?’ 

He doesn’t text you back, and you pretend that means you’re wrong. That you can clear your conscience and go to sleep. That you can go to work and stop worrying about vintage cars in blurry security footage. 

Then the sun goes down on Wednesday, and someone knocks on your door. 

The man on the other side of it is unfamiliar to you. He’s wearing a leather jacket, an amulet hanging off his neck. There’s absolutely no reason you should recognize him as quickly as you do. Except that he has this quality about him, something unreal or maybe inhuman, and you’ve seen it before. You can’t quite tell what color his eyes are.

He smiles at you, and confirms it. “You’re ____, right? Sam’s told me all about you.” This is Sam’s brother, the one with the car. The car that you recognized in the blood bank footage. “I’m Dean. Can I come in?” 

You keep your hand on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face if need be. “How’d you get my address?” you ask, instead of answering the question. This man could be dangerous. You trust Sam, mostly, but his brother…that’s a different story.

“Sammy had it. Remember? For your little date.” Dean says, taking a step towards the threshold. You take a step back. “Can I come in now?” 

You ignore the fear raging down your spine, the urge to turn tail and run away. Sam carries himself differently than Dean, presents himself in such a way that instead of cowering away from him, you want to keep looking. His strangeness is intriguing, not off-putting. Dean, though, he takes those same qualities and twists them on their head. Dean looks at you, and your entire body screams Danger! Like he’s some sort of predator. “Why are you here?” 

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. He takes another step forward, but stays notably on the other side of the door. Just barely. “Sam needs help. Are you gonna invite me in, or not?” 

He could be lying. He could be manipulating the affection you already have for his brother to get you to let him in so he can off you, maybe the only person who’s connected him to his crimes. But, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just forced his way in? And also, why the fuck would he go that far just to cover up some stolen blood bags? “What’s wrong with Sam?” you ask, stepping back from the door to allow him inside. When in Rome, right?

His lips press together, like he’s irritated, though you can’t imagine why. You’re letting him in, which is what he wanted. He stares at you for a moment before sighing, world weary, like he’s holding the weight of a hundred lifetimes of idiocy on his shoulders. Jesus, this guy’s dramatic. “You have to invite me,” he grits out. 

Your confusion only grows, but you oblige anyway. “Okay…come in, then.” 

Dean steps into the apartment almost as soon as you’ve said it, like you’ve only just now opened the door. You back up a few steps further. 

“Just so you know,” you say, standing up taller and trying to act less terrified than you feel, “I have a gun. So don’t- don’t try anything ‘cause I’ll shoot you.” You’re completely bluffing, of course, but there’s no way Dean could know that. 

“No, you don’t,” Dean says, like he definitely knows you were bluffing. Well, great. “Besides, I’m not here to hurt you. My brother needs help, you think I’m gonna kill the only person who can help him?” 

He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Then again, you’re pretty sure this man is a criminal, so maybe he’s just a really good liar. “Yeah, you said that before. If he needs my help so bad, why didn’t he just tell me himself?” It’s not like you slammed the door in Sam’s face and told him to leave you alone. You’ve sent him four texts and a phone call since he dropped off the face of the earth last week. He’s had every opportunity to ask for your help. 

“Cause he’s sick,” Dean tells you. He lifts his hands before he approaches you, like you’re some sort of wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook. Embarrassingly, it works. “Really sick.” 

You shake your head, bemused. “I don’t understand—what does that have to do with me? If he’s sick, he needs a doctor. Not…a random college student.” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, he would. But he’s got…it’s complicated.” He pauses in his approach and nods his head toward you. “Can I come closer, or are you gonna shoot me, tough girl?” 

You roll your eyes, but gesture him closer. “Be my guest, so long as it means you’re gonna tell me something that actually makes sense.” You’re tired of the riddles, frankly. If he doesn’t give you real answers soon, you don’t care how terrifying he is, you’re gonna have to do something drastic.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “See, me and Sam…we’re not exactly normal. If I took him to a doctor, not only would they not be able to fix him, they’d probably kill him.” He stops beside you, forcing you to look up at him as he speaks. He cuts an intimidating figure, even without the air of a predator about him. You really, really wish you actually owned a gun.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice quiet in the face of this hunter. “That you’re not normal?” 

He grins, big and sharp and toothy. And then his illusion drops. Your eyes seem to fail you, like someone’s dropped the floor out from under you and then told you the floor was never real in the first place. His eyes catch your attention first, blood red and striking. And then, of course, you see his teeth—no, his fangs. Two long, sharp, killer fangs where his canines used to be. “Welcome to the night of the living dead, sweetheart.”

Vampires are real. There’s a monster in your fucking living room. This is crazy. You should be screaming. You should shove this man out the door and lock it behind him and maybe never leave your apartment again. Instead, you blurt out, “So that’s why you were stealing blood bags.” Honestly, a lot of things are starting to make way more sense now. You’re almost embarrassed you didn’t think of it before. 

Dean laughs. “Right on the money.” You flinch as he claps you on the shoulder, and he laughs at you again. 

“So…I’m guessing Sam doesn’t just have a regular old stomach bug, then?” You really feel like you should be having a more extreme reaction to this situation. You just found out that not only are vampires real, but you’ve been actively flirting with one. You think maybe you’re in shock. “This is some sort of weird…vampire virus, or something?” 

“Smart girl,” he says, pointing at you approvingly. “Though it’s not exactly a virus, more like…food poisoning. Actually, we call it blood poisoning. Comes from drinking stale blood—bagged blood, for example—rather than fresh from the source.” 

You frown. “Why drink bagged blood, then, if it makes you sick?” 

“Why do people go vegan even though they need protein?” Dean counters. “Harm reduction. Plus, it doesn’t always make us sick. It’s pretty rare, actually. More common now than, you know, the olden times, but it happened back then too. Storing blood in vials, bottles, anything can make blood go stale, but it means you don’t have to hurt as many people getting it. Some things are worth the risk.” 

That much, at least, you can understand. “So this…this stale blood, whatever—it makes you sick,” you repeat, that same worry for Sam from before roiling in your stomach again. “How sick?” 

Dean grimaces, so whatever it is is clearly not good news. “It can kill us. Pretty easily, too. I have to tell you, I don’t know exactly how it works. Sam’s way better at this sort of thing.” He taps his fingers against your coffee table. “But I do know how to fix it.” 

It’s pretty easy to guess. Dean’s here, despite the fact his brother is apparently dying, and there’s really only one thing you have that they don’t. “He needs blood,” you say quietly, beating Dean to the punch. “Fresh blood.” 

He nods and shoots you a stilted smile. “Quick on the draw, huh?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he sighs, shaking his head. “Sam hates what he is. Doesn’t matter that he’ll die without it, he won’t hurt anyone. He just won’t.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly uncomfortable with Dean’s intense stare, like he can see straight into your soul. “So- so, what am I supposed to do about it?” you ask, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. “I’m still a person. I can’t force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.” 

Dean takes a step toward you, and this time you don’t step back or shrink away. He’s dangerous, sure, but not to you. Not as long as you’re the only thing standing between his brother and certain death. “Look, Sam really likes you. If he knew I was here right now, and he wasn’t on his deathbed, he’d kill me. But I just—I’ve tried. It’s been a week, and I’ve tried so hard—” He ducks his head as he cuts off, his jaw working over clenched teeth. “I know that you care about him, right? I mean, I saw the texts; I know—I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. I can’t just sit around and watch my little brother die. I had to try. I have to try.” 

Seeing him now, you almost can’t believe you were afraid of him. He looks almost terrified himself. And despite the uncertainty you feel, the fear, well…there’s a clear answer here. Yes, there’s a chance Sam refuses to feed from you, but there’s also a chance to save him. You can’t just stand back and let him die because you’re scared. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours again. They sparkle with hope, and even though the illusion is dropped, even though his eyes are red and his teeth are viciously sharp, for the first time since you first saw him, he looks human. “Okay?” 

“Take me to him,” you tell him, moving past him to grab your coat off the hanger by your door. “Let me try to save him.” 

Dean gives you the key to the apartment and a wish good luck, but stays in the car (which, yes, is just as nice as you imagined, though you wish you’d gotten to experience it under different circumstances). He tells you as you climb out the passenger door, “If this goes the way I hope it does, you two aren’t gonna want me there. Trust me.” 

Apprehension keeps you rooted outside the locked door, biting a hole through your bottom lip. There’s a lot of ways this could go. Quite a few of them could end up with you dead, and you’d be a fool not to acknowledge that. Then again, you’d also be a fool not to acknowledge what you know about Sam, what Dean’s told you about him today. Kind, gentle Sam, who is sick and dying, but apparently still refuses to hurt anyone. Who drinks from blood bags, despite the risk, simply because it means he can live without harming others. He doesn’t deserve to die.

You take a deep breath, and unlock the door. 

The apartment is…Well, it’s a little dingy, but it’s cozy. Homey. There’s clutter and trinkets on every shelf, books that look so old that you fear they’d disintegrate if you touched them. It occurs to you, then, that you don’t know how old Sam actually is. A memory flashes in your mind of his name mentioned in records from the 1800s. Holy shit. 

“Dean?” You recognize Sam’s voice, but it’s thin and croaky. Weak. Really sick, Dean had said. “Are you home?” 

  You follow the sound of his voice into a bedroom, and the stale smell of illness almost makes you stumble back from the doorway. It doesn’t smell bad, necessarily, so much as still and wrong. Sam’s been in this room, wallowing in sickness, for a week. Your heart aches for him. “Not Dean,” you say quietly, hoping not to spook him. You approach the bed, and only just keep from gasping at the state of the man curled up in it. Sam is pale and sunken, visibly weak and malnourished. He’s trembling, shaking all over with chills, maybe, or just tremors in general. 

His face changes when he hears your voice, his brows furrowed in confusion. He opens his eyes and peers up at you over his cocoon of blankets. His eyes, like Dean’s, are red, but unlike Dean’s, they’re glassy and tired, his eyelids fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open. “____? What…what’re you doing here?” He pushes himself up to sit, and you can see the effort it takes him to do even that, his arms shaking under his own weight. 

You sit gingerly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Dean sent me,” you tell him, ratting Dean out immediately. 

Sam groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The veins in his hands are standing out, ugly, mottled red under pale skin. As if the blood really had poisoned him. “I’m gonna kill him.” Wow, Dean hadn’t even exaggerated, huh?

“Not like this, you’re not,” you mutter, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “Jesus, Sam…” He’s ice cold to the touch like he’s been out in the snow for hours. You curl your hands around his, trying to warm him. 

His gaze flicks to them, your hands barely covering his. “Sorry I missed our date,” he says, mournful like he really is repentant, like standing you up is the worst sin he could’ve possibly committed. “It…was a date, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it—I meant for it to be.” You huff out a laugh, sympathetic as you smile at him. “And, you know, somehow I can’t find it in myself to hold it against you.” 

Sam laughs, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of his fangs. They’re just as viciously sharp as Dean’s, but they somehow look less dangerous on Sam. You’d worry you’d been charmed or something (isn’t that supposed to be something vampires can do? You have to admit, you’re a little out of the loop of vampire lore), if you weren’t certain that Sam would never do something like that. No, not charmed, not in any sort of magical sense. “I’ll die happy then.” 

Wow, you see the dramatics run in the family. “You’re not going to die,” you say firmly, releasing Sam’s hand to brush his bangs out of his face. He’s freezing all over. It makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, make sure he never goes cold again. You settle for pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingers cupping around his jaw. 

“I am, though,” he shoots back, like he’s arguing about who’s answer on the homework is right, not about his actual, literal life. “I’m going to die. But that’s—it’s okay. It’s been a week, so I’ve sort of come to terms with it.” 

“Screw that.” You turn more firmly towards him, pulling your legs under you to kneel on the bed. “Seriously, screw that. I can help you. If you think I’m just gonna- what, stand aside and let you die, then you really don’t know me at all.” 

“Sure. And you’re just gonna fix me, huh?” He shakes his head, turning it away from you with a huff. “All sunshine and rainbows after that. Not like I’ll have to bleed you to get better, right? Oh, wait.” Oh, he’s such a fucking diva, even on his deathbed, apparently.

“Oh, my God—yeah! I sort of figured it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” You didn’t spend all that time hesitating at the door because you thought it would be a walk in the park. “But if the choice is between that and letting you die, there’s no contest. I don’t understand why you’re so set on it when I’m sitting here offering you a solution!” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be saved!” His outburst silences you, especially because it seems to take a lot of energy from him to snap at you like that. He stares you down, red eyes meeting yours, and you…you don’t know what to say to that. 

You can lead a horse to water, but… “Sam—”

He cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Dean…he used to tell me that what we are doesn't make us monsters, it’s what we do. And I really wish I believed that, but the thing is, I…am going to die if I don’t feed from someone, like- like a fucking parasite. What is that if not monstrous?” 

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” you tell him. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his face and replace your hand on his cheek, turning his gaze to meet yours. “I actually happen to think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of monster would’ve apologized for getting deathly ill and accidentally standing me up.” 

His eyes flick over your face, like he’s searching for something. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice, thin and mournful, is heartbreaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know—I’ve never been sick like this before. It’s possible I won’t have a lot of control if I feed on you like this.” 

That’s sort of what you were afraid of. But that’s the benefit of him feeding from you, rather than some random person off the street, right? You know what’s going on. “I won’t let you go too far,” you assure him. “Sam, please. I want to do this for you. Let me…let me help you.” 

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to find what he’s looking for. He lifts his hand and brushes your hair back off your neck. “If I do this—if—it’ll hurt, at first,” he tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder. Just resting there. It sends sparks down your spine all the same. “But not for long. It’ll start to feel good, kind of like getting high. But if I—I’m not going to bite you if I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop me if I take too much.” 

“I’ll stop you. If I have to.” You trust him, mostly. But you’re also aware that he hasn’t fed in a week, so you’re prepared to have to at least alert him to your blood loss. 

His fingers trail along your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. His eyes follow the path of his touch, and his hands may be hesitant, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. Maybe you can make the horse drink, after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand moves to the back of your head. Bracing. 

“I told you—” you say, your voice coming out almost as quiet as a breath— “I want to do this for you.” 

“Okay.” He leans forward until you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s almost cold, unnaturally so. “Tilt your head a little more, that way—there you go,” he instructs, and that tone in his voice is…yeah. You are definitely glad Dean didn’t come in with you. His lips brush your skin when he speaks next, “Ready?” 

“Yes.” You’re not sure how you manage to get your voice to come out as stable as it does. You bring your hands up to brace on his shoulders, and your grip goes a bit tighter when you feel his fangs press, just barely, against your skin. “Yeah, I’m—go ahead.” 

You’ve never been bitten by a vampire before. You have no frame of reference of whether this is what it’s like every time, or if it’s just a Sam thing. Or if it’s just a you and Sam thing. But the whole process is intensely intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Even when he first sinks his fangs in and it stings, makes you draw in a sharp breath. He’s a little uncoordinated, you think, and maybe goes in at a weird angle, because he draws his teeth out to sink them in again, but not before his tongue flicks out to catch the blood that drips down the side of your neck. The gasp that escapes you this time is not just from the pain.

He was right, of course. It does hurt at first. But the pain is offset by his hand on your head, his fingers curling just so to grip your hair. You swear you can feel in real time as he gets his strength back. As your blood flushes the sickness out of him. You’re not sure there is anything more intimate than that. 

You think maybe you expected a transition between pain and euphoria, but there is no slow fade. In between one blink and the next, the pain disappears, replaced with a floaty, echoing pleasure that has your fingers clutching at Sam’s shirt. Everything around you goes a little unfocused, fuzzy, except for everywhere Sam touches, where you swear your nerves are lighting up with sparks and ecstasy. You might be making noises. It’s a little hard to tell, your senses dampened as they are. 

“Sam…” You shove a little at his shoulders when you notice your hands start to shake. He hums, and you feel it on your skin. You can see, now, why he likened this feeling to getting high, although you’re not sure it’s the feeding that you can see yourself getting addicted to. You shove him a little harder. “Gettin’ dizzy here.” 

He pulls back from your neck, and your senses return to you in a rush of sound and a pinprick sort of ache where his teeth had sunk into your skin. You watch, full focused vision returned, as Sam wipes at his mouth and then drags his tongue over his hand, now free of mottled veins, to catch the blood that had, you assumed, spilled as he drank from you. Like he can’t bear to waste a single drop. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry. 

“You taste like…” He trails off, and then his mouth is on you again, but not biting. No, his tongue drags up your throat, and it occurs to you—vaguely, through the fog of earth-shattering, soul-bending lust that settles over you—that if blood had spilled down his mouth, then it stands to reason that it had made a mess of your neck as well. Not that you’re complaining, if this is the result of a little mess. He makes a soft noise against your skin, his breath hot now in a way it hadn’t been before. “Taste like…” His voice peters off again, distracted or just unable to find the words to describe it.

Yeah, screw this. “Let me find out for myself,” you murmur, your hands moving from his shoulders to his face—and his skin, too, is warmer now, almost the temperature you would generally expect it would be—until you can drag him into a kiss. The answer, as it turns out, is blood. You taste like blood, although you sort of assume it tastes different to him. Strangely, the flavor isn’t as off-putting as you would assume, especially not when he groans and uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head, kiss you deeper. You lick into his mouth, tasting your actual, literal blood on his tongue, and you…don’t have the words to describe how absurdly hot it is.  

He’s not careful with his fangs, not really, lets them catch on your bottom lip and draw out pinpricks of blood that he soothes with his tongue. It makes the whole thing a little messy; he’s got blood smeared over his lips when you pull back to breathe. Your eyes track his tongue as he licks it up. 

His hand, the one that’s not braced on the back of your head, brushes against the skin of your waist under the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, still so close that you can feel the words on your lips. 

Is this okay? You almost have to laugh at the question. As if you hadn’t wanted him since the first moment you saw him. “Yeah,” you tell him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “It is so absolutely more than okay.” 

At your confirmation, he smiles too, and his hand rests more firmly on your waist, almost grounding. “Well, I didn’t buy you dinner first. Wouldn’t want you to think I was ungentlemanly,” he says, drawing a soft laugh from you. 

“Aw, well. You did try.” You press forward, leaving a short kiss on his lips as your hand shifts from his face to tangle your fingers through his hair. “Plus, I mean…technically, I—”

Sam cuts you off with a kiss, but you can feel his grin against your mouth. “That does not count,” he protests.

“I dunno,” you say, a little sing-song in your voice as you grin at him. “I did quite literally just save your life. I think we might be a little past dinner.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head at you. He’s not annoyed though. You can tell, because his fingers flex on your waist and then move, brushing up your side. “Uh-huh. Sounds to me like I’m slacking.” He ducks his head and presses two short, soft kisses to your neck, right on top of the pinprick aches. “I’ll have to repay you. You did just save my life, after all.” 

Almost subconsciously, your fingers tighten in his hair. Anticipation settles in the small space between you, a space that grows even smaller when his hand presses against the small of your back and tugs your closer. “I did just save your life,” you repeat, your voice significantly breathier than it was before.

He laughs, a little puff of breath against your skin, and his lips drag down your throat in a line of open mouthed kisses until it lands at your pulse point. You swear to God, time slows down as he breathes in, slow and deep like he’s smelling your blood beneath your skin, and then presses his teeth to it until you can feel the points of them, precarious like water pooled on top of a penny. He doesn’t bite down, doesn’t break the skin, but fuck, you almost want him to. It seems like he wants to, too, as he closes his mouth with a snap. “Fuck…” He pulls back and lifts his eyes to yours. “Can I taste you? Please?” 

It takes you a second to understand what, exactly, he means. He’d already tasted you; if he wanted more blood, he could’ve just bitten you again. Then, it clicks, and you…well, what are you supposed to say to that? Sam Winchester, all big, cow eyes and mouth smeared with your blood, so politely asking to eat you out, like you’d be giving him a gift. How could you possibly turn that down? “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, that’s—yeah.” 

You only see his answering smile for half a second before his lips are on yours again, kissing, biting, while his hand caresses over the bare skin of your stomach. His kiss, his touch, is almost overwhelming, doesn’t leave you much room to think about anything else but him. Not that you really want to. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulls back just far enough from you to speak, and even then you can feel his lips move against yours as he asks, “Can I take this off?” 

You really do laugh this time, drawing your hands down his neck and over his shoulders. “I appreciate the whole gentleman thing, I really do, but Sam, baby, I’ve wanted you since before I even knew your name. So let’s just assume that whatever you wanna do, I really fuckin’ want it, too.” 

His eyes flick over your face, and you can literally feel the cocky ass grin he gets at that. It is, unfortunately, like everything else he does, ridiculously sexy. “That long, huh?” He’s such a dick. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life. He tugs back and drags his gaze down your torso, his hand leaving your hair to join the other in toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” His hands brush against the skin of your stomach as he pulls your shirt up and over your head before tossing it aside, not caring where it lands. You’ll find it later. Or you won’t. 

His eyes lave over your newly bare skin, his hands following shortly behind. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his palms flat against your stomach and dragging them up your ribs. “Can you lay back for me, darling?” he asks, even as his hands press you back against the mattress before you can respond. 

You go easily, not in the least because the name knocks the breath out of you. “Darling?” you echo, shifting until you’re resting comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed. 

Sam climbs over you, his knee nudging yours until you spread your legs to make room for his hips to settle between your thighs. “Is that alright?” he asks, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw. 

More than alright, if the fluttering in your stomach is anything to go by. “It’s fine,” you say, playing it cool. Then, because his hands are rubbing up and down the bare skin of your sides and his teeth (the blunt ones, not the fangs, because he has much more self control than you do) are nipping at the skin of your neck, you play it decidedly uncool and continue, “Darling.” 

You feel his answering smile against the skin of your collarbone as he and his kisses and his teeth travel down the line of your neck and chest, pausing at the edge of your bra. He lifts his eyes to meet yours through his lashes as his lips press the softest of kisses there. “‘M gonna take this off, now,” he tells you, his voice deep and rumbling. His hands move up your back, and you arch your spine to allow him room to do so. He undoes your bra clasp without removing his lips from your chest, tugs the garment down your arms and tosses it vaguely in the same direction as your shirt without a second thought. 

“I thought about this, you know,” he says, softly, against the skin in the valley of your breasts. “Getting my mouth on you. How it would feel.” He shifts his attention, his lips closing over your nipple while his hand palms your other breast. It draws a soft gasp from your lips, your fingers twisting in his hair. “How you’d sound,” he continues, his voice a little cocky now. 

“Sam…” His name falls from your lips on an exhale, like you’re breathing him in, like he’s pumping through your veins the same way you’re now pumping through his. 

He smirks. If you thought he was cocky before… “Yeah, pretty much—” He presses that smirk against one nipple and brushes his thumb over the other, and while your head is dropping back onto the pillows with a moan, he laves his tongue over it to make you moan even louder— “just like that.” He's got you so distracted, you almost don't notice his free hand trailing down your stomach, brushing along the waistband of your jeans, not until his fingers undo the button with practiced ease. 

“Oh, God, you are so unfairly hot.” You lift your head to watch as he kisses his way down your stomach until he finally reaches your waistband with his mouth, too, and leaves a nippy little bite there. 

He laughs, glances up at you with that fucking smirk as he drags your jeans down your hips. “Unfair to who? You?” The two of you maneuver a bit until he can tug your pants off your ankles and toss them aside, another clothing casualty lost to the war on your sanity led by the swooping in your gut whenever Sam looks at you like that. 

“Not me,” you elaborate, although it’s hard to do so when Sam’s hands are settling on your hips and his thumbs are rubbing slow circles on your skin and dipping just so under the elastic of your panties on every other pass. “But, like, every other guy. How is anyone supposed to compete with…this?” 

This being Sam motherfucking Winchester, who had spent months shyly testing the waters and cautiously flirting so subtly that you were terrified you’d read him wrong, suddenly suave and confident and practically begging to eat you out. Oh, and also being, objectively, the hottest monster. This man has been terrorizing the dating pool for maybe centuries. You shudder to think how many women’s standards he has completely obliterated. 

Continuing the streak of obliterating your standards, he ducks his head, that shy smile on his lips again. “I mean, I should hope no one is competing with me in this particular instance,” he says, voice hesitant as if there’s a chance on Earth you’d ever turn him down. 

You shake your head, and honestly, you can’t help but laugh because a literal vampire is about to go down on you, and somehow the most unbelievable part of this situation is that he thinks he has an ounce of competition. “Are you actually asking me if I want to be exclusive right now?” you ask, drawing a hand up and through his hair, brushing his fringe off his forehead. “Because I feel like I made it so obvious how much I like you. Obviously, there is no competition.” 

You have the honor of watching Sam blush for the first time, and knowing that you made it possible. Your blood flushes his cheeks, makes his face go the prettiest shade of pink you’ve ever seen. 

 “Obviously,” he echoes, his words brushing against the skin just above your panties. His hands brush down your thighs, and he pulls one of your legs up and over his shoulder so your heel rests against his back. He turns his head, and with your thigh now bracketing his head, it’s easy for him to press an open-mouthed kiss there, and then another, and then another until he’s brought you back practically to panting again. 

“‘M gonna make you see stars,” he tells you, his lips pressed against the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “And then, because I am a gentleman, I’m going to buy you dinner. And I’m gonna be thinking about this—” He nips at your skin, bares his fangs this time and draws a well of blood and a gasp from you simultaneously— “The way you taste; the way you feel—I’m gonna be thinking about it the whole time.” He draws his hands back up to your hips just to tuck his fingers under the elastic of your panties, lifting his eyes to yours as he tugs on it. “Can I take these off?” 

You think you might die if he doesn’t. “Please.” 

His fangs seem to glint in the light when he grins, but he ducks his head before you can look again, a sort of hyperfocus to his posture as he shifts your hips and legs until he can pull your underwear off your ankles, and finally, finally, leaves you bare to him. He doesn’t waste a second, his hands dragging up your thighs and then spreading them further, his eyes roving over you like you’re the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen. “Gorgeous.” His voice, breathy and sweet, washing over you is the only warning you get before his lips press against you in a surprisingly gentle kiss. 

Your lungs expand on a gasp, and then deflate on a moan as he laves his tongue between your folds, the muscle pressed flat and soft like a tease. Or a preview. You’re not totally sure you’re going to survive this actually. You might die with Sam’s tongue licking over your pussy, and honestly, what a fucking way to go. 

“Taste so good all over, huh?” Oh, holy fuck, he’s still talking. His lips brush over your skin and make you whine, and you’re pretty sure you can feel the vibrations of his voice better than you can hear him. “Feel like I should thank you. Letting me feed from you, and now this?” He makes it sound like it’s some sacrifice to let him go down on you, like you’re not gripping his hair so tight you’re surprised you’re not pulling it out. “You’re perfect.” 

“Oh, my God,” your voice comes out high and tight as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks. Your back arches off the bed, but as your hips shift to press up against his mouth, you find his hand pressed low on your stomach, pinning you down. “Sam—oh, my God.” 

You can feel as much as hear the soft, contented hums he’s making, like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more than with his head between your legs and his tongue drawing circles over your clit. His fangs, sharp and dangerous, are almost artfully pressed against your skin, just barely enough to feel the points of them. His free hand, the one not pressing you down against the mattress, keeps trailing up and down the outside of your thigh, making you shiver and press your heel into his back. And it’s so obvious he’s loving this maybe even as much as you are, his whole body shifting as he grinds down against the mattress, and God, that feels almost as good as his mouth on your cunt does. He’s getting off on the taste of you, on making you squirm and whine and moan.

It’s over the second he presses his tongue against your entrance and his nose smushes against your clit—everything after that is a jumble of sensation. The feeling of his tongue fucking in and out, his nose rubbing against you with every movement of his mouth, his hand grabbing at your thigh and holding your legs open when your muscles go tense and tight and anticipatory. 

He draws his tongue out of you with an obscene slurping sound that just has you hurtling even faster towards the edge, your hands grabbing at his hair for dear fucking life, white knuckled. “Are you gonna come?” he asks, his voice low and gruff and almost fucked out. You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding as if it wasn’t obvious from the constant stream of noises spilling from your lips. “Yeah? Go on, come on my tongue. Give it to me, darling, let me taste it.” 

How could you resist that? His words and his stupidly talented mouth draw you over the edge, your pussy spasming as you do exactly as he asked and come on his tongue. True to his word, he does, in fact, make you see stars, lights sparking behind your eyelids. His mouth works you through it until you’re whining and using your grip on his hair to tug him away, oversensitive as you come down from an explosive fucking orgasm. 

He presses kisses on your inner thigh as he shifts it off his shoulder, your body loose and pliant now. “There you go, good girl.” The words make your cunt give a valiant twitch, even as he draws himself up your body until he’s laying beside you and pressing kisses over your face. “Was that good?” 

You peek one eye open to look at him, incredulous. “Was that good—you’re so ridiculous, c’mere.” You turn your head to draw him into a slow, lingering kiss. Much like the taste of your blood in his mouth, the taste of your pussy on his tongue is, frankly, life-changing. You’re addicted already. 

He draws back with a soft laugh, his eyes traveling over your face with such obvious fondness that you have to press another quick kiss against his lips. “Okay, understood.” He brings his hand up to brush over your face, soft and gentle and such a contrast to the obscene pleasure he’d taken in going down on you that it makes your cheeks go warm. “So when can I buy you that dinner?” 

The question gives you pauses, and your eyes flick down his body, curious. “Did you not want me to…” 

You watch your blood, again, flood his cheeks as he laughs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s not—I really like giving head,” he explains, as if that is not literally the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said. 

Fuck dinner, you wanna go five rounds with him back to back right now. “Okay,” you say, because he’s very sweet and he wants to be a gentleman and who are you to take that from him? “You can take me to dinner, if you swear you’ll let me suck you off when we get back. Deal?” 

The way his face lights up is worth having to wait. “Deal.”  

“And,” you continue, your hand smoothing over his hair where your grip had mussed it up, “next time you need blood, let’s just skip the whole ‘I’m a monster’ thing. I am more than willing to supply you; I have a vested interest in keeping you around.” 

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!)✦

Your friend Margo is getting married and all of your hometown friends are in the city for the big event. You’ve known her for what feels like forever and she’s the coolest girl you know. It was a point of pride for her that she was the first female mechanic in the small town where you grew up. She’d always been a fighter, picking her friends carefully and loving them fiercely. She didn’t cry when you moved several hours downstate, but she moved you into your new place herself, made you promise to let her visit you whenever she wanted, and made sure to find you the number of the very best mechanic in your new city. For the shitty beater car you won’t give up, she said. Dean Winchester was that mechanic, and the three of you have become fast friends in the couple of years since. She met her fiancee Cas through Dean, actually, and the rest is kind of history.

Dean is your friend. Just your friend. Even if he flirts with you and holds you sometimes and tells you things you don’t think anyone else knows. But Dean flirts with everyone and that’s just what friends do, they get cozy on the couch and they tell each other things. You remind yourself, constantly, that all of this means nothing. You know what Dean is like, and you know how people react to him. He’s handsome and he’s charming and you’ve seen him in action, speaking low words into a girl's ear at the bar, curling his arms around hers at a pool table, holding her hips from behind and ordering her another drink. You think anyone would be blind not to see it, and you figured your crush was a mere fantasy that’d blow over. It’s been a year.

You spent all of this morning face down in your pillow, your head spinning from a hangover and from trying to figure out what to do. You’ve decided you’d rather die than admit to your friends that you lied, and that Dean didn’t actually see you as anything more than a friend, that you were as lovesick as a schoolgirl, so much so that you had to pretend Dean was yours in order to soothe your aching heart last night. So you called the only person who could help you now. 

You offered to treat Dean to lunch at his favourite spot hoping that maybe it might be enough to help convince him to go along with your lie. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure, sweetheart?” Dean slides into the seat across from you with an easy smile.

“I just wanted to see you.” You lilt.

That much is true, you’ve been running around like crazy this past month helping with wedding prep. 

“You have fun last night?” Dean asks, taking note of your slow blinks and the bags under your eyes.

“So much fun that I don’t honestly remember most of it.”

“Atta girl.” Dean smiles. “I’m almost sad I’ll never get to have a bachelorette party, they seem legendary.”

“You’ll get to have a bachelor’s though, isn’t that pretty much the same thing?”

“Nah. Nobody gets you a tiara when you’re a bachelor.”

You laugh and for a second you forget the impending humiliation of what you’re about to do. Remembering it sobers you, and makes your stomach flip once more.

“All your friends have fun?”

“Yes. Yeah–” Your response is stilted as you struggle to find a subtle segue. “Um, I have something to ask you though, actually.”

“I’m all ears.” Dean leans back in his chair.

“I think I fucked up last night.”

“You didn’t get yourself arrested, did you?”

Worse. You think. So much worse.

“I kind of maybe accidentally told everyone I had a boyfriend.”

“Oh.” His brow furrows. “You don’t do you?”

“I don’t.” 

His face relaxes.

“Well that’s not so bad. Why’d you do that?”

“It’s just that–” You sigh. “Literally every one of my friends is dating someone now, and they were all taking turns gushing so when they turned to me I got really embarrassed, and I kind of freaked out, and I said I had a boyfriend.” 

You’re talking fast. Dean chuckles.

“Well can’t you take it back? Or say you broke up or something?”

“Um, it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Why?” Dean tilts his head that way he does when he’s trying to understand the way your brain thinks.

“I sort of told them that it was someone they know.” You look down at your lap and squeeze your palms together, building up to your big reveal.

“You’re right, that does complicate things. So, who’s the lucky guy?”

You take a deep breath and meet his eyes with a guilty smile.

The amusement on Dean’s face falls away when he understands.

“Hear me out all the way before you say anything, please.” You rush to fill the silence. “Look, I’m really sorry, I would never want to make you uncomfortable and you know I would never ask you this if I had any other option but I kind of dug a really deep hole for myself that I don’t think I can un-dig until after the wedding so could you please, please, please, just go along with it?”

You feel hot and Dean is quiet, eyes stuck on yours as he processes what he’s just heard. You tack on an extra please when the silence starts to stretch.

“Me?” He says pointing to himself, incredulous.

“I just freaked out, okay? I said the first name I could think of!” The only name you could think of, really.

Slowly, an absolutely insidious grin snakes across his face and he looks at you like you’ve just told him how to get away with murder. 

“Wow, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me.”

You knew Dean’s mean streak would make an appearance but this is even more difficult than you thought. It’s embarrassing enough to have as big a crush as you do on him, and you’re starting to think that this is just digging deeper down the hole you’re already in. Dean starts to laugh and you cover your face, leaning forward on the table. This only serves to make him laugh harder. You hope the ground opens and swallows you both whole.

“Don’t make this harder than it is, Dean. I’m not above begging.” You say through your fingers.

“Hey, hey,” he placates, gently taking your wrists to lower your hands. “I’ll do it. Of course I’ll do it.”

You look at him apprehensively, unsure he really means it.

“But you’ll owe me big time. This sure is some favour.” 

You nod sheepishly, far too humbled in the moment to push back. You’re saved momentarily by a waitress interrupting to take your orders. She pours you each a cup of coffee and you cling to yours like a lifeline.

“So tell me about my boyfriend duties.”

“I think– Well, we just need to be seen together. Officially, you only really need to come with me to the barbeque next week, and then the rehearsal dinner and the wedding day. Just three days. It won’t be so bad really.” You say that last part to yourself more than to him.

“That’s it, huh? Well you won’t believe how much romance I can fit into three days.”

Despite that promise, Dean steals all the best bites from your plate and continues to tease you for the rest of lunch.

X

You see Dean later that week, letting yourself into his small apartment. Tonight you’re doing dinner and a movie, a commonplace event between the two of you. By dinner you mean takeout, which you think is basically the opposite of a romantic home cooked meal. That’s what you tell yourself anyways, trying not to read into the way Dean does things like remembering your pickiest orders and ordering milder curries for you to share when you know he prefers an obscene amount of spice.

His place is neater than usual. You notice the lack of used glasses and dirty socks on the floor in his living room. You wonder if he’s had a date over recently, if he tidied because she had been here. You think back, trying to remember the last girl he told you about. It’s been a long time since he’s seen someone seriously, and now that you think about it, it’s been a while since he’s told you about a girl he met. You wonder if your fake boyfriend request came at a bad time. Maybe Dean was planning on putting himself out there again, or maybe he even had a date already planned. You feel nervous slipping off your shoes, overly aware of what an imposition you are now.

Dean calls your name from the kitchen and you try to clear your head before rounding the corner. He’s plating noodles for you in the bowl you like and your heart goes a little soft despite your nerves. You’re not feeling exactly yourself, worried about silly things like whether or not you should hug him and how much distance you should keep between you now that you’ve introduced a new dynamic in your relationship. He doesn’t seem different at all though, holding one arm open for you as the other fusses with a takeout container. You slip yourself against his side, accepting his hug and relaxing slightly. If he notices that you’re being weird, he doesn’t mention it, nudging two bowls into your hands and following you to his couch with your drinks and cutlery.

The tension in your shoulders begins to fall away as he tells you about his day between, and sometimes through, mouthfuls. You try to remind yourself that this is your Dean, your kind-hearted messy eater. Nothing has changed since this weekend. 

After your bowls have been emptied and your drinks refilled, you let Dean pick something to watch. He wants to watch an action flick you swear he just made you watch with him and he ignores you as you make fun of him for it. He sits back, remote tossed to the side so you can’t grab it, and his arm comes down around your shoulders to stop you from going after it. You laugh and he shakes you gently, an empty threat.

You wonder, for the millionth time, if dating Dean would even feel that different. Spending time with him is as easy as breathing, smiling is as automatic as blinking. All it’d take for your current position to be made explicitly romantic is for you to put your legs in his lap or rest your hand on his chest or any other infinitesimally small shift in body language. That’s why it was so easy to lie about dating him, you think. In your head it is real sometimes.

“We should practice.” Dean says, talking over the movie and bringing you out of your head.

He shifts to look at you, tucked under his arm.

“I mean if we’re going to make this believable, we have to at least take it for a spin once or twice before our first official sighting.”

“It?”

“Yeah, us.” He says this like you’re the one being ridiculous.

“And what exactly do you mean by practice?”

“You know, like go out together. That way I can learn all the boyfriend basics and you can get used to me holding your hand and stuff.”

You push down the flutter in your stomach. 

“Boyfriend basics?”

“The stuff you like.” His voice is gruff. “Your favourite flowers, what chocolate you like, where you like to go for dates, all that.”

“Oh.” You feel your cheeks beginning to warm. “You probably know half of that stuff already.”

“Well yeah, but I want to be perfect.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest feel funny. “That way we can give the most believable performance possible and you can impress your friends by having a perfectly devoted lover.”

“That’s not the point.” You roll your eyes at his choice of words. You know he doesn’t get it.

“I thought you wanted to win the boyfriend competition.”

“The point isn’t for you to be better than the other boyfriends, the point is that I just wanted a boyfriend.”

“You do?” The question catches you off guard although it shouldn’t.

“I– Yes? I mean, it would be nice but it’s not like I’m really dating or anything. I don’t know, I was drunk and lonely so I said something stupid.”

You cringe a little at yourself. Dean is quiet for a moment as you play with your fingers in your lap.

“It’s not stupid. To want that.”

You’re not sure what to say. 

“Let me take you out. For practice.” He says.

When you look back up at him his eyes are trained on your mouth. They jump back up quickly when you speak.

“Okay,” you say softly. “For practice.”

He searches your face, looking for something. You don’t know if he finds it, but the moment passes and he tucks you a little closer into his side.

X

Dean Winchester is enjoying this far more than is probably appropriate. You're standing partially wedged between him and the bar, looking up at him to relay your drink of choice. He takes great pleasure in gesturing to the bartender and ordering for both of you, putting cash down before you can even think to reach towards your bag. He’s done this countless times before but never with you. Never in a way that made him feel proud like this.

Dean is good at girls and drinks and bars. He’s made out in more dirty bathrooms than most people ever see in a lifetime. You don’t carry yourself with the same casual ease he does in this space, and in a weird way he’s glad you didn’t have the same adolescence he did.

He thinks about it sometimes. He thinks he would’ve had a shot with you if you’d both met younger, if you had met as strangers in the same bar. He doesn’t think you understand just how gorgeous you are. It’s utterly arresting sometimes, the way you look at him when you’re feeling playful, or sleepy, or any time at all, really. 

In that other universe, he thinks he would’ve tried to bring you home and he just might have succeeded. But he wouldn’t have gotten to know you the way he has in this universe. Dean loves being your friend, you’re kind and caring and funny and you get him. You listen to him in a way that makes him forget he’s talking. You ask him question after question after question, about his work or his brother or his life. He doesn’t think anyone has ever known him this well. Not his exes, not his friends, certainly not his father. And you do it so quietly that he looked up one day to find you seamlessly woven into almost every aspect of his life. Everything makes a little more sense when you’re around.

His hang up in relationships has always been his inability to be vulnerable. He’s reached a point with all of his exes where the time comes to drop his bravado and he never can. He knows how to be Dean Winchester, the fantasy. What he doesn’t know is how to be just Dean, the man. The latter will never live up to the former so it’s easier to just let a girl go than disappoint her. You didn’t meet the fantasy, you met the man, and that was fine when you were just his friend. But now? Now he’s fucked because he thinks he might love you and there’s no way to walk back all the times he’s ever tried to be brave by telling you something that scared him about himself. You still like him, sure, but Dean thinks he’s firmly disqualified himself from being boyfriend-worthy. Despite himself, he doesn’t quite believe that a sweet thing like you belongs with someone as rough around the edges as him.

Tonight though, you’re dolled up beside him, for him, letting him order you a drink while you wait for his brother and his girlfriend to arrive. It’s rare he sees you all the way done up, unless he catches you right after work or there’s an event to attend. You look good all the time, you really do, but Dean’s eyes keep catching on the shimmer spread across your cheeks and eyelids and his chest puffs up a little more every time he remembers that being with him is the event you wanted to look pretty for.

You’ve met Sam and Jess before, and they make just as cute a couple as Margo and Cas. When Dean asked if you wanted to go out for drinks with them early this week it was an easy yes. You had paused before hanging up, wanting to be sure of what to expect.

“Like, as a date?”

“Yeah as a date.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” As if you were the one being outlandish. “I’ll pick you up at 8.”

You’d held your phone to your chest for ten minutes after, spiraling. You think he may have been trying to make things feel more casual by pitching a double date, but you know how much he loves his brother so if that was his intention he failed, badly. But game on, you decided. If this was your bed you were going to lie in it, and you may as well give it your all because this could be your only chance at ever having something like this. So here you are, pretty and perfumed, ready to play the part.

You think Dean gets off on this, the performance of it all. Having a pretty thing tucked under his arm walking into a room or standing between his thighs as he sits on a bar stool. You’ve seen it a million times before. It’s just that you’ve never been on the receiving end of that attention. You’ve spent most of tonight laughing more than usual, flustered by his relentless desire to have his hands on you. You keep taking small steps backwards when you get close to being overwhelmed, but he follows every time. You tell Dean he doesn’t need to hover and he scoffs.

“This is just what boyfriends do, sweetheart.” He argues, crowding you against the bar as you wait for your drinks. He hands you yours when they’re ready so you don’t have to turn away from him for even a second. 

“You can touch me too, you know. In fact, you probably should.” 

You know he’s right, that you’ll have to give as good as you get in the presence of your friends. It’s almost daunting to be given permission. A hesitant hand reaches out to hold his bicep. You’ve always loved the way his arms look and it feels almost surreal to be given permission to focus on them openly.

“Is this how other girls usually do it?” You try to joke, even going so far as to bat your lashes a little.

“Doesn’t matter what they do.” He says this like it’s definitive. The hand not busy holding his beer finds the hem of your shirt, pulling it down gently where it started to come away from the waistband of your skirt. “You can do anything you want, and I don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong when it comes to this.” 

Dean’s charm is dialed like you’ve never seen it. His fingers brush against your bare skin, accidentally at first and then purposefully. You can’t suppress the small shiver caused by his touch.

The spell breaks when you hear Sam calling your names as he arrives with Jess. You take another half step back and push down your fluster, smiling to greet them. As you hug Jess, you hear Sam address his brother behind you.

“Jess owes me a twenty. She thought you wouldn’t break for a few more months.”

Dean gives him a sharp kind of glare and you know you’re missing something. You want to ask Sam what he means but then he’s turning to greet you and it’s forgotten. A booth opens nearby and you all slide in quickly. Dean takes the seat beside you, across from Sam, and he’s not shy about letting his leg spread into your space, pressing his knee to yours. Once you’re settled and your seats are claimed, Sam and Jess make a run to the bar. Jess asks what you’re drinking and decides she wants one too.

You watch them as they go, your eyes falling to Sam’s hand against Jess’s lower back. It makes your stomach flutter to think of Dean doing something like that. He’s always touched you in a way that straddles the line between platonic and romantic, today being the exception. You know the weight of his arm around your shoulders, what his palm feels like against yours, the size of his hands against your back when you hug. That’s different, though, you think, keeping your eyes on Sam’s hand until you can’t.

“They’re good together.” Dean says. 

You turn to find him already watching you, smiling knowingly.

“He bought a ring today.”

“Today?” You gasp. “That’s huge, when is he going to propose?”

“He’s thinking when they go out to see her family at Thanksgiving.”

“That’s so long to wait, will he be able to keep it a secret?”

“I think so. He’s so anal he’ll need the weather to be perfect on the day of before he’ll even consider getting down on one knee.”

“Dean, be nice to your brother.”

“I’m not being mean, he just loves her. He’s like that.” He shrugs, taking a drink of his beer. “Their wedding will be a way bigger deal than it has to be.”

“I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”

Dean hums.

“Think you’d be able to repay your favour?” 

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll need a date for it.”

You laugh.

“You don’t even know when it’s going to be. Anything could happen between now and then, maybe you’ll meet someone.”

Dean looks at you funny.

“Yeah but they know you. They like me with you.”

“They…” You pause before repeating him. “They like you with me?”

He nods and you look at him, not quite getting what he means. You get how they could have an opinion on someone Dean is seeing, but you? How do you factor into that?

Sam and Jess are sliding back into their seats before you can work it out and Dean drops it, slipping easily into conversation with his brother. You find that Sam and Jess are infinitely charming people, and you spend the rest of the evening listening more than talking. 

When it’s time to leave, Dean offers you his hand as you slide out of the booth and then nudges you to walk slightly ahead of him. You misstep and barely save a stumble when you feel Dean’s hand find your lower back. You feel disoriented twofold. It presses against you more firmly as you right yourself and you pointedly avoid Dean’s eyes over your shoulder even after you’ve made it out the door. Maybe he’s teasing you for watching Sam earlier. Maybe he just likes watching you squirm. No matter the reason, his hand stays there, radiating heat up your spine until you get to his car. Even then, it stays fixed as he opens the passenger door for you to climb in. You know you’re still visibly flustered when you finally look at him in the driver’s seat. Something in his eyes looks too pleased as he starts the car.

Dean has to hold onto the steering wheel tight with both hands to stop himself from reaching for your thigh, soft and bare beside him.

X

Dean had asked you if you wanted to do something before the gathering at Cas’s place. To talk game plan, he said. This was the first of your three official sightings, the friends and family barbeque. Talking game plan was secondary to his true desire. He just wanted to steal a few more hours being yours. There wasn’t really a game plan to be had, and you told him as much, but that didn’t matter. Dean was going to pick you up early and buy you a late lunch, maybe even ice cream after if he’d be so lucky. He’d already decided all of this before he asked and was prepared to justify himself as much as was necessary for you to agree. 

You said no to lunch only because you’d be eating at Cas’s, which Dean tried to argue didn’t matter, but you agreed to ice cream. It’ll be like dessert before dinner, you said over the phone. Your light laughter nearly killed him.

The afternoon of the barbeque is sunny and clear. Dean picks you up with flowers in hand and you’re painfully endeared by the little bouquet of wildflowers he chose. You tell him he’s laying it on a bit thick but he just tells you to roll with it. You’re wearing a sundress he’s never seen before and he tries very hard not to stare. He attempts to get his fill of you while you’re picking out what flavour you want. He knows he’s beyond help because it’s the curve of your shoulders and the uppermost expanse of your chest that he’s hungry for. Your skin looks downy soft in the afternoon light and he reminds himself over and over not to be greedy. In the end you go with your favourite and Dean picks something chocolatey. You get shy when he asks you to feed him a taste of your ice cream and he resists the temptation to lick at your fingers. 

You’re hungry by the time you get to Cas’s family home. It’s a beautiful place on a corner lot with a backyard big enough to host the small wedding. Dean parks at the curb and tells you to stay put so he can open your door. You roll your eyes half-heartedly but let him.

“You should have told me to get a double scoop.”

Dean takes your hand, helping you out of his car.

“You should have let me get you a pint.” He counters.

“It would have melted, Dean.”

“Then you should have let me take you for lunch. I told you you’d be hungry.”

Dean thinks you’ll take the bait but you don’t. You haven’t made it more than a few steps from his car and he can see you’re getting in your head. 

“Hey, look at me.” He takes both of your arms in his hands. “Today is going to be great. You’re going to be the prettiest girl in the room and I’m going to be the most believable boyfriend anyone has ever seen.”

“Second prettiest.” A small smile starts to lift the corners of your mouth.

“Not to me. Let’s go.”  Dean taps your chin up lightly and firmly retakes your hand firmly in his as you round the side of the house to the backyard.

Stepping through the gate you’re impressed by the space. Low wicker couches, a garden of bright flowers, stepping stones and old trees standing at the far end of the yard. Cas must come from more money than you thought. 

Margo squeals when she spots you, waving you over to where your friends have gathered on the couches. A flurry of hugs and hellos take place before Dean takes your hand again to greet Cas and some of their friends you haven’t met before by the patio table. He keeps you at his hip, his hand light on your waist or lower back through the introductions. You handle it much better now than when he first did it. Cas tells you to have a drink and serve yourselves in that stilted but earnest way of his. 

“What do you think, honey?” Dean asks you. “Still hungry?”

You nod and you’re whisked away to the grill which Cas’s dad is dutifully attending to.

“Winchester.” He nods, sticking his hand out for a firm shake. “This the missus?”

He gives your name and the man lights up.

“So this is the girl we’ve heard so much about.”

Dean shifts a little on his feet, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck, but he doesn’t deny it. The man, whose name you learn is Chuck, serves you both up a plate before patting Dean on the shoulder and telling him he’s done well for himself.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean waves him off, leading you a little ways away. He sits you both at the far end of the patio table and you take a minute to process all the new names and faces.

Your eyes sweep the yard and Chuck’s words are delayed in hitting you.

“You talk about me?”

“Of course I talk about you, we’re a package deal. And I, uh, may have told Cas we were dating when he asked.” His ears look a little red, like you’ve caught him in something.

“Right.” You consider this for a moment. “I guess Margo would have told him either way. Looks like you’re a step ahead of me.”

“I told you I was going to get it perfect.”

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

There’s something about Dean’s proximity and the heat of the afternoon that starts to soften you around the edges. He’s still waiting, you notice. Not eating before you’re settled. A package deal, he said. Your shoulders keep brushing and you try to remind yourself of the separation between your fantasy and reality. A kiss on the cheek wouldn’t hurt though, you think. For the believability of your performance, of course. 

You move before you can lose your nerve, pressing a too soft kiss by the corner of his mouth. You think you linger for too long but it wasn’t something you could help. You avoid his eyes after, focusing on your plate instead. You’re still starving.

Dean has to remind himself to breathe in the moment after your kiss. It was a thank you, he thinks. That’s all it was. But still, it was enough to make him forget where he was. He wants, so badly, to pull you into his lap or kiss you back but he behaves. He eats with you and listens to you tell him a little more about the girls you haven’t seen in a long time. You steal sips from his can of soda, a soda you said you didn’t want, and he can’t do anything but let it happen, nudging it closer to you in a way that looks unintentional. 

“What do you think, should we go sit with Margo or Cas first?”

“You don’t have to stick by me the whole time, Dean. I don’t want to monopolize you.”

He scoffs.

“You’re not monopolizing me, sweetheart. I’m monopolizing you.”

You pick Margo first, obviously, and Dean sticks to your side. It’s like having a very tall shadow. Your friends eye you knowingly when his hand comes up to rest on the back of the couch behind you, his fingers tracing soft lines into your arm. He’s eventually summoned over by Cas and he presses a quick hot kiss to your cheek before he goes. 

“You must be deep in the honeymoon phase.” Margo says, smiling teasingly. Your head turns quickly back towards her, away from Dean’s retreating figure. “You blush every time he touches you.”

You roll your eyes, deflecting.

“I– He just makes me nervous, you know?”

“Don’t be, he’s already yours.”

You think you smile weird but it must read as butterflies because the conversation moves on.

You spot Dean across the way, sitting with Cas and the other boyfriends, and something already lit up gets brighter in your chest. You catch his eye and he gives you a smile that feels like it’s just for you before turning to laugh at something someone said.

One drink becomes two, becomes three, and before you know it, you’re singing Katy Perry very loudly and very badly with your friends as the sky darkens. Margo slides up to you at some point, taking your hands and whispering to you like she’s telling you a secret.

“I was hoping for this.” She says. “I can’t believe you’re together.”

“What do you mean?” You whisper back, feeling fizzy.

“He’s always been soft for you. Dean, I mean. I just know he’ll be so good to you, he already is.”

“He– what?”

“How could anyone know you and not love you?” She sweeps you into a tight hug and makes a big show of kissing your forehead. 

You’re warmed by her affection and let her smother you all she wants. Dean is soft for you, you know this. But love? You don’t know about love. 

One more cooler is one too many and you feel yourself trip over your friend’s feet as several of you try to dance together. You don’t feel the fall so much as find yourself on the ground, looking up at the night sky. Your head is dizzy and the cool grass against your back feels amazing. You’re laughing with the girls on the ground beside you and you’re seized by a sudden longing for Dean. You want him to smooth your hair and hold you against him and tell you something sweet. You want this happiness to be his too.

And then his face appears, blocking out some of the stars above you. You don’t feel yourself doing it but you hear someone saying Dean! in a voice far too wistful to be your own. He grins down at you before helping you up.

You’re so lucky, you think. One second you’re thinking about Dean and then the next he’s there, arm around your waist, holding you up. One of his hands cradles your face, maybe checking you didn’t hurt yourself when you fell. His hand is warm and you sigh contentedly. He says something about going somewhere and you agree with him even though you’re not exactly sure what he said. You walk with unsteady steps to his car and you fall asleep in your seat before he starts driving.

X

The next morning you wake to Dean’s hand rubbing up and down your arm. You struggle to open your eyes and you would swat his hand away but his touch is just so soothing to your exhausted body. 

“Did somebody go too hard last night?” He asks from his spot perched on the edge of the bed.

You mumble something you hope sounds aggressive before rolling over to let sleep find you again. Dean’s hand finds your other shoulder to shake gently. 

“Come on party girl, it’s noon. You have to meet your friends at three.”

Between blinks you surmise that the sun is indeed spilling mercilessly through the window, and Dean is already dressed in jeans and one of those black shirts you love. It occurs that you’re in his bed and you don’t find that thought particularly alarming.

“Get up, I’ll get you some food.” 

Dean’s instructions reach you through your sleep-haze and you drag yourself out from under his duvet as his steps recede. 

By the time you step out of the shower and into a lazy tshirt and pair of shorts you keep forgetting are here, you can hear Dean watching TV in the living room. Picking your bag up from where Dean put it on the nightstand, you search roughly for the ibuprofen you usually keep on hand. You frown when you can’t find it and bring it clutched in your hand as you leave his room.

“Dean, do you have any–”

Before you can finish, he holds his arm up, bottle of ibuprofen in hand.

“Way ahead of you, sweetheart.”

You drop down onto his overly soft couch beside him and he places two into your waiting palm. After taking them and finishing a glass of water, you’re able to take inventory of the spread on the coffee table. It’s obvious Dean went overkill, pilfering his kitchen to bring you everything he thought you might eat. Fruit and coffee and sweet things sparkle before you and you don’t think twice about starting with caffeine. You don’t notice Dean watching you pick over the bowl of fruit he washed, the way his soft eyes track your fingertips travelling to and from your mouth. The way he nods to himself, satisfied, when you leave the bowl empty. 

After you’ve eaten something you feel much more like a real person. You start to wiggle further into the couch and Dean pulls your legs over his lap.

“Where did you sleep?” The question comes to you belatedly.

Dean’s hands sweep steady lines up your skin. Up your shin, down your thigh and back over them. If you were less tired you might have fawned a little at the action, something so caring and intentional.

“Beside you.” He’s sheepish. “I uh, wanted to be there in case you needed something.”

Margo’s words come back to you then. He’s soft for you. He wants to be good to you. You think that if you look for it, there’s a good chance you’ll start to see it in all he does. 

“Oh,” you murmur. “I didn’t kick you, did I?”

“No.” He says, softly. “You snore like a tractor though.”

You throw the pillow behind you at him.

“I do not! I am a lady, thank you very much.”

“That you are.” He agrees, raising the pillow he just caught as a shield. “A lady that snores like a tractor.”

The next few minutes are spent trading jabs and laughter, and the next two hours pass like a dream. 

Dean is the one to remind you that you have somewhere to be. He apologizes for not having any other clothes for you, privately wishing he had something pretty for you to wear. You’re not fussed, it’s nice to have something casual to wear during what has felt like a very dressed up week. He asks if you want a ride down to where your friends are meeting and you accept. Dean pats your leg and nudges you to get up. 

You begin the ritual of gathering your bag and getting ready to head out. Dean waits for you at the door, having grabbed a bottle of water for you from his fridge. It’s cold where he presses it into your hand and you look up at him, eyes still tired and soft and thankful. 

“Ready?” He asks.

You nod but neither of you move. It feels, for a second, like you’re forgetting something. Like something’s missing. You pat your pockets, but you have all your belongings. You frown up at Dean, intending to ask him… something. What you were going to ask doesn’t really matter because you feel more solid when his hands find the sides of your face, his thumbs smoothing over your cheeks. You feel yourself leaning into the tender touch and your frown melts a little. He wants to be good for you.

He looks at you, eyebrows gently raised to ask if you’re okay without speaking. Your mouth opens before you can think better of it.

“Margo said something last night.”

“Did she?”

“She said you…” You don’t know how to finish that sentence without showing your entire hand. You don’t know if Dean loves you, and you’d feel stupid for saying it if he didn’t.

Dean hums, hearing what you’re not saying. He keeps his eyes on yours, and leans down towards you halfway. He gives you the choice but you don’t move away. His gaze falls heavier and heavier until he presses his mouth to yours, firmly and just once. Something in you dissolves with a shimmer and you can barely feel the ground underneath you as he guides you out the door.

X

You haven’t spoken about the kiss, and another one hasn’t happened. You’ve seen him once since, twice if you count tonight, and all through dinner he kept doing this thing where he just looked at you, like that’s all he was allowed to do. There’s a voice in the back of your head telling you he regrets the kiss, that he’s going to let you down easy after the wedding, if not tonight. Maybe you were making a bigger deal out of things than you should have. He’s soft because he cares but that doesn’t mean he wants you. It doesn’t mean he wants to be with you. Things aren’t awkward but they feel a little strained around the edges. 

Dean feels spellbound, tracing the soft lines of your bare arms with his eyes. He feels spoiled, getting to see you in so many nice dresses recently. The rehearsal dinner was a more stressful affair than he’d expected. Cas’s dad hadn’t stopped fussing with the set up of tables and audio equipment. Margo’s parents wouldn’t stop hovering over everything she tried to do. Being your own wedding planner looks fun, he thinks, until there’s no buffer between you and your overbearing parents. 

He wonders if you’d want to plan your own wedding– if you’d want it to be an intimate affair like this or if you’d want to celebrate with absolutely everyone you know. He’d like something like this, he thinks. He thinks of how his uncle Bobby would insist on trying to build a pergola in the yard and how Sam would stress enough for the both of them, and for you. Whenever he thinks about any of this, it’s always you slipping into the hypothetical. The imaginary faceless love of his life had been replaced by the image of you a while ago.

Twangy music fills the air between the tables set up for the evening, many chairs now empty as people mingle and couples dance in front of the ceremonial arch set up for tomorrow. Dean’s beer sweats into his hand, the chill giving him a sensation to focus on. He’d much rather be touching you, in any way you’d let him, but he’s worried about pushing too far. You’ve been tentative with him since the other day and Dean hasn’t been sure if that means you want him to back off. You catch him looking at you and your shoulders relax the littlest bit, allowing yourself to rest under his gaze. He feels greedy, like he’s taking up far more of your attention than he deserves. His head turns to look at the dancing couples on the grass once more and decides to try something.

“Don’t laugh.” He starts.

Immediately your mouth twists to fight a smile.

“I knew you were going to do this, forget it.” He huffs in his own way that lets you know he’s more amused than annoyed.

“No, Dean, please,” You placate, a smile breaking through. “I’m listening, I promise.”

He pauses, eyeing you before confessing. 

“I don’t know how to dance.”

“What?” Your eyebrows shoot high. “There’s no way, didn’t you go to prom? Or like any school dance?”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’ve ever danced at one.”

“So, what, you spent the whole time brooding in the corner?” 

The picture of teenage Dean standing to the wayside in a darkened gymnasium amuses you.

“I do not brood.”

You give him a look.

“Okay maybe I brood sometimes, but that’s not the point. The point is, I need to know if my current skills are salvageable.”

“It’s a bit late to be asking, don’t you think?”

“Well maybe it didn’t occur to me until just now,” he says, gesturing to the couples dancing on the lawn. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Alright, Winchester.” You acquiesce. “Let’s see if we can fix you.”

You stand from your chair and offer him your hand. He puts his beer down and wipes both palms down his pants before taking it, letting you lead him to the edge of the yard. The sky is more navy than orange now, the sun nearly fully set. The lights strung across the fence and around the yard are warm, kissing your skin with gold tones. It still smells like barbeque smoke and grass, but Dean can’t help but search for the notes of your perfume in the air around you. Pink peppercorn and something syrupy, you mentioned what it was once but he can’t remember. You look up at him eager and amused, and his chest loosens. 

If you didn’t know Dean so well, you’d have missed the embarrassment that shows itself in the set of his jaw. He doesn’t like being bad at things, and he’s never been good at lingering in moments that make him feel liquid inside. But he’d embarrass himself a million times over if it meant you might teach him, if it meant you might hold his hand and look at him like this.

He needed to learn this. With you, for you. He knows that tomorrow night during the reception you’ll look beautiful and glow in the company of your friends. He’d regret it forever if he passed up the opportunity to show you off to the gathered, if he failed to make you feel special. He knows your friends love you so deeply, and it makes him a certain kind of sad that they live so far away. He wants them to see that you’re well taken care of in their absence. He wants them to know he loves you, too.

You place gentle arms around his neck and his hands find the bottom of your ribcage, stiff and unsure.

“Is that how you always hold women?” 

“It is when I’m dancing with them.”

You laugh. It’s strange to feel like he’s the one being picked on, but he might like it.

“Be less formal. You’re my boyfriend, remember?”

Dean’s chest could cave in. You place your hands over top of his, guiding them down to the soft place on your body just under the small of your waist, at the curve of your hips.

“Now,” your tone is conspiratorial as you wrap your arms back around his neck. “I’ll tell you the secret to being a good dancing partner.”

Dean has to keep very still in order to not squeeze the soft of your middle or sweep you against him as your face tips up to tell him.

“You don’t actually have to lift your feet.”

“Really?” This genuinely surprises him.

“Not at all. Steps are for waltzing and stuff, all you have to do is sway with me.”

You start gently, shifting your weight slightly from foot to foot.

Dean is hesitant, fighting against some rigid part of himself unused to moving with another person like this. He knows he’s being awkward and you’re poorly concealing your amusement. If it were anyone else, he would have long exited this situation. Dean Winchester is not a gentle creature. He knows how to lift and to pull, how to torque and to pry. He’s entirely unfamiliar with touching just to feel, holding just to be close. But his annoyance melts into something far more sugary when you pull yourself against him, teaching through touch. 

He gets there eventually, shoulders relaxing, hands slipping lower than they maybe should. After a while he’s able to look at you instead of the ground, and it gets easier for him to relax into a sway when he can watch the way your eyes sparkle in the low light. The breeze begins to chill and he doesn’t think you notice the way you press against him that little bit more. A few songs fade into each other, minutes together passing wordlessly.

“What do you think?” He asks, finally. His voice is warm and low between you. “Is there any hope for me?”

“No.” You nearly whisper. “No, you’re absolutely hopeless.”

X

The wedding was beautiful.

Cas and Margo made an absolute picture in the summer sun and there wasn’t a dry eye to be found by the end of the ceremony. Dean is elated to be able to celebrate his friends, but he can’t help his heart’s focus from being on you.

It’s been quite a week. A week of bending boundaries and blurring lines. Dean’s been leading up until now, touching with gentle hands and moving slowly. You don’t know what your permission has done to him, your enabling of his desire to push past the line of plausible deniability. It’s made him more hungry and more reverent in equal measure. He’s indulged in you, and you let him even though you got shy sometimes. You let him hold you, you let him kiss you.

He was worried when you shied away afterwards. But then you’d danced with him last night when he asked and looked at him like you could see it too. Like you could see how easy it would be to let him love you.

Today, it’s you reaching for him. Your hand finds his in the car, your ankle hooks with his during the ceremony, your voice speaks soft words into his ear, like everything you have to say is something for only the two of you to share. He almost has you, he knows he almost has you. He’ll take you in any way you’ll let him have you, you just have to tell him how. He won’t push. He’s rushed into things before, eager to make things into something they’re not. But this isn’t like that. This is you, coming to him and letting him show you what he wants to be for you.

Dean is a picture perfect boyfriend all cocktail hour, glued to your side, speaking lowly into your ear and filling your plate with everything that looks good. He suffered question after question from your friends with a grin and never once did he look like he’d rather be anywhere else. 

There is eating and there is laughter and there is music and there is a first dance. It really is a beautiful day.

You surprise Dean by asking him to dance before he can ask you. The way you look at him is playful and he rises to the occasion, twirling and dipping you with verve as you laugh. He loves this. He loves being silly with you. He’s going to be gutted if it has to end. 

Dean lasts three songs before saying he needs a drink. He sits you with your friends and crosses the lawn to the makeshift bar. He watches you for a moment, hands empty, before he knows he needs a minute to think.

The front yard is quiet. Quiet enough anyway, with music and voices spilling out from behind the house. Dean wants you. He wants this, with you, more than he’s ever wanted anything in his life. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try to get it.

Dean knows it’s your footsteps he hears on the grass, coming around the house. You find him standing near the edge of the lawn, arms crossed as the sun starts to dip. You stand next to him, mirroring his pose and take a minute to breathe the evening air. 

It’s Dean who breaks the silence first.

“How, uh– How has this been for you?”

“The wedding? It’s been magical, I don’t think anything could have gone better.”

“I meant,” He keeps his eyes on his shoes. “The boyfriend thing.”

You want to be careful. If Dean is going to let you down now, after everything, you’d rather not play all your cards. 

“It was great. You could probably start a business in this.” Your voice sounds strange to you. That was meant to be a joke but it feels far too dismissive of the situation, of how meaningful this was for you. “Was it okay for you? Was I okay?”

“You were perfect.” 

You turn to look at him thinking he might be poking fun, but his voice is too low. A moment stretches between you.

“Did you– Have you ever thought about us?”

It’s not like him to be so stiff with you. 

“Yeah.” You say softly, but it’s all you offer.

“I do. I think of us.”

“And?” You shift on your feet, turning more fully towards him. “What do you think?”

“Sweetheart.” He says it like there’s something you’re not getting. You wait for an answer.

“I’m not a morning person. But when I woke up beside you the other day, I couldn’t fall back asleep. I thought about what a boyfriend would do for you when you were hungover but– I wanted to stay awake, so that I could be there when you woke up.”

“You always take care of me.” You hold your breath, unsure if he means what you want him to mean.

“Yeah, that’s the point.” He says gently. “It wasn’t anything I wouldn’t have done anyways.”

“You… Dean...” You say his name a little helplessly.

He says your name in response, trying not to give up on what is a difficult conversation for him to work through.

“It’s been you and me in my head for a long time now.” There’s a pause. “I don’t know what I’d be like without you but I don’t think it’d be pretty. I hope you get that. And I’m bad at this. I’m bad at the whole being open thing, but I’m also bad at pretending. Everything this week, with you, has been real for me. And so if… If you still want a boyfriend like you said, I’d like to be him.” 

Dean has shoved his hands deep in his pockets, forcing himself to keep still through his confession. “You don’t have to say anything now–”

“Yes.”

“What?” He blinks.

“Yes.” You repeat yourself, barely waiting before moving. You crush yourself against him and he reciprocates, pulling you in without hesitation. You speak into his collar, the fabric of his jacket folding awkwardly between you. “Please be him. Please be mine.” 

Dean doesn’t let go of you first, and his grip barely lets up as you lean back to look at him. Your eyes are doing that thing again, enchanting him beyond hope. He kisses you. He doesn’t know if you were going to say more but he can’t help himself. His hands are hot where they press against your back. His mouth is searching, his body bending yours under the weight of his kiss. Your noses squish together and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Dean smiles to match, your teeth clicking before he pulls away. 

“You mean it?”

“Of course I mean it. There’s a reason I told everyone it was you.”

You’ve never seen happiness like that on Dean’s face.

A month later, when Cas and Margo finally share the photos from their wedding day, you find one of yourselves caught in another kiss amidst other couples dancing in the grass, looking blissfully unaware of everything but each other. 

He’d cough. Lean back, patting your leg awkwardly then mutter goodnight. Vanish into his room, and leave you stranded and alone on the couch. You’d touch your leg where he’d left his mark. Crawl back to your own room and bunch the sheets between your thighs, letting your mind drift into the world where he pulled you to your feet. Guided you into his room, and lain you down on his bed. 

And he never does that. You know he never will. 

But after the river of women that had threatened to drown you, things change. 

One night, the movie finishes, and you talk. 

And talk. And talk. And the hour passes, and Dean doesn’t leave. 

“What’s your favorite animal?”

You giggle, your feet up on the coffee table and body slumped down into the cushion. “What’s my favorite animal?”

“Yeah? Why, am I not allowed to ask you a fuckin’ question?”

“No, I just wasn’t expecting that question. It’s like- We’re in elementary school, and you’re asking me like a stupid ice breaker.” You roll a little onto your side, grinning up at him in the dark. “What’s your favorite color?”

You say it teasingly. He just shrugs, and holds your gaze. 

“Blue.” He sounds dead serious. “Like a kinda- Watery silver blue.” He sinks lower into the couch. Closer to your side. “Big fan of brown, too. And red.” He whistles. “Love a good red. You?”

You stare at him for a second. “Me?”

“Yeah. What’s your favorite color?”

“Um- Rainbow?” You flush, looking down to your nails. “I was never able to decide.”

“On a favorite color?”

“Yeah. Didn’t want any of them to feel left out.”

Dean chuckles. “‘Course you didn’t.”

You frown up at him. “What does that mean-“

“Nothing.” He shrugs, nudging your shoulder lightly. “You owe me a favorite animal.”

“I owe you-“

“Yeah. We’re playing twenty questions, sweetheart. It’s my turn, and I wanna know your favorite animal.”

You stare at him, trying to weigh out if he’s joking. And he’s smiling down at you, so strangely soft, but still serious. This isn’t a bit. Not a joke, or a prank. He just… Really seems to want to know. 

“I like cats.” You whisper, testing the waters. He sighs.

“I hate cats.”

“What?” You sit up. “Why?”

He gives you an amused look. “I’m allergic.”

“So?”

“So I don’t like things that make me stop breathing.”

You roll your eyes. “Pussy.”

He snorts. “You think I’m a pussy for not wanting to die?”

“Yeah.” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak when he pinches your thigh. “Dean!”

He’s laughing. Only laughs louder, when he tries to go in again and you kick his hand away. You try to aim for his chest, but he catches you ankle. You scream, when he runs his fingers up your foot, and his laughter turns to wheezing when you punch him square in the diaphragm. 

“Shit. I think you killed me, sweetheart.”

“You earned it.” You snap at him, and he just chuckles.

“Yeah, guess I did. Can you speak at my funeral?”

“No.”

“C’mon, it’s my dyin’ wish-“

“Make a better one.”

He laughed again, grinning up at you with such an intoxicating light in his eyes. Your bodies are closer together than you realized. Your feet still in his lap, his hand holding you ankle, his thumb rubbing small circles. 

“I can’t think of a better one.” He says, still grinning at you, and you smile back.

“Good thing you’re not dying, then.”

“Yeah,” he squeezes your ankle, and you melt a little further into every single part of this moment. His eyes on yours. His touch against your skin. The pure attention, that doesn’t seem to be fleeting or clung to at all. “You’d miss me too much.”

You snort, and pretend to kick him again, but you still flush. 

He has no idea. 

“What’s your favorite animal?” You ask, trying to earn some distance.

Dean shrugs. “Ducks.”

You giggle, and he just watches you with vague amusement.

“You like ducks?”

“Like that little waddle line shit they do. ‘S cute.”

“Awww-“

“You tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

“I won’t tell anyone.” You mime crossing your heart, a massive grin on your face. “Except Charlie- Dean-“

He starts to tickle your foot, and you shriek. You manage to wiggle away, but he’s faster, and suddenly you’re pinned to the ground.

Below him. His body pressed all over yours, his breathing ragged and eyes blown out.

It must just be the drink and the adrenaline.

For him.

For you, there that ache between your thighs that’s only going to build.

“No ducklings.” He mutters, eyes inches over yours.

You smile. “Ducklings?”

He sighs, dropping his face into your chest. Near your tits.

The drink. The drink.

His lips graze the swell of your breasts. You don’t know how you bite down your moan.

“There the ones that go in a line.” He grumbles, and you laugh breathlessly.

“Okay. No ducklings.”

You shake on it. Dean climbs off of you, and you wish he’d come back the moment he’s gone.

That night, you stay up until dawn. The next day, you drift through work with the stupidest smile on your face. The next night—a night that Dean would usually go out to drink, even if he’s not bringing anyone home—he makes burgers and sits across from you. Clears his throat, after only a few moments of silence. 

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, and you look up with a frown.

“Reading and eating?”

He nods, tapping his finger on the table. “Reading what?”

“A… Book?”

That earns you a flat look. “What book, smartass.”

“Oh.” You flush, looking down to your kindle then back up with wide eyes. “You probably wouldn’t know it, or- Like it.”

Dean just shrugs. “Try me.”

Again. He’s not joking. 

So you try him. Slowly at first. Cautiously. Testing the waters, trying to feel out if he’s serious, or just trying to make conversation. 

You don’t really how long you’ve been talking until Dean suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your plate, placing it on top of his empty on.

“It’s gone cold.” He explains with a shrug, moving to his feet. “Just gonna heat it up, you keep talking.”

You blink at him, but slowly resume. He keeps listening. Really listening. Nodding along and asking questions and echoing back idea, like he’s trying to prove he’s absorbing what you’re saying. 

A new tradition starts. You, telling Dean in unnecessarily deep detail, exactly what you’ve been reading, every single week. It kicks off another tradition as well, because in the morning you ask him about what show he’s watching—you don’t want him to think you don’t also care what he’s up to—and instead of him just telling you, he makes you watch an episode. 

Right next to him on the couch. Just like movie night. 

And suddenly, every night but Friday, you watch TV together. Weekends you watching in the morning, but you but you still watch. 

Saturday nights are saved for you talking about book. Sundays have their own new tradition where you get drunk together, and sit on the floor. You’re not quite sure how that one started, but you know neither of you seem willing to break it. You share a bottle of wine and stare at the ceiling, or do shots of the table and giggle like teenagers. You tell him all about your parents, he tells you about his brother. You share your dreams, he tells you about his nightmares. 

You didn’t know he had nightmares.

“It’s nothing special.” He mutters, staring up at the ceiling like it’s all stars. “Just mines, my friends going AWOL, getting locked up. Been getting a new one, where-“ He cuts himself off, scowling at the air. “Never mind.”

“Dean.” You say softly. “That’s not nothing.”

“Nothing worse than my buddies get.”

“That’s- Most people don’t get any nightmares like that.”

“Well, comes with the territory.”

“The territory?”

He’s silent for a long moment, and you’re ready to let this go. Dean doesn’t tell you things until he’s ready, and you know him better than to try and pry it out of him. That just makes him close up tighter. So you wait, humming to yourself softly as he makes his choice, and-

Dean moves suddenly. Pulling something from around his neck before shoving it into your hands. You blink at him, then the cool, thin chain.

Dog tags.

“What-“

“My Mom’s family.” He mutters, and you go completely still. “They were all kinds of crazy. Doomsday preppers, conspiracy theorists. Grandpa taught me how to shoot when I was five, and Dad wasn’t much better.” He laughed, humorless and tired. “Used to talk about me needing to be man enough. And Mom- I love her, don’t get me wrong. But she loved Dad. And when I floated joining the Marine’s like he had- Christ, it was the only time the old man looked proud of me. He thought it was a good idea. Mom liked that we were getting along. Ended up serving four years before I got a discharge. Honorable.” He says quickly, as if that’s what you’d be worried about. “Had an accident. Put me in a coma for a week. They thought I was a goner, but I got lucky. Got out, too.” He chuckles. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Dean…” You sit up, looking down at him with an open, gentle expression. He snorts, turning his face away.

“Don’t do that. I don’t need pity-“

“It’s not pity-“

“Looks like it from here.” He snaps, and you swallow.

You grab his fist, tight on his chest, and slowly uncurl his fingers. He stares back at you, silent and ridged. And when you twine your fingers together, he doesn’t pull away.

This isn’t something you should be doing, but it’s too late to pull away. And when he squeezes your hand, you don’t think you’d ever want to again.

“You never told me that.” You murmur, and he sighs, sitting up.

He’s silent for a moment, staring at your tangled hands. His thumb swipes over the back of yours, jaw working as before he speaks.

“Don’t tell most people. Only Sammy really knows.”

You swallow, watching him closely. There’s a golden light from the floor lamp behind him, and it’s bending around him the same way it does in a movie. When the hero stands alone on the battlefield, head high and heart strong. He’s just watching you, that same unreadable expression his face, and something a little more. Something afraid. 

Afraid isn’t something Dean should be. He gets spiders for you when they sneak into the shower. He holds your hand when you freak out about horror movies, and grabbed you off the fire escape that one time you played truth or dare, and you’d been more drunk than either of you realized. 

If you were a little less drunk, you might’ve been able to remember the panic in his eyes, and how loud his voice had gotten when he’d shouted your name. Might’ve been able to think about the look in his eyes when he finally pulled you back inside, and you’d collapsed in a fit of giggles in his arms, completely oblivious to the danger you’d been in. How he’d put you to bed, how tenderly he’d brushed the hair from your eyes.

How he’d kissed your brow goodnight, and held your hand when you’d grabbed his in your sleep. 

But you don’t. And all you can think about is how Dean isn’t somehow who should ever have to be afraid. 

You reach over the table and grab his hand. Give him a small smile, and squeeze lightly. 

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Of course.” He rasps. “I’d tell you anything, sweetheart.”

He means that, too. Means it so much, you think it hits your love for him like a missile, and makes it explode. Not in a way of destruction. 

The same way a star explodes. The way a garden explodes. Bigger. Full of color, and life. 

“You- You too,” is all you can think to say back. Dean grins, and you smile back. 

You mean it. Almost. 

There’s one thing you’re never going to tell him. Something he’s never going to need to know. 

But in that moment, holding his hand and sitting so easily in the silence, you would’ve told him. If he asked, you would’ve told him everything. But he doesn’t. 

So you just keep sitting in the dark, Dean the only light you need in the world. 

✦Chapter Five✦

✦End note: chapter four remains my "bonding" chapter lmao✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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

“Deeean-“ You whine out, and he chuckles, squeezing your ass tight.

“That’s right, baby. Call my name, tell the whole house who’s got you in their lap-“

A door slams downstairs, and you shove Dean away just as fast as he rips himself back.

You’re both panting and flushed. You can see his arousal through his jeans, and your fingers are shaking too much to get a proper grip on your unbuttoned blouse.

Your father calls your name, the stairs creaking, and you shove Dean again.

He gives you an incredulous look, mouthing what are you doing?

Closet. You mouth back, pushing him again. The man is built like a fucking tree, it’s like trying to move boulder underwater. Get- “Get in the fucking closet-“

He moves, right before the door opens.

Your father smiles at you, glancing around the room. “You doin’ alright, kiddo?”

“Yep. How was work?” You bounce on your toes, shooting tiny looks to the closet.

He has no reason to check anything. It all looks perfectly innocent. There’s no clothing scattered across the floor or stench of sex in the air. Dean hadn’t even taken his shoes off, and the sweater that he’d ripped from your body is allowed to be on the bed, because it’s your room.

And it’s not like you’ve been known to do this kind of thing.

Sleep with older men.

Sleep with anyone.

You’re pretty sure if your father had to gamble on it, he’d put down money that you were going to die alone. Which isn’t entirely unfair. You speak to men like they’re dogs—because they are—and the last time someone asked you on a date, you spent the whole time staring them with an unimpressed expression and your arms over your chest.

It’s not that you’re rude. You just refuse to lower yourself just to please someone who can’t even do their laundry without Mommy’s help. And most college boys don’t even know their food groups. There’s protein, and green stuff, and candy. That’s it. It makes you want to bash your head into a wall.

But that’s how Dean got you.

Stupid, handsome Dean and his big hands and don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of it. Dean and the way he picked you up like you weighed ten pounds not to show of how much he can bench, but because you’d been standing in his way teasing him, and he’d needed to move you.

He’d placed you onto the counter of the kitchen with such care, and a stern, amused look. You’d gaped at him, heat flooding your cheek and all the blood in your body confused about if it should be curling in your fists and swinging, or pooling between your legs to help you hump him like an animal in heat.

“Not so mouthy now, are you.” Dean had drawled, and that’s when you’d known.

You were a goner. He had you in the palm of his calloused hands.

It worked, because you had him wrapped around your finger.

But neither of you were supposed to be close enough to even touch.

Dean’s your father’s best friend. They met in some old man club for people who like saws and drills or whatever. Maybe it was just a workshop. Or he fixed your dad’s car, and the dumbass fell just in love with him as you were.

Dean’s great. Dean and I got coffee. Dean showed me this new Thunderbird, think I’m gonna buy it. You can drive it, when you get home, maybe we’ll put the deed in your name. I’ll ask Dean if he thinks that’s a good idea. Dean thinks it’s a great idea.

Most of your Senior year had been spent getting calls and texts from your dad about how perfect and amazing Dean was. If he knew that the man was in your closet fighting a boner right now, he might end up more jealous than angry.

It still doesn’t feel like an experiment you want the results of. Some things are better left to the imagination.

“Work was good.” Your father shrugs. “You eaten dinner?”

“Um- No.” You need to stop looking at the closet. It’s suspicious. “I was actually going to go out, and- Eat there.”

“Do that tomorrow.” He waves a hand. “Dean’s coming over tonight, we’re gonna fire up my new grill, see how she cooks.”

“I know, I just- I wanted like Chinese or something.”

“Then get Chinese and eat with us-“ Your father pauses, and you swallow. “How’d you know Dean was comin’ over?”

Shit. You can almost feel him glaring at you through the closet. You’re supposed to be the smart one, sweetheart.

It’s his fault. You can still feel where he’d been teasing your sides, and it’s making your brain all stupid and fuzzy.

You know because Dean showed up early and cornered you in the living room. Because you’d done the stupid dance where you both pretend you’re not going to cave. You’d asked why he was here. He said he didn’t need a reason. You said he did, it wasn’t his house. He’d teased that he was always welcome. You’d rolled your eyes, and asked if he was sure about that. He’d leaned over you and murmured that you sure as shit seemed happy to see him. You’d just glared, because if you spoke you would’ve started to drool. He’d muttered that, for the record, he’d been invited for the drill. But that he was really here because he needed to see you.

Then he’d shoved his hand under your shirt and kissed you stupid.

You can’t tell your dad that part.

“You told me.” You say lamely.

You can almost hear Dean’s groan.

“Oh. Huh.” Your dad shrugs it off. Why wouldn’t he. “Alright. You gonna stay?”

It’s a horrible idea. If you stay, you’re going to spend the whole time grumpy because you’d been so close, and now Dean was feet away and unable to touch you.

“Sure.”

Fuck.

Your dad takes the victory. In his eyes, you’re sure he thinks it’s a miracle that his daughter wants to hang out with him and his friends instead of going out and doing young people things. You think he forgets, sometimes, that you’ve never been all that good at young people things.

And you’re certainly not going to burst his bubble by reminding him of that. Or the fact that of course you want to hang out with his friend. Sex on Legs Winchester. Even if you didn’t have something halfway started with him, you’d stick around just to ogle the eye candy.

“Am I just a sack of meat to you, princess?” Dean mutters when you tell him as much.

You bite back your smile, and shrug. “Maybe. You gonna do something about it?”

He fixes you with an almost awestruck stare, before chuckling and shaking his head.

“You’re trying to get me killed.”

“No, I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. I pop a boner now, your old man is gonna rip my head off.”

“So don’t pop a boner, dumbass-“

Your words fall off in a tiny squeak, as Dean grabs the back of your neck and pulls you into a deep, long kiss.

It’s far from the first time you kissed. That had been a night only a week after you’d moved back home—a long, torturous week of staring at massive biceps and imagine them wrapped around your neck, or beating yourself up in the sheets as you got off to the idea of Dean and his stupid, cocky smirk—when he’d been staying over so his house could get gassed for bugs or something. You’d smiled at him too sweetly. All his touches had lingered too long. You’d gone downstairs to get some water, and ended up on top of him on the couch.

You still haven’t slept together. Every time you get close, fucking something has to happen, and you stop.

But you’ve kissed so much you think your lips are molded to shape his.

You immediately turn to slack putty, in Dean’s arms. Kissing him back with frantic passion, leaning over his chest and moaning openly into his mouth. Your fingers find their way to his belt, then lower. Dean tips your head back further to deepen this kiss, and you paw at his bugle with a tiny whimper.

He hums, squeezing the back of your neck. “Behave.”

“Don’t want to.” You breathe out, and he chuckles.

“I know.” Dean pulls back, kissing one corner of your mouth, then the other. “You need some motivation, baby?”

You nod, fixing him with your best, doe-eyed stare. It’s the one that always makes him cave, even when he says he knows he shouldn’t.

But you both know you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t be doing any of this. There’s a long list of reason that starts with your father’s best friend and ends with massive age gap that could be followed to prevent all of this. But you both seem to get a little blind, when you look at each other. Suddenly you can’t read and Dean—a man who’s all self-control and smooth, cool collection—stumbles over his feet like a highschooler.

He says that’s how he knew this was worth it. That you do things to him that no one else ever has. You blush and giggle and press your face into the crook of his neck, and for a little while you both forget the whole world. Sometimes you whisper that he does things to you as well. You’ve never wanted to wrap around someone like this and never let go.

And that overrides all logic and reason. It doesn’t matter what kind of rules there are. You want to break all of them, just to be closer to him for a few moments longer.

“You play nice tonight.” Dean whispers in your ear, tracing lazily up and down your spine. “Then I’ll help you sneak out. Back to my place.”

“Your place?” You sound a lot more pathetic than you want to be. You really don’t know how to help it.

“Mhm. And you know what’s at my place that ain’t here?”

You shake your head, and Dean kisses the tip of your nose. It scrunches up, and his eyes shine with adoration. You’re never going to get sick of him looking at you like that. Like you’re the only thing in the world.

“Peace and quiet.” He mutters. “Just you, me, and nothing else.”

Your eyes widen, as you realize what he means. “Oh- Okay.”

“Okay?”

There’s a hint of worry in his voice. Like he needs to be sure you really mean it, even when you’re slack and folded into his arms, digging your nails into his biceps like you’re trying to leave a mark.

You nod frantically, and his shoulders relax.

“Okay.” He mutters, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You smile at him, and his throat bobs. “Behave.”

“I always behave.” You tease, and Dean snorts.

“Yeah. Alright.”

“I do. I’m very well trained.”

He chuckles, kissing you light and soft. You push up on your toes, trying to chase a little more, and Dean lets you. He always lets you.

“Don’t think you’re the one on the leash, sweetheart.” He mutters against your lips, and you giggle.

“Dogs train their owners sometimes. With feeding habits and walk schedules.”

“Hm.” He leans back, a smile twitching on his lips. “Is this feedin’, or walkin’?”

 And this is your favorite expression on his handsome face. The one where you can tell that he’s really trying to be annoyed with you, but can’t stop himself from enjoying your company. From looking at you like he wants to just lock the door and pin you to the bed until you’re giggling and beaming all the time. You’d be all for that plan, if your father wasn’t probably waiting downstairs, wondering why Dean’s running late-

Shit. Right. Your father.

“Actually.” You kiss over his beard, curling your fingers in the collar of his shirt. “I think it’s fetch.”

Dean snorts, and ducks down to kiss you again. You push him lightly back, and he stumbles like he’s been shot.

“Out the window.” You say sternly, pointing at the roof.

Dean groans, running a hand over his face. “C’mon, one more-“

“No.”

“But-“

“Behave.” You mock, and he scowls.

“Son of a bitch.” He grumbles under his breath. He’s making a face like a toddler who just got his favorite toy truck confiscated for bad behavior. It’s rather adorable. “Gonna be the death of me, woman. Can’t believe I’m so in love with a fuckin’ brat.”

“Aw, you love me?”

You say it like it doesn’t still make your heart skip to hear it. Dean sighs like he let slip some grand secret, instead of something that he’s told you countless times in dark corners and in booths of bars.

He looks at the window. He’s back to pouting again.

“It’s gonna hurt my knees.” He whines, and you laugh, closing the space between you once more.

“Tough shit, Winchester. Should’ve tried to keep it in your pants.”

“But you make it so hard-“

“I know.”

That earns you a glare, and you giggle again.

You’re both so very bad at this. Dean should already be downstairs. You shouldn’t be goading him into saying longer, but you can’t help it at all. This is your favorite kind of teasing. The one where you end up folded under him with his pretty lips wrapped around your nipples and thick fingers stuffing up your pussy and toying with your clit until you’re whining his name.

Dean’s looking at you like that’s exactly what he wants to do with you. You’re smiling at him like you’re begging for it, and neither of you ever back down from the challenge.

Then your father calls your name from downstairs. And it’s like a bucket of ice water is poured over both your heads.

“Dean’s runnin’ late!” He shouts. “You should go get your Chinese now!”

You sigh, and Dean grimaces. The urgency doesn’t stop him from grabbing your face between his hands, and kissing you one last time.

“Tonight.” He mumbles like an oath. “Just you and me.”

You hum. “Only if I behave, right?”

“Sure. Only if you behave.”

And he says it like that because you both know perfectly well that it doesn’t matter how you behave. You could sit on his lap or rub your foot on his crotch under the table, and he’s still going to open the door when you sneak over. If anything, the question is just how big a price do you want to pay tonight. How far are you willing to push him, how greatly do you want him to snap once you’re alone.

You think you want him to lose it. He’s always extra pretty when he looks like he’s about to cry from frustration, and he’s never hotter than when there’s that dangerous gleam in his eyes that reminds you he could toss you around like a sack of potatoes.

God, it sounds nice though. Being Dean’s sack of potatoes.

He sneaks out the window, and flips you off after you laugh at him for groaning the whole time. He has to sneak down the block to get his car, and you won’t be here when he arrives. You have to go get your Chinese.

But after that, all bets are off.

Dean is worse at this than you are. The sneaking around.

You get stupid and nervous when your dad is around and Dean is hiding. You told me wasn’t your best moment, but it also wasn’t that far from your worst. And you know your dad. You know that he’s not really going to question most things he tells you, because even your more obvious excuses aren’t that suspicious.

But Dean’s a fucking dumbass.

He’s your dumbass. Your old, grumpy idiot who’s some kind of genius with a wrench and a circuit board and an engine, but who stares at the crossword puzzles you do and mutters that all those letters look fake. He could find his way home if you dropped him in the middle of the woods—you call him your pigeon, and he doesn’t think that’s half as funny as you do—but he also thinks that Michaelangelo is the Ninja Turtle and needs your help writing emails. One time you asked him when he’d last gone to the doctor, and he said some time in ’07. You’d smacked him upside the head and dragged him by the nape of his neck.

Later that week, he’d been grumbling to your dad about how the doc was making him cut back on steak. His cholesterol had been through the roof. He’d protested and bitched, but you’d grabbed his jaw and snapped that if he died, you were going to leave him.

So now he’s down to only two burgers a week, and you’re very proud of him.

Which is what he’d told your dad.

Not the you part—he wasn’t that stupid—but the doctor part. And how he’d been bargained down to two burgers in exchange for other things.

Blowjobs. You might not have fucked yet, but you’d done most everything else, and you’d talked him down from a three burger a week deal with the promise of blowjobs.

Which he’d told your dad.

Because he’s an idiot.

“You’re datin’ someone?” Your dad had said in surprise, and Dean had frozen.

On the couch, you’d rolled your eyes. God, he was so lucky you loved him to death.

“I- I- Uh-“

“Why didn’t you tell me? You coulda brought her over, I wanna meet the lady who finally got you to settle.” Your dad had snorted, his voice dropping so that you probably weren’t supposed to hear it. “Hell, if she gives good enough head for you to drop burgers, I gotta meet her.”

You’d felt sick. When you’d glanced over your shoulder, Dean had looked sick.

His eyes had flitted to yours in panic. You’d given him a tight, prompting look, and his throat had bobbed.

“She, uh- She’s real busy-“

“I got time.”

“Right. Good.” Dean had looked trapped. This was the only time you saw him really stumble over his words. When it came to you.

It would be sweet, if he wasn’t a few wrong words from getting shot in the head.

“She, uh- She’s just- You know- Women-“

“Where’s she work.” Your dad had asked casually.

Dean had gone pallid. “The… Place.”

“Place?”

“Bookshop.”

“Oh.” Your father had called your name, and Dean had looked seconds from passing out. “You know any ladies at the bookshop Dean’s age?”

You’d hummed, pretending to examine your nails. “Um… Maybe Matilda.”

Matilda is the lovely old woman who you share all your shifts with. She has five cats, two grandchildren she loves more than her dolt of a son, and knows that you and Dean are dating because she caught you making out in the nonfiction section a month ago.

Dean had glared at you, and you’d just smiled back. The fuck was I supposed to say? You’d tell him later. There’s only four of us, and two are high schoolers.

He’d gotten out of the bookshop jam by saying that she worked at a different place. Your father had bought the lie, but never dropped it. He never drops any of Dean’s slip ups.

Because every time you’ve almost been caught, it’s been Dean’s fault. There was the time your bra got found in the Impala, and when Dean’s brother knew about you before you were formally introduced, and when you’d been on a date and your dad had walked into the bar. You’d shoved Dean under the table, and the fucking dumbass had decided to kiss your thighs the whole time he was down there. You’d kill him if you didn’t love him. But you also think he’d kill himself if he ever really pissed you off.

But now your dad thinks Dean’s sneaking around with some lady from out of town, and you go to bars by yourself when you said you were going out with friends. And he’s a nice, nosy man, so he hasn’t let go of either fact at all.

“How’s your girl, Winchester?” He asks Dean over dinner, and Dean grunts.

“Good. Pissin’ me off, but good.”

You stick your tongue out at him behind your dad’s back. He’s just grumpy about the couch thing.

Your dad had gone to check on the grill, and you’d put your feet in Dean’s lap. He’d grabbed your ankles and hissed for you to behave. You’d smiled at him and moved them, before immediately crawling over him. You’d had a hand resting right against his crotch, and another grabbing at his chest. You’d kissed his cheeks and neck while he just grabbed your waist for balance.

“’M so wet, De.” You’d whispered, sucking a kiss right under his jaw. “Need you so bad.”

He’d made a strangled, almost pained sound. His cock had twitched under your hand, and you’d pressed down harder.

Dean’s fingers had flexed on your waist. You’d dropped your weight onto his thigh, grinding down and moaning against his skin.

You think, if your dad hadn’t come back the next second, he would’ve flipped you over and ripped off your skirt. But you’d heard the door open, and pulled easily away. Dean hadn’t been able to stand up for five minutes. You’d giggled and run your fingers through this hair, before following your dad out on to the porch.

So he’s a little mad at you.

You hope he stays mad at you. He always kisses you like an animal, when he’s a little pissed. Then he presses your face between your breasts and mumbles about how it’s not fair that he can’t stay mad at you, and it’s a better feeling than any high in the world.

Your goal for the night might be driving him so up the wall that when he finally fucks you, he rearranges your guts in his name.

It’s not going to be that difficult to do.

“What’d she do to piss you off?” Your dad asks, and Dean makes a face.

“Nothin’. Just- She gets mouthy.” He’s still glaring at you. You pretend not to see it. “And she likes to push my fuckin’ buttons.”

“You’re fun to rile up, buddy.” Your dad shrugs, totally oblivious to you and Dean eye fucking across the room. “Just take a deep breath and tell her she’s making you mad.”

Dean snorts. “Trust me. I think she knows.”

You beam at him and flutter your lashes. His eyes narrow, his grip on the counter going white knuckled.

He is fun to rile up. You hope he never works on that.

“You know who I saw at the store today?” You dad asks you, and you hum, poking at your chow mein.

“Who?”

“Gordon.”

“Oh, shit.” You look up. “How’s he doing?”

“Alright. Think he’s livin’ at home too. Surprised you didn’t know.”

“Well, we don’t talk that much anymore-“

“He asked about you.” Your dad shrugs casually. Too casually.

You know where this is going.

“Gave me his new number, to pass onto you. Said he missed you, all four years-“

“Dad.” You sigh, giving him a flat look.

He raises his hands. “I’m not sayin’ anything-“

“Yes, you are.”

“Well- Nothin’ that we gotta read into, but you two were always so close-“

“Dad-“

“Who the fuck is Gordon.” Dean grunts, and you flush.

He looks pissed. And not you just flashed him and he’s got a boner at the table pissed.

Really pissed. Like he wants to bite someone’s head off, but hasn’t figured out who yet.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

“He’s- He’s just my childhood friend-“

“Childhood best friend.” Your dad corrects, and you’re going to fucking kill him and then yourself. “They were little bandits together, we all thought they’d end up datin’, but I guess they both got sidetracked.”

“We didn’t get sidetracked.” You mutter, staring at your plate.

You can feel Dean’s gaze burning into you. It’s almost impossible to look him in the eyes.

“We just- It was never like that-“

“Didn’t he take you to prom?”

“As friends-“

“You didn’t come home ‘till the morning-“

Something cracks, and you and your dad both fall silent.

Dean’s broken his mug. With his hands. One hand.

Oh, God.

You’re worried that if you stand up, there’s going to be a slick stain on your chair.

“You alright, buddy?”

“Yeah. I’m good.” Dean stares at you, nostrils flaring. “You gonna call the boy?”

Boy. Not man, boy. And he says it so mockingly, it makes you feel buzzy and faint.

“No.” You try to sound normal, but you’re sure it comes out pathetic and dazed. “I- Um- We never-“ You glance nervously at your dad, and clear your throat. “Gordon actually ditched me for Anna, on prom night. That was- It was why we stopped talking.”

“Oh.” Your dad makes a sour face. “Well, I always knew he was gonna be bad news eventually. You deserve better, kiddo, and if I see him again I’ll give him a piece of my mind- I’m sure Dean will too.”

And you have to agree with that.

Dean looks like he’s about to go and smash Gordon’s head against the curb. Your dad keeps rambling about Gordon and kids not knowing what they want and how both he and Dean will make sure you never settle for less than you deserve. Dean keeps staring at you, and you’re sure that part is true as well.

Dean’s not going to let you settle for anything less than what you deserve at all. If he can help it, he’s never going to allow you to settle, period.

You really hope he knows, that it’s him and nothing else. Never anything else. Whatever confusing feelings you had eventually developed for Gordon had vanished when you were a teenager. You’d barely had a college boyfriend—more like a few loose options you’d kicked to the curb once you decided they’d lead to pallid and sickly futures—and no one in your life has ever made you care about a relationship the way Dean does.

And you really worry sometimes, that he doesn’t understand that. You try to remind him, but the age gap hangs over your heads like a sword of Damocles. He’s said before that there has to be better boys for you. Boys your age.

You don’t want a boy your age. You want a man.

You want Dean.

And from the look of him, you’re not sure he’d be able to stomach you with anyone else.

“I’m not going to call Gordon.”

Dean looks up from the sink. You’d followed him into the bathroom while your dad cleaned the grill, desperate to make sure he understood. You like him a little grumpy and mocking. It makes everything in your chest feel wrong, when he really seems upset.

“Alright.” Is all he mutters, grabbing a towel to dry his hands.

“Dean-“

“What?”

He gives you a challenging look. You swallow, and lean back against the door.

“I love you.”

The first time you’d said it had been all romantic and dumb in the rain. It had fumbled from your lips like a prayer, and he’d kissed you until your legs gave out. Even now, months later, it has the safe effect. Dean’s shoulders slump, and his eyes soften. Everything in him softens. Just for you.

“I love you too, princess-“

“No.” You whisper, pressing your lips in a tight line. “I really love you.”

Dean frowns. “Yeah, I know-“

“Dean.” You push off the door, your eyes locked onto his. “I love you.”

No one else, is what you tell him with your eyes. Just you. Always just you.

Dean blinks, his gaze raking over your body, then darting to the door. He rasps your name, because he knows you too well. He knows that glint in your eyes, he knows the sweet smile playing on your lips. He tells you all the time, that it almost gives him a heart attack. You close the distance in small, cautious steps. Dean clears his throat, looking almost desperate for you to take mercy.

You won’t. You need him to understand.

“Sweetheart, you can’t-“

“Yes I can.” You sink to your knees, and Dean grabs a fistful of your hair.

Your drag your hands over his thighs, and his swallows hard, a vein in his brow ticking as he tries to keep still.

“Come on.” He rasps. “This ain’t behaving.”

You shrug, slowly undoing his belt buckle. “Oops.”

Dean’s chest heaves, and a small groan rumbles in his chest as you kiss his crotch. You watch him under hooded lashes, pulling down his pants and taking his underwear with them.

He’s already hard. Thick in your hand and weeping from his slit, the angry red of his cock demanding your attention, even as he tries to talk you out of it.

“Baby, you- You don’t gotta-“

“But I want to.” You murmur, slowly pumping his cock with a light grip.

Dean grunts, bucking into your hand. His head is tossed back, his eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming out in pants. You stop stroking him, and he immediately looks back down.

“What’re you-“

“Can I?” You press your cheek into his thigh, letting your warm breath fan over his balls. “Please?”

You pout, just to be sure he knows. Dean never likes making you do this. He always whines on and on about how it should be about you, not him. He says he gets off just fine tasting you and making you cum on his fingers. You’re still trying to make him understand that just the thought of him fucking your face like a toy ruins your underwear.

You’ll be sure to show him after.

Dean stares down at you, gripping the bathroom sink and petting the top of your head. He lets out a ragged breath, closes his eyes, then drags them back open. You think he might be checking that you’re still there.

You’re about to suck his soul out of his cock. He’s not going to get rid of you that easy.

“You sure?” He mutters, and you nod eagerly.

“Please.”

A feral sound rumbles from his throat. His dick twitches, and he gives the tiniest nod. 

“Is that-“

“Go for it.” A smile ghosts his lips. “Show me what you’ve got, baby.”

You give him a flat look. He knows damn well, what you’ve got. And you can see him smirking, opening his mouth to say something cocky and smug about you biting off more than you can chew.

You don’t give him the chance, before you’re wrapping your mouth around his head and swirling your tongue.

Dean groans, his blunt nails scraping against your head as his whole body tenses. You hum around him and repeat the motion, again, and then one more time for good measure.

“Jesus-“ He chokes out your name. “Warn a guy- I- Wasn’t fuckin’ ready-“

You smile, pushing further down. You suck lightly, taking his base into your hand and pumping it in time with your mouth. Dean makes a sinful, deep noise that comes straight from your dreams. He croaks out your name, bowing his head and tugging on your hair as his cock pulses in your mouth.

“Baby- Fuck-“

You take your free hand and grab his balls, slowly massaging them as your mouth picks up the pace. Dean’s looking down at you like you fell from Heaven, right onto your knees for him, and him alone.

“You’re a fuckin’ brat, you know that? Just- Lookin’ at me and- Shiiit-“

He’s losing composer. It’s what you live for. The way his eyes roll back and he starts to shallowly thrust between your lips, letting drool slip down your chin and pre-cum leak over your tongue.

“Mouth was made for me.” He grits out, his teeth bared and voice tight. “Pretty little slut, know you love this shit. You’re wet, aren’t you. Drippin’ all over the floor for me.”

You moan in agreement, and Dean slams his hips forward. His cock bruises the back of your throat and you have to relax your jaw to stop yourself from gagging. Dean tenses, his voice raw and strained.

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m sorry-“

You’re not having any of that.

Dean cuts himself off with another guttural sound as you push yourself forward. Your nose brushes his abdomen, your jaw unhinged to take all of him, and it’s still not enough. You stick out your tongue, flicking the underside of his cock as you squeeze his balls.

“Son of a bitch- You-“

You suck, letting your throat squeeze around the head of him. He makes another, feral sound, and tugs at your hair.

“Baby, shit- You’re so fuckin’ warm, and- You gotta get off or-“

He almost whimpers as you pull back, sliding off his cock with a pop and stroking it as you leave an open-mouth kiss on the swollen head. Dean’s fingers flex, and you know he wants to shove you back down.

You give him a soft smile, kissing down his shaft, then over his balls. You suck there for a second, still jerking his cock in your free hand, and he finally snaps. Pulling you back by your hair and giving you a wrecked, hopeless look. He’s trying to use his listen to me voice, but he seems to know it’s a lost cause. You’ve got him exactly where you want him.

He says your name like a prayer, and you open your mouth. Stick out you tongue, fixing him with a challenging glare.

Dean swallows. “You sure- Fuck-“

You flick your tongue over his head, squeezing the base of his dick tight.

Dean shakes his head, looking up like he’s praying.

“Gonna be the death of me.” He mutters, and you know you’ve won.

You keen as Dean’s grip on your hair tightens. He shoves you right down his cock, pushing against the back of your throat before yanking you back. You moan around him, your eyes watering from the overwhelming taste and force. You’re barely more than a cocksleeve for his pleasure, and that’s exactly what you wanted.

Dean barely able to think outside of where he’s fucking your mouth, making broken and worshipful sounds, calling your name with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby- Takin’ it so good, love you like this, choking on my cock. Look so pretty for me, wish I could take a picture- Fuuuckkkk-“

He tosses his head back, still watching his cock pump between your lips. He gets transfixed and babbles, coming apart above you as you just keep smiling and taking it.

“Pretty girl,” he grits out. “My pretty fuckin’ slut, sucking dick like a damn vacuum- Crying for me, baby girl, you need this cock that bad-“

You mewl in agreement, dizzy from the praise. You do need his cock that bad. If the thoughts weren’t being fucked from your head, you whimper that no one fucks your mouth like he does. No one makes you feel so holy and used all at the same time. You’re so wet you feel it every time you shift, so wet you’re worried he’s going to be able to smell it. But you love this. The taste and weight of him, and how no one gets it but you.

It’s almost pornographic, the way he’s taking your mouth. Your lips shine with spit and pre-cum, tears pour down your cheeks as his thrusts become jagged sharp, and sweat shines on Dean’s thighs as you keep working his balls. They’re getting tight and heavy in your hands. He’s about to loose it.

“Baby-“ He taps your cheek, words pushed out between moans. “Baby, I- I’m gonna-“

You sink your nails into his thigh. You’ve never failed to swallow before, and you’re not starting now.

Dean hisses out your name, but doesn’t stop. You moan around him, sucking as hard as you can to shove him over the edge.

He cums hard, shooting thick ropes of release down your throat. You unhinge your jaw, and manage to get most of it. But he always lets out so much, and a fair amount ends up smeared with your tears and dripping down his legs.

You pull slowly back, and start to lick up what you weren’t able to get on your first try. Dean hisses, sensitive from the orgasm, and strokes his hand through your hair. His gaze is fixed on where some had dripped down to your tits. You have a feeling that if you were really, truly in private, he’d shove his face into your chest and clean you up himself.

“You are-“ He lets out a broken laugh, as you smile up at him. “Something else.”

“You’ve told me.” You tease, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Too proud of it.” He grumbles. “Like you want to be over my knee later.”

You shrug, eyes sparkling. Dean’s jaw ticks.

His thumb swipes over your cheek, where a little bit of the cum is still stained.

“Open.” He mutters, and you obey.

He presses his thumb between your swollen lips, and you take it with a happy hum. Dean groans, watching you suckle his release of his finger. You flutter your lashes at him. He pulls out, smearing spit over your cheek.

“I’m goin’ in an hour.” His voice is lower than you’ve ever heard it. It sends an excited, electric thrill between your legs. “You better follow, or I’m comin’ here and fucking you in your daddy’s house.”

You nod like a bobblehead, unable to even find the words. Dean laughs and pulls you to your feet, kissing you harshly. It’s messy and open, possessive in a way you’d never found hot before you had him.

Other boys being possessive had seemed like they thought of you as a nice little toy they threw a tantrum over having to share. With anyone, even your friends.

Dean being possessive makes you feel priceless. Treasured. He’s yours, and he doesn’t want you to forget it. You can do whatever the hell you want, just so long as you remember that he’s yours.

Your dad is calling for you again. Dean slips out of the bathroom first—he doesn’t have cum and drool to clean off his face—but not before kissing your cheek and slapping your ass.

He says you’re going to be the death of him, but he’s bouncing around like he’s ten years younger. You’re the one who needs to clutch the railing as she walks downstairs. He didn’t even fuck you and it’s hard to walk from the throb between your legs.

You’d been right. You’d completely destroyed your underwear, turning it to just a soaked scrap of lace.

And Dean might have you begging at his feet, but you don’t roll over that easy. You pulled off your panties before you left the bathroom. You keep them bundled in your fist while Dean talks to your dad for the last hour, sitting on the counter with your legs crossed. When it’s time for him to go, he wanders over to give a perfectly innocent goodnight.

His eyes are gleaming, as he drawls see you around, kid.

Kid.

He knows you hate it when he calls you kid. And suddenly, you don’t feel bad anymore.

“Night, grandpa.” You say lightly, and Dean laughs, but it’s rougher than before. You can see it in his eyes, the way he’s planning out every single way he’s going to make you pay for that.

Then you stick out your hand, and he blinks. There’s a confused, cautious shadow over his face as he takes your hand and shakes it. You cover it with your fist, and slip your panties into his grip.

Dean pulls back with a frown, looks down, and coughs so loud he staggers. You bite your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. Your father looks up from the sink with a worried face.

“You alright, Dean?”

“Yeah, uh- Yeah.” He stares at you, working his jaw. His words are pushed through his teeth, and you can see his cock, already straining through his jeans again.

His closes his fist around your panties, and shoves them into his pockets. Your dad asks him something else, but you don’t hear it. You’re fully fixed on Dean. On the dangerous promise in his eyes.  

You’re in trouble.

Good.

Dean lives more than twenty minutes away, but you make the drive in fifteen.

You’re desperate, and past denying it. You’ve got the hottest man alive waiting for you and finally about to fuck you, anyone else would be breaking traffic laws as well.

It wasn’t hard to sneak past your father, especially because you failed to sneak past him. You got downstairs and found him watching TV. You’d thought he was in bed, and the blood had drained from your face.

“Dad, uh- You’re-“

“Just watchin’ Jeopardy.” He’d said, not looking away from the screen. “You going to Dean’s?”

You’d tripped over nothing, and choked on the air.

“I- I don’t- I’m not- What-“

“Don’t insult me, kiddo.” He twists, giving you a flat look. “I ain’t blind and stupid. He had a hard on the whole night.”

“Um-“ You fidget with your fingers, unsure if you should run or just drop dead. “That’s- Maybe he was texting his girlfriend-“

“He never texts his girlfriend. He just texts you.”

You open your mouth, then close it. You’re dead. Dean’s dead. Your dad is going to kill him and you’re never even going to get to have sex, and that’s such a huge bummer because you’re just going to sit at his grave forever, and turn into a tree like some old myth, and then your dad is going have no one to talk to sports about. Everyone is losing in this scenario. It’s awful.

“Was it his fault?” You say, because it’s all you can think of. “That you realized?”

Your dad snorts. “Oh, yeah. I had suspensions-“

“Suspicions-“

“I caught you on a date.” He says your name dryly. “You said you were there alone, but his car was in the lot. He said he was datin’ a girl who worked in a bookshop. You’d been wearing his shirt to bed.”

Your mouth falls open, your cheeks burning.

“Oops.”

“Yeah. Oops.” Your dad sighs, turning back to the TV. “Realized when he let me call you on his phone. Dumbass opened the message thread for me and everything.”

Oh. Oh no.

Again, there wasn’t much outside of sex that you and Dean hadn’t done. Which, tragically, included sexting.

A lot of sexting.

Photos of you in lingerie and dick pics and voice memos and a lot of videos, and you’re going to throw up-

“You- You didn’t-“

“Saw more of Dean than I ever wanted to.” Your dad mutters, making a face like he’s also going to be sick. “Was about to punch him for sending that shit to you, but there was a voice memo with it. Listened for about ten seconds, almost got sick, realized it was at least mutual.”

You cringe. You remember that voice memo and photo, just as well as you remember your dad calling you on Dean’s phone because his was dead. You’d thought he sounded weird. You wished you hadn’t been so right.

“I’m so sorry-“

“He treat you well?”

You blink. You almost don’t understand the question.

“Of- Of course he does.”

“Hm.” Your dad frowns at the TV. “He gonna marry you?”

“Dad-“

“I’m just sayin’.” He shrugs. “If he’s puttin’ us all through this, he better hope he doesn’t break your heart. You know I was in the military.”

You almost laugh. “He was in the military-“

“I was ranked higher.”

“Dean was a marine-“

“You think I couldn’t kick his ass?”

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you don’t have to, because he won’t break my heart.”

For a second, you just stare at each other. Then your father huffs, and slumps back into the couch.

“Good.” He waves a hand. “Have fun.”

You nod, then go still.

Have fun.

That’s… Approval.

Your dad knows about you and Dean, and he—begrudgingly, but that’s the best you can hope for—approves.

So that should be the first thing you tell Dean when you get through the door. That you don’t have to keep hiding. You’re rehearsing breaking the news your whole drive over, mumbling the speech under your breath when you knock on the door.

But then Dean opens it, and suddenly there’s only one important thing in the world.

Greetings are forgotten, as Dean wraps an arm around your waist and drags you into his chest. You whimper as his mouth slams over yours, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him further down.

“Haven’t stopped thinkin’ about you since I left.” Dean groans, pulling your jacket off with scrambling hands. “Got in the car and wanted to turn around, sneak back through the window like a fuckin’ teenager- Jesus, you don’t know what you do to me-“

You surge up on your toes, throwing your arms around his shoulder and kissing him until you’re breathless and swaying.

“I- I know.” You whisper. “God, Dean, I know-“

He makes one of those deep, hungry, rumbling sounds, spinning you both around so he can kick the door close. You stumble closer, pressing him back against the wall as your pull his upper lip between your kiss. Dean grunts and crashed forward, grabbing your face between his hands and pressing back.

“Needy.” He mutters between open mouth kisses. “Needy fuckin’ girl, can’t even let me take a breath, can you?”

You tip you head back, your words breathy and high as Dean starts to kiss over your neck.

“You- You kissed me first.”

Dean hums, nipping at your throat. He’s dragging his hands down your sides, slipping one under your shirt to caress your spine while the other gropes at your ass.

“I did, didn’t I?”

“Mhm.” You mumble, lost in the heat of his mouth. He’s sucking on a sensitive pulse point, letting his tongue flick over the skin, and he knows what that does to you. “De- Dean-“

“Guess I’m the one who couldn’t wait.” He says, but it’s mostly to himself. “Been dreamin’ of this for so long, sweetheart. You here.” He kisses further down, pulling down your shirt to get access to the top of your chest. “’Bout to be in my bed.” He bunches up the fabric of your shirt, and only his arm around you is keeping you upright. “’Bout to be on my cock.”

He hisses the last words before rushing back up into a starved, sloppy kiss. He rips off your shirt in the same second, before smoothly unclipping your bra. You gasp as the cold air hits your nipples, nails scratching at Dean’s neck.

“Shit- Dean-“

“I’ve got you.” He scoops you into his arms, kissing your cheek.

“Do you-“ You swallow at his flat, amused look. “Sorry.”

His lips twitch, and he doesn’t break your gaze as he walks down the hall. “You know, you always get mouthy when you’re horny.”

You scowl. “I do not-“

“You do-“

“No, I-“

Dean cranes his neck, capturing your lips in a slow, lazy kiss. You respond in a second with a light tug of his hair, eliciting another pleased, low rumble from his chest.

He pulls back, and you chase him. Getting one more, quicker kiss that he melts into within a second.

“You do.” He rasps, nipping at your nose. “You turn into a real brat.”

You glare, ready to snap something that would only prove his point. But Dean grins, and suddenly you’re being dumped down onto his bed. You yelp at the sudden movement, wiggling and holding him tight enough to strange. Dean grunts, falling forward and barely managing to brace himself over you as you both crash down to the mattress.

“Jesus-“ He mutters your name, and you shove his shoulders.

“You surprised me-“

“You almost killed me-“

“Oh, you’re fine-“

“I’m old, that coulda broken my knees-“

“Shut up.”

You grab his face, pressing up for another stumbling, frantic series of kisses. You’ve kissed Dean pretty much everywhere—on his body and geographically—but this is always your favorite place. On his pretty mouth, under him in his bed. There’s nothing around you that isn’t Dean, and it’s intoxicating. The pine and spice scent of him, the heat of his body, the fact that he just lay here by himself sometimes. Thinking of you, the same way you think of him.

Dean wraps his arms around you, pulling you up off the mattress. You hook your leg over his waist, flipping you both over so you’re straddling his lap and kissing him everywhere you can reach. You grind down onto his sweats, and he moans shamelessly, his fingers digging into your hips.

“You- You’re not wearing your fucking panties-“

“I gave them to you.” You mumble, pressing your ass down against his thickness. The fabric scrapes against your bare pussy, offering perfect friction, and you start to hump him like you’re in heat.

 Dean drags his hand up your spine, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you up his chest. He lets you keep working yourself down on his bulge for a few seconds longer, moaning into your mouth as you tease him.

“Dirty, dirty girl.” He scolds, the mocking tone in his voice just spurring you on.

He knows you love it. That’s why he likes it.

“Walkin’ around in just a skirt.” He dips a hand under your skirt, palming at your bare ass cheeks. “Should’ve folded you over the couch to see it. Pretty fuckin’ pussy, bet it’s already nice and wet for me.”’e

He reaches further down, and you gasp as his fingers brush your cunt. He’s right. Of course he is. Dean might know your body better than you do.

“Shit- Dean-“

“Shhh.” He splits two fingers, rubbing them over the outer lips of your pussy before pinching them together.

You whine, trying to hump up into his hand, but he splays his palm on your lower back and presses you back down.

“Behave.” He grunts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to fuck you how I want?”

He squeezes harder, his thumb grazing over your clit. Your whole body tremors, and you press your face into the crook of Dean’s neck.

“Ye- Yes.” You pant. “But- You’re not fucking me- You’re just- Oooh-“

He flicks his thumb this time, and it’s like a tiny electric shock. You don’t know how he always does this. It doesn’t matter if he’s got his hand between your legs or your pussy right on his face, he plays it like an instrument. It would make you scream if it didn’t feel so good.

“Well,” Dean muses, dragging his thumb in slow torturous circles as he starts to rub your pussy again. “I told you to behave earlier. And did you?”e

You shake your head, almost so overwhelmed from the attention on your core that you forget how to speak. “N- No.”

“That’s right. So I’m gonna fuck you,” he pulls his hand away for a second, landing a sharp slap on your ass before pushing it  back. “When you remember how to be a good girl.”

You whimper, but don’t argue. This is what you’d asked for, with all the teasing.

You’d just thought he’d give it to you rough. That’s what behave usually meant. An invitation for you to test the line, if you wanted him to pin your on his mouth and make you cum under you were begging him to stop. Once it meant lying over his lap while he fingered and spanked you, and you’d cum so hard you saw stars.

But that’s not what this is.

You’re melted over Dean’s chest, and he’s being lazy and mean. He keeps playing with your pussy like it’s a cute little toy. Just brushing it and rubbing your clit with barely any pressure.

“Mo- More.” You plead. “I need more-“

You almost sob, as he pushes one finger just into your entrance before taking it away. You hug him so tight you think it must hurt, but he doesn’t even grunt.

“Look at that.” He coos in your ear, smearing a little bit of your arousal on your thigh. “You’re making a mess on me, baby. Just from a little bit of touchin’.”

“Was- Was not a little bit-“

“Wasn’t much.” Dean muses, landing a sharp slap on your swollen pussy. “But it never takes much to get my girl wet, does it.”

You shake your head, tears pricking at your eyes again. You’d beg if you had the words, but right now you’re just trying to hold on.

“Everything makes you so horny.” Dean drawls, going back to rubbing his big, warm hand over your pussy. “Remember when we got ice cream? Had to fuck you in my car, ‘cause you couldn’t even wait to get to the damn house.”

“You- You were- You were wearing a really nice shirt-“

“Sure, princess. It was the shirt.”

“It was-“

Dean slaps your pussy again, and your words fall into a whine.

“You ashamed of the truth, princess?” He teases, right in your ear. “How you really wanted me to stuff you up, fuck you and fill you like the cumslut that you are?”

You keen, and you can’t stop yourself from humping his hand again. This time, Dean lets you. He knows you need it.

“That’s right, baby girl. I know you like that.” He bites your ear, and you wiggle your ass right onto his fingers, trying to force one or two inside you. “I remember how I came on your thighs. You almost got me to put it in that day. One more of those pretty pleases and I woulda caved.”

“De- Deeaan-“

“Kept those panties too. I got a whole drawer for them, just for when I miss you.” He kisses the side of your head. “And I always fuckin’ miss you.”

The tears start to flow, half from the debaucherous sweetness of Dean’s words, and half from desperation. If you don’t cum right now, you’re going to explode.

And you’re close. You’re so close. Your pussy is clenching around nothing, but you’ve gotten the tips of Dean’s fingers to press onto your clit, and the sensitive little button is going to be enough to get you over the edge. He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls it up, forcing you to meet his eyes as you work down onto his fingers. You sob in desperation, lips quivering and tits bouncing. Dean groans, pushing up to kiss you as hard as he can. And you’re so close.

Then the asshole stops.

He pulls his hand away, slaps your pussy, and stops.

You make a strangled, broken sound of defeat, and Dean just chuckles. He makes you both sit up, massaging your ass and kissing away your tears.

“Nice try.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips. “You think you earned bein’ able to cum?”

“Ye- Yes.” You pout hopefully, and Dean chuckles.

“Aw, sweetheart. You ain’t even mouthy anymore.”  

You swallow. “I- I can be-“

“Jesus.” Dean laughs, and that pools right in you tummy, the embarrassment stoking an already raging fire. 

Dean’s rubbing your sides, kissing all over your shoulders as breasts as you just try to breathe. You earned this. You really did. But god, it’s a perfect torture. He’s just kissing and touching you, in a way that would almost be innocent if you weren’t soaked wearing just a skirt and leaving a stain on his jeans. 

“’M sorry.” You breathe out, wrapping your arms around Dean’s head.

He hums, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. Your eyes flutter, and it’s hard to stay focused. He’s so warm, his tongue dragging in little circles. You swallow, your voice getting higher as he starts to suck.

“I- I’m sorry I teased you, De- I- Pleaseeee-“

Dean moves away, grabbing your jaw and holding it back for him to inspect. You give him your best, pleading expression and pray it breaks him.

He taps your lips with his thumb. “Open.”

You obey in a second, and Dean’s lips twitch. He leans down, and spits right into your open mouth.

He’s done this before. It practically makes you gush every time. And it doesn’t help that he’s wrapped all around you, watching you with such teasing affection as you take it so easily. You swallow, and blink up at him with a fucked out, dazed expression.

“Good girl.” He mutters, and you beam up at him. “Yeah, I know. You like bein’ a good girl.”

God, you do. And from Dean’s lips, the words feel like a rush of adrenaline.

“But you’re not gonna learn, are you?” He drawls. “Gonna keep me on my toes, running around trying to find places to fuck you that won’t get us arrested.”

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But you like me like that.”

That makes him laugh again, before he pulls you into a shockingly sweet, slow kiss.

“Damn right I do,” he mutters, before pulling back way. “Alright. Up.”

You blink at him. “Huh.”

“Stand up.” He nods to the foot of the bed. “Take off your skirt, ‘n come back.”

“But- You’re- You’re still-“

“Trust me, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the tip of your nose. “If I keep these pants on longer, Little Dean is gonna suffocate. I’ll take care of it.”

You giggle softly, and obey the command. The air feels cold, without Dean there folded over you. It’s just further motivation for you to push down your skirt and wait for his next request.

And you’ve been naked in front of Dean before. Many times, to varying degrees. But you’ve never done it like this.

Just… Bare. Wearing nothing and standing for him to see so clearly, as he pulls off his jeans and shirt then settles at the headboard. He’s taken his cock in his hand, and started to stroke it slowly. Looking you up and down with a lazy grin. Your skin prickles with anticipation, and with anyone else you’d try to wrap your arms around your stomach or shrink back and hide. And the first time you tried that, he’d pinned your hands over your head and fingered you until you squirted.

So maybe you should try it.

“Don’t even think about it.” He growls, when you move. “Wanna see you, baby.”

You swallow, shifting on your feet. “You can see me.”

“Hell yeah, I can.”

Dean’s gaze is burning into you. And it’s the most impossibly sensual thing you’ve ever see, Dean’s massive cock in his hand. The way it twitches and jumps as he touches it, as he watches you. He grunts, his hand staring to beat harder, and you press your thighs tight together.

It’s just you, that’s making him all flushed and hard. You almost start to drool again, thinking about crawling down the mattress and taking him back in your mouth. How he’d probably let you, with how he’s got lidded eyes and making low, rough grunts.

It’s a powerful, beautiful feeling.

But unfortunately, not enough to stop you from scrambling forward the moment he stretches out a hand.

Dean laughs, spinning you around so your back is tucked into his chest. His hand that hand been on his cock hitches up your leg, and the other wraps around your stomach, his fingers grazing under your breast. You tip your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and getting lost in the feeling. Dean, wrapped so fully and completely around you, keeping you nice and warm in his massive arms.

“Look at you.” He kisses along your jaw, fingers dragging over your sensitive inner thigh. “Nice and stupid for me already. Ready to be a pretty doll and take this cock.”

“Need it.” You breathe out, grabbing his forearm. “Pleeease, Dean, I’ve been waiting so long-“

You moan as he parts the swollen lips of your pussy, letting his cock slip and rub between your folds.

“I know you have.” He mutters. “Been waitin’ longer. Almost lost my mind, knowin’ how tight and warm you were but not being able to fuck you. Fuck you right, fuck you properly, fuck you ‘till you ain’t ever gonna remember another mans name.”

“Just you.” You manage to whine out, pushing your hips up to get a little more friction. “Always just you, Dean, don’t want anyone else, never wanted anyone else- Fuuuck-“

He pushes inside. It’s slow and careful, deft fingers rubbing your clit to help you relax. It’s not like much help is needed, though. He’s so big you can’t close your fingers around him, but he slips into your cunt like a glove.

“Shit-“ Dean groans in your ear, lips hot and wet on your skin. “Greedy pussy swallowing me up, baby, knew you’d take me so good, take me perfect-“

He bottoms out, pressing against a gooey spot deep inside you body. Nobody’s ever really hit it before, let along split you open so well it gets a consistent, throbbing pressure. His tip kisses your cervix, his breathing ragged in your ear, and you both need a few seconds to adjust.

You turn your head, trying to chase his mouth, and find Dean already there. He kisses you slowly, open mouthed with his tongue mapping every inch of your mouth. His arms are fully wrapped around your stomach, and you cling to them like a seatbelt. You’re lightheaded in the best possible way. Dean hums against your lips, and the sound vibrates inside of you.

You mewl, tossing your head back and clenching down. Dean hisses, and pulls you further back into his chest.

“Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“

“Sorry.” You whine out, turning your face to hide in his neck. “Just- ‘S big, Dean. So big.”

Dean chuckles. It doesn’t help.

“Big, huh?”

“Don’t milk it.” You grumble, and he laughs fully.

“I don’t think I’m the one that’s gonna be doin’ the milking, princess.”

He thrusts up, and you whimper.

“Dean-“

“That’s right.” He repeats the shallow thrust, and your moan gets loud. “Sing for me, baby, show ‘em who owns this pussy.”

“Y- You.” You stutter out. Your head is empty. You don’t think you can fit Dean’s cock and thinking at the same time. “Dean- Deeean-“

He attaches his lips to your neck again, sucking and kissing as he pushes you further down on his cock.

But he stops thrusting. He just has you… sit there.

On him. So full you can barely breathe, every nerve in your body stimulated but being offered no relief.

“What- What’re you-“

“Wanna keep you’re here for a while.” He murmurs, his kisses slowing. Becoming lazy and over attentive again, without giving you what you really need. “Just like this. My perfect fuckin’ girl, look at you.”

He taps your clit, and you try to arch up into the touch, but his hold is too strong.

“Fuck- Dean-“

“Just a little bit, baby.” He coos, rubbing your clit with the very tip of his fingers. “Just hold it for me.”

And God, you try. You sit on Dean and let him tease and touch you however he wants. He drags circles around your clit until you’re panting and whining, then moves his attention back up to your nipples. Tweaking and rolling them between his fingers, kissing over your neck and shoulders as his cock twitches inside of you with every lewd moans of his name.

“You like that?” He murmurs, and you nod.

Then he stops it, kissing the sob out of your mouth and moving onto something else.

He’s done this to you before. Had you in his arms and teased you until you couldn’t take it, then let you cum. But he’s never done it while sheathed inside of you. It heightens everything, making it impossible to think outside of his hands and lips and cock. His thick cock, not pressing against your ass, but buried in your cunt and still hitting all those sensitive places.

You’re on fire, and Dean’s just letting you build and build and build up to an explosive pressure. There are spots dancing behind your eyes, when he starts rubbing your clit in fast, brutal circles, then stops just before you can fall over the edge. You claw at his arms, wrecked beyond words, sobbing and trying to get away and get him closer.

For a second, you make the mistake of bowing your head. Your eyes flutter open, and you get a full view of Dean’s cock settled inside you. His balls pressed right against your ass, the way he almost fit everything in, but there’s still a bit of his base that didn’t make it. It’s slick with your arousal, dripping right out of your pussy as you whimper.

“De- Deaaan-“ It’s all you’ve been moaning, for who knows how long.

You’re so overstimulated, time is starting to blur. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe only five minutes. It feels like you’ve been here forever.

“Please- Please-“ You blubber, leaning back to look at him under tear-stained lashes, the words falling from swollen lips. “I- I’ll do anything, oooooh- Fuck-“

Dean gives a shallow thrust, and your whole body spasms. He’s watching under hooded, lust blown eyes. And if the starved, animalistic look in his eyes is any clue, if he doesn’t cave for your sake, he’s going to cave for his.

“You gonna be good for me?” He rasps, and you nod frantically.

“So good- Please-“

Dean kisses you again, but this time he shifts you in his arms. His arm wraps around your neck, pinning you fully to his chest in a headlock. Your eyes roll back, a dazed smile covering your face.

His movements are relaxed and controlled, but you can see the feral glint his eyes.

You won.

“Perfect fuckin’ pussy, making a mess all over this cock.” He grunts out, bending his knees so you’re fully folded into his lap. “Could die here, baby- Fuucckkk-“

He seems to lose his own voice, the second he starts thrusting up into you. A beautiful moan rumbles in your ears, and Dean presses his nose tight against the side of your head. You whimper, holding onto him tight, mostly to try and keep grounded.

Dean’s fucking into you at a rough, snapping pace, and this is what you’d expected, but it’s better than you could’ve dream. The feeling of every vein and inch of him being pushed though your cunt. The obscene sounds of his cock slamming into you cunt, his arm around you forcing your head back onto his shoulder, giving you a full glimpse of Dean as your pussy strangles and squeezes him.

He looks destroyed, panting broken praise in your ear as his lips droop and his mouth hangs open.

You push up a little, managing to get his attention with a whimper. He gives you a curious look, then understands in a second. His lips mold over yours, and you babble some cockdrunk nonsense against his mouth. You’re fully crying again, so lost in the pleasure that you can’t even find the shame to care. Dean’s drilling up, pushing every thought in your head away into a pleasurable haze.

He pulls your knees up higher, letting him hit even deeper than before. Each stoke is deep and rough, and you’d been worked up so well that your pussy is just weeping and taking him like you’re a fuckdoll. You feel like one, in the best possible way. Stuffed up and pounded with abandon, slicking Dean’s cock so that it drives right back into your like a toy.

You moan, letting your eyes close and drowning in the impossibly good feeling. You can’t believe you waited this long. If Dean fucks like this, you might never get off his cock again.

“That’s it,” he squeezes your breast before moving those sinful fingers back down to play with your clit. “Takin’ me so perfect, baby girl, just gotta cum for me- Cum all over my dick, show me how much you love it- Come on-“

That’s really all it takes. Dean’s everywhere around you, his cock bullying into that gooey spot, and your orgasms hits you so hard you think you black out. The heat that had pooled in your stomach explodes and floods all your senses, pouring out of your pussy as your hips buck and you squirm in his grip.

Dean groans your name, and his thrusts get tighter. Faster and more brutal as he chases his own release. It prolongs your own orgasm, forcing it to drag out as you vision dances with spots.

Dean slams home, turning your head to find another, bruising kiss, and now you might be ascending. He’s cumming deep, deep into your pussy, and the sounds get better as he fucks it back into you. Everything in you is so full, you think you might be about to burst with light.

You get a soft kiss on your brow, as his grip loosens around your neck. When he finally settles and tries to pull away, you fumble to grab his wrist, fixing him with a pleading stare. You don’t ever want to be empty again.

“Gotta take care of you, baby.” Dean mutters, kissing the back of your hand. “We can do more later. When you’re talkin’.”

You roll your eyes, and he chuckles, booping your nose. You wrinkle it, and he kisses the angry pout off your lips.

“Silly girl.” He murmurs, and just like that you’re melting again. “Like I could live with myself if I didn’t fuck you again.”

You flush, and roll over to hide it in the sheets. Dean laughs, kissing the base of your spine and slapping your ass before fully standing up.

And you learn another difference between boys and men. All the douchebags you’ve slept with before rolled off of you and started smoking or talking about something unimportant.

Dean gets you water, and coaxes it down your throat. He draws a bath and carries you into it, but not before making sure you pee. He changes the sheets and gets you clean clothing and brings you a snack, smiling at you and kissing the top of your head every single time.

“You’re like a maid.” You mumble once you’re back in bed, curled into his chest.

He laughs, grinning down at you. “Only for my favorite girl.”

“I’m your favorite?”

“Don’t be a brat.” He gives you an amused look. “Don’t think you’d be able to handle another round, honey.”

You sigh dramatically, flopping fully onto his chest. You prop your chin up, watching him watch you. There’s that quiet, unending adoration again. You wish you could see it every second of every day, instead of sneaking out and-

Oh.

“Shit.” You sit up, and Dean grunts, grabbing your waist to keep you steady.

“What, what’s wrong-“

“I- Um- You can’t get mad.”

Dean says your name in a low warning, and you swallow.

“My- My dad- He, um-“

“Sweetheart-“

“He knows!” You blurt. “He’s known for a while, actually, and it’s- It’s actually your fault, you showed him that dick pic and voice memo you sent me-“

“I what-“

“You did it by accident! But you still did it, and-“

“Which one did he hear?” Dean demands, and you cringe.

“The one about- About tying me up.”

Dean goes pale. He groans, tipping his head back and grabbing onto you like he thinks someone’s going to rip you away.

“God fuckin’- I’m dead-“

“No!” You grab his face with a smile. “You’re not! He’s fine with it!”

Dean blinks. “He is?”

You nod. “He- Well, he wants to know when you’re going to marry me, but- Um-“ You laugh nervously. Dean’s older. You just had sex for the first time. He probably doesn’t want to think about that yet. “You know. He’s chill.”

“He’s chill.” Dean echoes.

“Mhm. Except for- The marriage thing.”

Dean hums. He’s relaxed again, dragging his palms in slow circles over your ass. His lips pull into that lazy, satisfied smirk. You flush just from the sight of it.

“What?”

“Nothin’.” He squeezes your waist. “Just tell him to give it a few months.”

“A- Give what-“

Dean raises his brows. Your mouth falls open.

“A few months-“

“I know what I want.” Dean shrugs. And you can see it. Him watching you so, so carefully.

And you smile.

Because you do to.

“Yeah?” You whisper, leaning down to hover your lips over his.

“Yeah.” He mutters. “That alright with you?”

You answer with a kiss, and Dean grunts, immediately rolling you over. And this sweet, slow moment feels like it’s going to last forever.

You hope—you pray—that it does.

✦End note: honestly this might be one of my favorite i hope you enjoyed it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

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

“The trick is to release early,” Eykan said, arms coming up behind you to guide your own. He placed a hand on yours and the other around your waist, making sure to be respectfully gentle about it. Neteyam scoffed. His hand placements were clearly unnecessary.

Neteyam could hear the sharp intake of your breath, right before you released the string, and quick as lightning, the arrow struck right through a fish in the water, and as if you’d never caught a fish before, you gave a gleeful grin to Eykan at the catch, to which he mirrored before helping you set it aside. Neteyam had taught you to use a bow, of course, but that never stopped other males from eagerly wanting to teach a trick of their own to get up close with you.

“Alright, I think she’s had enough,” Neteyam interrupted, placing himself between you and Eykan.

“What about the fish?”

“Keep it.” Neteyam gave a tight, polite smile to the warrior before leaving with you in tow.

You were going to say something, maybe mention how disappointed Eykan looked when he pulled you away, but the tense set of Neteyam’s jaw and the hard look in his eyes kept your mouth shut. It was safe to say Neteyam looked absolutely pissed as he dragged you through the forest.

You were supposed to be training with him today, but instead, the whole male population of the clan had apparently decided they’d like to do the same. And Neteyam, ever the patient Olo’eyktan’s son he was, had allowed them to indulge themselves with the pleasure of your attention, until there was no more room for him. He was left to stand to the side as young warriors of the clan attempted to impress you. They thought nothing of the Olo’eyktan’s son, not because they didn’t respect him—you knew the respect the Omatikaya held for him, but because you’d grown up closely alongside his family. So really, there was no reason for the males of his clan to think of you as anything less than a sisterly-figure to him.

But the more Neteyam grew, the more he grew tired of the constant attention you got from the young males of his clan as you came of age.

It didn’t always come, but today seemed to be one of those days where they couldn’t help but shower you in stares and unspoken intentions.

“It’s almost eclipse. You should head home, we can train another day,” Neteyam suggested halfway through the forest like the gentleman he was and you frowned. Something in his face told you he didn’t really want to take you home.

“But we haven’t spent any time together and I know you’re upset.”

He sighed. “It’s alright. We have plenty of other days.”

“I have to help Kiri and your grandmother tomorrow, and you have a hunt the next day.”

“Alright, we have some other days,” he corrected.

Sparing yourselves some pity, you wordlessly grabbed his hand and tugged him towards you. He stumbled at first, legs moving on their own accord, then Neteyam followed without much resistance as you led him in a different direction through the thick trees.

“Where are we going?” He asked, tail swaying hesitantly in curiosity.

“Not home. We haven’t gotten to spend much time together and that’s what friends do, is it not?”

Neteyam shook his head, laughing as he jumped over some vines he almost tripped on. “I suppose it is.”

The clearing you’d found yourselves into was secluded, far from the path towards home. And it also happened to be your favorite place, one that Neteyam hadn’t been to in years. The trees were just as he remembered it, large trunks enclosing the area from any outside predators. It glowed where moss and vines clung to it, and the carvings on them were still intact after years. On one bark was his name under yours, along with a bunch of scratches trying to remove it. It was like a memory unlocked for him, one he hadn’t thought about for a long while. He almost forgot about Eykan. Almost.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not.” He huffed, looking anywhere but at you. “Maybe I am.”

He reached out to toy with a strand of flowers hanging from a branch, and you couldn’t help the way your eyes practically glued to his strong fingers as they ran through the soft petals. His hand ran down the vine, all the way to the fruit at the tip before plucking it from its stem.

“I hope it’s still sweet,” he said, plopping the small fruit into his mouth.

“You’re deflecting. Stop doing that.” You swatted his hand and the flowers fell, petals adorning the ground beneath him. His ears pulled back and he almost looked offended.

“I’m not deflecting,” he sighed. “Why don’t you show me around?”

“You’re doing it again!” you protested. “And you know your way around. You don’t need me to show you. Now will you tell me what I did wrong?”

“You did nothing wrong.” He paused, eyes cast to a distant branch.

“You don’t always have to spare my feelings, you know. You never tell anyone what’s bothering you, but I thought we were past that. You can tell me, Neteyam.”

He considered you for a moment, tail hanging low as it swayed to his contemplation at your truthful words. His brows furrowed, which you could only guess was from the unpleasant thoughts in his head, and then he finally released a long, drawn-out exhale.

“Look, I know I don’t have a say in your life,” he started, taking a slow breath. “Who you chose to spend your time with is not my concern, nor should it ever be, but if I have to watch another male rub himself on you while I just stand there, I’m going to-” he cut himself off with a frustrated hiss, turning away.

Oh.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” you apologized half-heartedly yet earnestly all at the same time. You weren’t daft, but you weren’t sure either. He could be uncomfortable, but why would he get so upset if he were anything but… jealous? You didn’t want to assume.

“That’s not… It’s not that. It is, but that is not what I meant.” Neteyam laughed pitifully at himself.

“Then what is it?”

He was fully turned to you now, picking at his own arm. “You’re smarter than that.”

The air was thick with something you couldn’t quite place, and a new emotion welled up inside you. Neteyam had always known how to be soft and gentle all over despite the rough toll his training had taken on him. He was calloused hands with gentle touches, a perfect mix of a warrior that would make any woman swoon. Yet here he was, worked up about you spending more time with males that were not him.

“Are you… jealous?” you asked in a whisper, almost inaudibly. His ears lifted at the word, cringing slightly. Neteyam finally looked at you, catching your eyes with his as he took a step forward.

“Is that so hard to believe?” he questioned, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The unexpected touch made you shiver, a gasp threatening to spill from your lips. Neteyam’s gaze fell to his fingers hovering over the skin of your collarbone, then to your neck, lingering on your lips, then back to your face, and you subconsciously backed away as if his very stare burned you.

“...Yes,” you answered after almost having forgotten to. He smiled.

“I’m sure I can help you think otherwise.” He traced the shape of your jaw with his fingers, gently tilting your face upwards so he could look into your eyes again. “Pretty.”

If you weren’t blushing before you certainly were now. Neteyam’s attention was all over you. Eyes roaming the features of your face, fingers playing with your jaw, tail occasionally brushing your thigh, and you were hyper-aware of all the things he was making you feel. You didn’t know whether to look away or step closer.

“I mean it, yawntutsyìp. You’re very pretty,” he repeated. “There’s a reason why males trip over themselves when you look at them.”

Now you were really overwhelmed to the brink of malfunction. Fortunately for you, Neteyam took notice of your lack of words and continued to speak.

“I might be one of them,” he admitted softly. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

You hadn’t. Maybe you had, but you’d always brushed it off, the line between friendship and something else entirely blurred. Every time he’d stare at you for too long, every little smile he gave, and all the subtle touches he’d given you, you’d brushed it off as something that Neteyam just did. But, oh you were so wrong. You realized that now. You realized as Neteyam eyed you nervously, tail flicking anxiously close to the ground.

“I didn’t mean to make you jealous,” you said honestly, holding the side of his jaw with your hand. He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch like he’d been deprived of it.

“I know.” By the time he opened his eyes, your faces were mere inches apart. And for the first time today, it was his breath that hitched.

“We’ll still be friends, right?” you whispered and Neteyam’s chuckle was short-lived as you pressed your lips to his. His arm immediately winded around your waist, pulling you close as he kissed you with equal softness and want.

You felt your stomach flutter as you tugged him closer, kissing him deeper as your teeth grazed his lips. Neteyam almost groaned when your tongue melted against his, his fingers curling on your waist. He had to contain the images running through his head, most of them involving you and things his family would definitely not approve of. He could just take your right here, in the middle of the forest where no one would see. Or better yet, right here where young warriors making their way back could possibly stumble upon. He’d make it known that you were his, that they needed to lay off when you were spending time with him.

He wanted you, very badly. Especially when you made those little noises, the soft moans you let out as his tongue stroked your own. He could barely keep his head straight with the way your little hands tugged at him, trying to pull him closer. He’d been wanting you for a long time.

But he also treasured you. You meant many things to him and he cared too much of a great deal about you to let his desires cloud his actions. So instead, Neteyam slowly pulled away, breath ragged as he gave you room to breathe.

Your chest heaved, dazed in the aftershocks of the kiss as your mind whirled around it. Never in a million years would you have thought that you’d ever get to kiss him. Neteyam had always been a good friend, as his whole family was. To cross a line like that was reckless, too reckless. Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to regret it. No. After getting a taste of him, you wanted more, and that was probably the most dangerous part.

“We’re definitely not friends after that.”

‧₊˚.ೃ ࿐

you leaned in closer to the mirror in your bedroom, rubbing your lips together and dabbing away the excess lip gloss from the corners of your mouth with your fingertip.

“hurry up already!” lydia huffed from where she was sitting on the edge of your bed, leaning back with her arms outstretched to hold herself up. “if we don’t leave in the next 5 minutes we’ll be past fashionably late.”

“oh, whatever.” you rolled your eyes and turned around to face her, slipping the strap of your bag over your shoulder. “how do i look?”

“hot.” lydia replied and stood up. “now, come on! if we’re gonna get you a man, we need to hurry before all the good ones are gone.”

while you shook your head, you couldn’t help the amused smile that grew on your face as she pulled you out of your bedroom.

it had been months since you had even talked to a guy - with romantic (or sexual) intent, that was - and lydia had decided to make it a mission for herself to find you a boyfriend before the school year ended.

“you know, i bet if you went to my school instead of your silly private school, all the boys there would be falling over themselves to talk to you.” lydia sighed as you both headed down the stairs to the front door of your empty house. “so unfair.”

“please, i know the boys you go to school with.” you spoke with amusement. “i doubt any of them are any better than they were in middle school.”

“oh, you’d be surprised.” lydia said, flashing you her signature smile as you opened the passenger side door to her car. “some of them have really changed.”

“yeah, i’ll believe it when i see it.”

the soft voice of sabrina carpenter played through lydia’s speakers the moment she started the car, and the short drive consisted of failed harmonization attempts and mispronounced lyrics.

when lydia’s car pulled to a stop a short distance down the road, you checked your makeup in her car mirror one last time before the two of you headed down the sidewalk towards the bustling party at the house of someone you didn’t even know.

upon entering the house and hearing the loud music and equally loud chatter from the party guests, you needed a drink.

lydia immediately beelined for the kitchen, pulling you through the sea of half-drunk high school seniors by the wrist, and the two of you were examining the labels on bottles soon after.

“whose party is this, anyway, lyds?” you asked as lydia searched a nearby cupboard for shot glasses, gripping a bottle of some flavored vodka in her left hand.

“allison’s.” lydia responded with a hum as she set two small glasses on the counter in front of her. “you remember allison, right? you met her like a month ago.”

“brown hair, dating scott with the asthma from sixth grade?” you asked and lydia giggled.

“yeah.” she replied and handed you one of the glasses, clinking them together in a ‘cheers’ motion. “here’s to finding you a new man.”

“sure.” you laughed and downed the shot, immediately wincing at the taste after swallowing the drink. “ugh, i swear that tastes worse every time.”

“lydia!” a new voice cut in and you turned to see allison argent, the host herself, hurrying towards the two of you. scott mccall was close behind, one finger linked with hers as he followed his girlfriend around like a puppy. “and y/n, right?”

“yep.” you offered a friendly smile as she and lydia hugged, then she turned and hugged you next, which you weren’t expecting.

“this is my boyfriend, scott.” allison introduced, locking her arm around scott’s as he gave you an awkward smile.

“we’ve actually met already.” scott spoke up and allison turned to face him. “we used to go to school together.”

“oh, right. duh.” allison nodded as lydia handed you a cup of whatever alcoholic concoction she had been making while you spoke with her friends. “sorry, i’m already a bit tipsy, but help yourselves to any of the drinks.”

lydia gestured to her cup with a smile. “sweetie, we already have.”

an hour in and you had already spoken to multiple people you hadn’t seen since you were all twelve, now you were eighteen and in just a couple months you’d be graduating.

“anyone caught your eye?” lydia’s voice asked in your ear and you spun with a gasp, holding one hand to your chest at her sudden appearance.

“jesus christ! give a girl a warning, next time.” you exclaimed with a sigh of relief and lydia’s lips turned into a smirk.

“i take that as a no.” lydia said and you stayed quiet, lifting what was now your fourth drink to your lips for a sip. “you know what? come with me.”

“where?” you asked.

“just trust me. he’s your type.”

lydia grabbed onto your hand and began pulling you along again before you could protest.

you didn’t know where she was leading you, but you looked ahead to see allison and scott talking to another boy, who had his back facing the two of you.

“hey, guys.” lydia said and the boy turned, but you couldn’t see his face from your place behind lydia.

as you took another sip of your drink, lydia pushed you a few steps forward so your eyes could finally settle on the boy’s face.

“y/n, don’t you know stiles?” she introduced smoothly and your heart stopped as you took a double take - then a triple take.

you did know stiles… six years ago.

back then he was obsessed with you. twelve-year-old stiles stilinski had the biggest crush on you and he made it extremely obvious.

you, on the other hand, didn’t like stiles at all. you found him annoying, much like all the other pre-pubescent boys in your classes, and you didn’t like that he liked you because you thought he was ugly and a bit of a loser.

but now?

oh, boy.

your eyes traveled up and down stiles’s frame. maybe it was because he lost the buzzcut and finally grew out his hair, or maybe it was how much taller than you he was now.

it could’ve been the way his brown eyes hadn’t moved from your face since lydia said your name, or the way his shoulders filled out the flannel shirt he was wearing very nicely. maybe it was just his face.

whatever it was, you knew stiles stilinski was now, undeniably, hot.

“huh.” was all you managed out after you looked stiles up and down again.

“uh, hey, y/n.” stiles stammered slightly, looking over to scott in a panic like he was going to melt any second.

you could’ve sworn stiles was pretty unattractive as a kid, you were so sure of it. but how on earth could an ugly kid make such an attractive man?

“hi, stiles.” his name fell off your tongue so nicely, so naturally. you smiled.

“thank me later.” lydia whispered in your ear before she and allison disappeared. scott pat stiles on the shoulder before he followed.

“it’s been a while.” you noted and stiles laughed awkwardly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“yeah. yeah, it- it has.” he nodded, swallowing and hoping it would fix how dry his mouth was looking at you.

if he had a crush on you when you were twelve, then, fuck, he was in love with you now. he couldn’t help the way his eyes slowly drifted away from your face and down your neck, down to your chest, before snapping back up to your eyes.

“how have you been?” you asked casually, your tone sweet, and stiles struggled to reply.

he seriously thought he was over this crush. it had been several years since he had seen you last, but it came back with a vengeance the moment he laid his eyes on you.

“i’m good.” stiles strangled the words out as he nodded.

“you look good.” you nodded in agreement and stiles went red immediately. “do you work out?”

stiles seemed to short circuit at the question, or maybe it was the way your hand brushed ran down the side of his bicep.

“no. no, i don’t.” he shook his head, lifting one arm to scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and you noticed the way his arm flexed as he did so.

“hmm.” you ran your hand up his other arm again and stiles froze in place.

he managed to collect himself again, picking up his drink and lifting it to his mouth to take a long sip.

“so what have you been up to, stiles?” you asked him before taking a sip of your own drink. a smirk tugged on your lips at his reactions, threatening to show on your face.

“me?”

“is there another stiles here?” you teased and he scratched the back of his neck again.

you couldn’t believe yourself. if you from sixth grade - hell, if you from yesterday knew you were flirting with and thinking about hooking up with stiles stilinski, you knew past you wouldn’t approve.

but current you certainly did. and that was enough.

“i, um… i’m on the lacrosse team.” stiles managed the words out.

“yeah? you any good?”

“no.” he replied honestly. “i spend most the games on the bench.”

you hummed and reached up to brush away the hairs that fell over his forehead.

“i bet you look really hot in the uniform, though.” you said. “when did you get hot, by the way? because i like it.”

“you think i’m..?” stiles’s words were lost in his throat as he chuckled breathily with raised eyebrows. “wow. i mean, you’re… shit.”

you finished your drink and put the empty cup down on the table beside you before brushing your hand against stiles’s free one.

“i’m… shit?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow, and stiles ran a hand over his face.

“fuck, sorry, no, i mean… you’re -” he let out a sigh and a bit of a chuckle. “you’re so… and you think i’m…”

he gestured between the two of you and you connected your hand with his.

“mm?” you gave him a look that told him to go on.

“god, you’re beautiful.” he said and lifted his own hand. it ghosted against your hip like he was scared to touch you. you pushed his hand against your hip with your own and he gripped onto you easily, his eyes flickering all over your face and body. “can i get your number?”

you laughed and stiles’s stomach dropped. he freaked out, did you not actually like him? were you messing with him this whole time?

“stiles, baby, you can have that and more.” you told him and dug through your purse to pull out a pen.

you grabbed onto his hand and stiles watched in awe, his heart beating out of his chest as the ballpoint tip met with the skin of the back of his hand.

a moment later blue ink read out a sequence of numbers - your phone number - on the back of his hand.

you popped the lid back onto the pen and it disappeared into your bag again.

stiles was in disbelief. the girl he had the biggest crush on in middle school just gave him her phone number.

the girl he had seen again once at the mall, who had then become the star of his wildest fantasies, thought he was hot.

you were right in front of him, he could feel your fingernails graze against his arm and he swore his jeans were starting to feel too tight.

you giggled at the bewildered expression on his face and leaned forward, onto your tiptoes, to kiss him on his cheek.

“i’ll see you around, stiles, yeah?” you said and stiles blinked, snapping out of his thoughts.

“what? you’re leaving?” he questioned, his heart sinking and a pouty frown appearing on his face.

you gave him a shrug. “text me.”

you started to walk away and stiles watched, his eyes drifting down your back, until you swiveled around.

“unless… you wanna walk me home?” you suggested, the smallest flirty smirk on your lips.

stiles didn’t hesitate to jump forwards, letting you grab onto his hand and lead him away from the party.

and maybe him walking you home would lead to you inviting him inside… of course, only to give him the house tour.

You never believed in the cliché of falling in love with your roommate. Ever. You used to read books, gossip columns, agony aunt submissions with an eye roll and a scoff; wondering how on earth people could be silly enough to fall in love with somebody they could never have.

But then, it happened to you.

At exactly 1:03am on a Saturday morning, after crashing through the front door; holding your too-high heels by the straps, rummaging around the fridge for something quick and delicious to eat. You’d tried to be quiet, you swear, but the drink had gone to your head and before you knew it, Clark appeared; leaning on the doorframe leading into his room.

Tousled dark hair, white shirt, plaid pyjama bottoms that always hung slightly too low. Grinning. Looking so incredibly attractive, so incredibly Clark, that you dropped the package of something microwavable you’d been holding.

It hit the floor with a dull thud as he walked towards you, picking it back up.

“Good night?” he’d smirked slightly, placing the packet back in the fridge. You frowned.

“I was gonna eat that.”

“You hate those things,” he said as-a-matter-of-factly, reaching into a cupboard above the stove and pulling out a pan, “Go on, sit down. Pancakes okay?”

“You don’t have to do that,” you told him, but you were already hoisting yourself up onto one of the stools.

“I know.” Clark had said back, quietly, back turned to you as he gathered everything he needed. “I want to.”

You didn’t question him. He asked you about your night, laughing at all the right points, remembering all the right things. Did your friend get that job she really wanted? Did the other one finally leave her cheating boyfriend? How did they all get home, are they safe? You know you could have called him instead of getting the subway, right? He has a car and it could do with a spin around.

At precisely 1:44am that very same night, you slotted into bed with a pounding heart, racing thoughts and the sickly, sweet realisation that you had officially fallen for the wholesome farm-boy propaganda that was, Clark Kent.

It all made sense to you then. You were going out more, drinking more, trying not to be around him more for a reason- and the reason was that.

Clark was having to stir up a fresh batch of pancake batter every weekend now, and sometimes he even had it ready for you when you stumbled through those doors; heels off, barefoot, humming the last tune you heard before hastily leaving the club.

He’d asked you about it once, why you had a sudden interest in all the partying. Your friend group hadn’t changed. Your job at The Daily Planet was going exceedingly well- promotions left, right and centre. Clark sat you down with a furrowed brow, tending to a cut on your knee that you’d earnt stumbling over someone’s bag at the bar, and asked, “You sure everything's okay?”

And you’d nodded, forcing a smile. Told him he was being silly; you were just making up for lost time, that was all; for all those nights spent bored and brain-dead cooped up inside, an unread book cracked at the spine on your lap.

Of course, you knew you couldn’t tell him the real reason you were out so much. The truth as to why whenever he’d get home from the station, still in his heavy work gear and dirtied tank top, you weren’t there to greet him anymore.

You had- agonisingly- become the very cliché you once despised. Only it was so much worse for you, because not only was Clark your roommate; he was also your best friend. Your superhuman, super kind and super sexy best friend, that was so noble and good that he had made saving people his entire life's work.

When he wasn’t thousands of feet in the sky, scanning for danger, he was on call at the Metropolis Fire Department; half his bunker gear hanging at his waist. When he wasn’t pushing collapsing buildings upright, he was wading through them in full uniform; voice assertive, tone steady, leading his crew with such confidence you often wondered how nobody had put two and two together yet.

So, yeah. You’d become one of those. A victim of Clark's, of Superman's; a stereotypical case study for the exact trope you used to find ridiculous.

You watched him now from the comfort of your couch, TV remote on your lap. He'd given it to you well over thirty minutes ago, but this was the first morning you'd spent together all week; regardless of how painful it was, you didn't want to waste it absent-mindedly flicking through channels you couldn't give less of a crap about. You owed him this, at least; your full, undivided attention.

"So," Clark started, pushing his glasses up with a soapy knuckle. You didn't know why he still wore them around you; it wasn't like they worked on you anymore. "How's work going?"

"You already asked me that,"

"Am I not allowed to ask you again?" he said rhetorically. You could almost hear the smile in his voice. "Humour me, please. I like hearing you talk."

For a second, your heart threatened to do that thing again; that weird, excruciating throb, a reaction to Clark doing or saying literally anything.

You shoved it to the back of your mind, fast.

"There's nothing more to say," your shrug was light, "I... had a bagel for lunch,"

"Riveting."

"Broke the printer, but fixed it again..."

"Proud of you."

"...And Lois helped me rewrite a article,"

"That your emotional friend?"

"No," you frowned, "That's Jimmy."

"Ah." Clark nodded, drying his hands on the lemon-printed tea towel beside him. He shifted to face you fully, leaning back against the counter with an easy curiosity. “And what article was Lois helping you with?”

Heat crept up your neck, and you ducked your gaze, suddenly fascinated with anything that wasn’t Clark’s eyes.

Because what began as a straightforward, neutral piece on the city’s social and political landscape had… evolved. First, into a decidedly not biased profile of Metropolis’s greatest protector- Clark’s caped counterpart, Superman.

And then, somehow, without your consent or control, it spiralled further. The boring filler article mutated into a full-blown, fifteen-thousand-word love letter to Superman’s legacy; the fit of his suit, the meaning of the symbol on his chest and- embarrassingly- whatever miracle hair product kept his curls in place.

Lois helped you with every unnecessary amendment; eyebrow permanently raised, pen cap chewed to pulp between her teeth. Someone's got a crush, she'd muttered, tapping the backspace button with a force that made you wince every time.

"Uh... it's just... a human interest piece," you lied, giving him an unconvincing smile. Thankfully, Clark didn't seem to notice.

"Well, when it gets front page, and your name's in the 'byline'," he smiled, fingers mimicking quotation marks at his correct use of journalist jargon, "I expect to be the very first person to read it. Before all of Metropolis. Deal?"

Your shoulders relaxed. A light laugh escaped your lips. He came over, holding out a massive pinky finger, waiting for yours to hook around it.

You did so, trying to ignore the red-hot temperature of your face that felt anything but appropriate.

"Deal."

Clark left not long after, flashing you a charming smile and making you promise- again- to call if you needed anything. Not that you ever would; he was always so busy at the station that you’d feel guilty letting the phone ring for more than a second.

You'd visited him before. Once. Three years ago, when you first moved in and saw that Clark had left his phone at home. You were about to leave, but the screen flashed with fifteen missed calls from a Ma and the guilt tugged at you hard enough that you detoured to the station on your way to brunch to hand it over.

You'd been wearing something tight and black with boots to match, the outfit a direct correlation to the boozy afternoon you were determined to have. At this point, Clark was nothing more than your new roommate; not even a friend yet, though he greeted you with freshly baked cookies and a lovely welcome card on your first official moving-in day.

And yet, he insisted on taking you to brunch. During work hours- his work hours. In the fire engine.

"Uh, Chief," one of the burly men- Jason, had said, scratching the nape of his neck as Clark opened the door for you and insisted you get in. "I don't know if this is a good idea."

"I'll be back in twenty, bud," Clark had said dismissively, though his voice still held that kind, steady tone. "Just down to the bar and back, okay? Don't want the lady walking alone."

It was 1pm. Daylight. On a very busy Saturday, mind you.

Yet you kept your mouth shut, legs dangling over the oversized seat of the engine, your body nothing but a bundle of nerves under all that buzz.

You both spent the ride talking, getting to know each other, as if you hadn't just moved the last of your things in the night before. You learnt that Clark was a Fire Chief, a life-long dream of his, and grew up in Kansas; he learnt that you were a reporter at The Daily Planet, fresh-faced and new, one day hoping to score an exclusive interview with someone exciting- someone like Superman.

He'd bitten his lip to keep from smiling. Months later, when he finally told you about his secret, you'd tried to swallow the embarrassment of swooning over him, to him, countless times before. He'd laughed, shook his head, nudged your shoulder and told you not to be silly. It was fine.

But it didn't feel fine. It felt intimate; knowing something like this about Clark. Flashes of him fighting whatever threat decided to grace the city that day made your heart do things it never had before, and the worst part was that he had no idea.

On the bright side, now you didn't worry so much when he ran into burning buildings. You knew he could take it, his biggest problem being restraint. It was the relentless space demons that invaded the earth every two weeks that got you.

"You should tell him," Jimmy said nonchalantly over the phone, and you envisioned him still in his bed; hair a mess, legs dangling off the side, no plans to move anytime soon to get his day off started.

You were all like that on your days away from the Planet. Overly-punctual and typically-structured Lois was probably still asleep, and it was almost lunchtime.

"I am not doing that,"

"You know that thing where you call me, ask me for advice, and don't take it?" he asked, "Yeah, maybe let's not do that anymore,"

You groaned, leaning your head back against the sofa. You hadn't moved since Clark left; you couldn't bring yourself to. "I'm sorry, I know, I need to shut up. I'm just..."

"In love. It's gross, I hate seeing you this way,"

"Wow. Thanks."

"I just think maybe you need a distraction. I keep telling you, I have this friend-"

You sighed, "Jimmy, I am not letting you set me up with an actor. They're the worst!"

"But Jack's nice-"

"Jimmy."

"You're no fun. When was the last time you even went on a date?"

"...Uh..."

"When was the last time Clark went on a date?"

"What?" you glared at nothing, "Why would you ask me that?"

"Answer the question."

You tried to remember. It was difficult; your days with Clark were all starting to merge into one and you couldn't really pinpoint when he'd last been out with a woman other than you- or if he even had since you moved in.

It definitely wasn't because of the lack of interest; everybody wanted Clark Kent. You weren’t clueless. He was a catch, and literally every citizen in Metropolis was well aware. The man was unfairly attractive, an actual gentleman, and spent his days protecting the city in more ways than one.

If Clark wasn’t being lured to fake emergencies so he could be eye candy at some bachelorette party, Superman was being thirst-tweeted under the hashtag #SuperDick. You couldn't win.

You thought, maybe he was just being considerate, refusing to bring a date home when he knew you'd be there just in case it made them- or even you- feel weird. Maybe he went to their places instead. Maybe, you cringed, not wanting to think about it but having no choice- he took them to the fire engine.

You gagged. Jimmy startled.

"What the-"

"Jimmy. I need to get over him."

"Atta girl," he yawned, the phone rustling to indicate movement on the other line, "Let's do this. Are you free tonight?"

You fiddled with the sleeves of your hoodie- Clark's, actually, he'd claimed it was too small for him now and looked better on you- and swallowed.

"Y-Yeah. I'm free."

"Great. So is Jack," you could hear his smug smirk over the phone, "you're gonna love him."

Nothing looked right. Your clothes felt foreign, and every lip combination you used to swear by now washed you out like you’d lined your mouth with grey pencil.

You were in the middle of re-applying your fifth different shade of lip gloss when you heard the front door open and close.

"Honey," Clark joked, the call-out his usual greeting whenever he could smell your perfume lingering in the hallway and knew you were home. "I'm ho-"

He stopped just short of your doorway, voice and walk clipped.

You made eye contact with him through the mirror you were leaning into, smile small as his eyebrows did a slight raise.

He looked good.

Really good.

You felt like slamming your head into the glass.

"Hey, you." you managed.

"You..." Clark blinked. For a second, he looked breathless, eyes scanning the way your dress clung to every curve of your body- just right. Paired with your most expensive pair of heels, an early birthday present to yourself that you'd bought just last month.

Clark knew; he loved the way they looked on you. He loved this combination specifically on you.

You'd made sure. If this date was a pre-cursor to any more, you wanted to market yourself just right. With hopes of it maybe- maybe- finally getting you over your heart-wrenching crush on your hunky roommate, who was currently looking at you in a way you didn't have time to decipher right now.

"...You look beautiful."

"As do you," you replied coolly, gesturing to the way the day's dirt clung onto the white tank top he always wore under his uniform. Somehow, some way, he made it work. He made it look sexy.

"No," Clark shook his head, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. "Don't do that. Don't shrug it off,"

"I'm not doing anything," you pressed your lips together, the pigment filling every line. It wasn't perfect by any means- but it would have to do.

"Better not be. Because you look gorgeous," he said softly, allowing his eyes to hover over you once more before dropping them. You watched as he pushed himself off of the frame, turning back to make his way to the living room. "You girls heading out somewhere fancy? Someone's birthday?"

"Actually," you went to bite your lip, the nerves suddenly bubbling up now, but decided against it; your $35 gloss would never forgive you. "I've got a date."

You hadn't been looking where you were going. As soon as the words left your mouth, your body crashed into something strong; unmoving, something that had halted movement entirely.

You went colliding into the back of Clark. A gasp left your mouth and you wobbled slightly, using the wall to steady yourself.

"Clark!"

"You've got a date?"

He shot out a hand to steady you, but the glare on your face stayed. If he'd stopped any quicker, there would have been $2 worth of a lip print right on his tank.

"Yes. I do,"

"With who?"

Your shoulders lifted in a shrug, "This guy that Jimmy knows,"

"Name?"

"Jack?"

"Surname,"

"...Uh..."

"You don't even know his full name?"

"I-I'll ask him!"

"So what I'm hearing is, you don't know this man,"

"It's literally a first date."

"That could turn into a second, a third."

"People do it all the time, Clark," you said in exasperation, sliding past him to grab your bag and double check that you had everything. "It's a very normal thing for people to do. Blind dates,"

He ignored your comment, "What does he look like?" you stayed silent, and his eyes widened. "You don't even know what he looks like?"

"It's a blind date!" your voice went up a pitch. Clark's lips opened like he wanted to say something else, but pursed shut again.

He couldn't believe you. You could tell, his expression not subtle in the slightest.

What you couldn't quite grasp was why he cared so much. It was your day off, you were heading out for the night, your typical weekend routine- what did it matter if it wasn't with your friends, but with a date instead?

You let yourself believe it meant something deeper than what it was. Just for a second. Just while Clark was looking at you like this, like you'd hung the stars and exploded the moon all in the same breath.

"You'll be careful?" his gaze bore into you, softened now under the tension. You nodded quickly. "And you'll call me if anything happens? Anything. Even if you're just bored and don't know how to get out of it,"

You let out a nervous chuckle, but Clark wasn't laughing. You cleared your throat, "Yes, Clark. I'll call you if he's anything other than the perfect gentleman."

He held up a hand. Your heart melted at the sight of his pinky, "Promise me."

You hooked your own through out, a tiny little ring adorning your own. It looked tiny compared to his. "I promise you."

That's when the doorbell rang, and you found yourself frozen in place.

Clark had had the worst day of his entire life.

Six false alarms. Three of them, on complete opposite ends of the city; the others quite obvious jobs for the police. Guy kept blowing up his phone, accusing him of ignoring them, of not caring- when all he'd needed was Superman's vote on whether The Justice Gang was the official name or whether League would be a better fit like Terrific insisted.

And to top it all off? You. Getting all dolled up, his favourite shade of gloss adorning your lips, those heels that always made him linger too long on your legs filling his mind and corrupting his vision.

And none of it was even for him.

"Jack," your date had grinned, blue eyes identical to Clark's but lacking the shine when he looked at you. "Jack Castello, nice to meet you. I'll be sure to have her back before 10." he joked.

Clark shook his hand, squeezed a bit too hard- naturally. He watched as the other man winced but ultimately said nothing, and you left; without so much as a second glance back at him.

He leant against the kitchen counter, jaw clenched. He'd been like that for a good hour now; just stood there, unmoving, gaze burning metaphorical holes in the floor. He was waiting, though he didn't know what for.

For you to come back? To realise that it was a mistake? To burst through the door, heels in your hand again, ready for another infamous round of pancakes, because you'd ditched the date and took a detour to find your friends' instead.

He swallowed. Wishful thinking.

Truthfully, Clark had no idea why he was so surprised- better yet, why he didn't see this coming.

You were barely ever home anymore. You rarely ever called him when you needed something, not like you used to, even though you knew he'd drop everything to get to you. You stopped putting your legs in his lap when you sat on the sofa together, and it didn't seem like you cared all that much whenever he was late to your move nights. Before, you'd huff, and he'd have to make it up to you with a bunch of your favourite snacks and the promise of doing better next time.

Sometimes, Clark would even be late on purpose. It gave him a reason to provide for you without all the confusion as to why.

He knew it wasn't sustainable. That lines were blurring between you both, black and white areas merging into grey, and that his true feelings could never come to light. You probably didn't feel the same. And he knew for a fact that he wouldn't survive that confession.

But for that period, for those months where it felt like you were both something; a unit that had everything but a label and locked lips, well... it had been the best time of his life.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair and taking the glasses he'd put on, just for Jack, off. There was a knot in his shoulders he couldn't shake, and the apartment felt emptier somehow; weightless without you in it.

He wondered how it was going. You'd been out for a while now, definitely long enough to pass judgment on your date. Why hadn't you called him? Why hadn't you let him know how you were doing? You'd pinky-promised, for god's sake.

Clark's stomach lurched at the other possibility. What if you were actually having a great time- an amazing time? What if Jack had taken you to your favourite restaurant without knowing, and you'd lit up at the thought of that one pasta dish you loved because it had been a while since Clark picked it up for you- and what if right now, in this very instance, you were leaning forward, lips puckered, cleavage exposed, and what if he was looking at them? Clark would kill him, kill him dead, because how dare he, the nerve of that man.

Most importantly, what if right now, in this very moment in time, you'd already made up your mind- and Clark had unknowingly lost privileges he'd been so comfortable basking in up until this point?

He blinked the thought away, in turn allowing the red in his eyes to fade. The last thing he needed tonight was a hole in the kitchen counter.

After what felt like forever, Clark willed himself to move. He had a shower, ate something, drank enough coffee to wake him up. He didn't want to risk missing you when you came home; he wanted to know everything.

An hour passed. Then two. Then- not that Clark was counting- three and a half.

It was nearing four hours when he could finally feel your heartbeat coming up the stairs, could smell the sweet vanilla perfume you loved to wear before going out. He perked up on the sofa like a dog who'd just heard all of his favourite words in the same sentence.

Regardless, he kept his head down; book open on his lap, the words jumping off of the page. He tried to still his own heartbeat, tried not to imagine you stumbling in through the door with Jack holding your waist, kissing your neck, as you tugged him breathlessly towards your room-

"Hey," your voice snapped him out of his daydream, and his head shot up, eyes squinting in the light. He braced himself, ready for an uncontrolled gush on how well your date went and how you'd already set up another one.

Only, when he looked up, you were hovering in the hallway; smile small, eyes tired. The gloss on your lips untouched.

Sad.

Immediately, Clark was on his feet. He had no time to feel relief before he walked over, embracing you in such a crushing hug that for a split second, you struggled to breathe. He held you there for a bit, broad shoulders engulfing your entire body. You relaxed against him, arms snaking around his much bigger frame.

You were still in your heels; indicating that wherever Jack had taken you thankfully didn't involve a lot of standing.

Clark breathed you in. After a while, he murmured into your hair. "You okay?"

You didn't answer him right away. You just let your head fall onto his chest, listening to his heartbeat, taking him in.

"Mhm."

"Did you..." he swallowed, thumb rubbing smoothly against your skin. "Did you have a good time?"

You paused. He felt the hesitation, silently urging you not to lie to him.

"Yes." you finally replied. And although your expression said otherwise, he knew you were telling the truth.

Clark tried to ignore the way his heart cracked, just a little.

Because at the end of the day, he didn't own you. He had no claim over you other than being your roommate, one of your closest friends; someone temporary to come home to until you found someone better to fill the space.

And that alone broke him.

Because this- you, him, in the apartment you both shared, your weekend breakfast traditions and nights spent watching something he never paid attention to, just to be close to each other- well, this was it for him.

It was enough.

He'd like it to be more, of course he did. A perfect world would be coming home to you, unable to wait until he was settled before loving you in the way he'd thought about all day. He wouldn't let you go. He'd kiss you on the sofa, on the counter, against the window- and he'd do more, too. In those places exactly.

But if it was between sitting in silence and getting to keep what you both had for a little longer, versus the latter of losing you to someone else completely; Clark knew which one he'd rather.

"Then why are you so upset?" he mumbled lowly, voice a grumble against you. You swallowed again, and he could practically see the cogs in your head turning.

"I'm not upset."

"Could have fooled me."

"It was just... different."

"Never thought you'd be sad over 'different'."

Your head didn’t lift from his chest, not right away.

But he felt it- your pulse hitching, your breath growing shallow. He could track every shift inside you, feel the weight of each one cleaving straight through him.

Clark forced a smile, even though you couldn't see it. "Was he... nice?" he asked softly, hoping the calm in his voice hid the edge in it.

You stiffened against him. Just barely, but he caught it.

"Yeah," you murmured. "He was. He was very nice."

Clark’s jaw flexed. Nice. Jack was very nice. Nice enough to take you out. Nice enough to make you laugh. Nice enough to give you that small, tired smile you walked in with.

Nice enough to not be him.

"A gentleman?"

You let out a light, almost non existant laugh. "I guess,"

"Hm."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hands still resting on your arms. The silence felt unbearable now; aching to be filled with talk, about your night and his.

"You don't look too sure,"

The confusion on your face stretched slowly, "W-What?"

You could sense the questions forming in him before he spoke, like they pushed at the air around you. His jaw clenched once, subtle but sharp, as if he were choosing his words carefully.

Or rather, choosing the ones he didn’t want to ask.

"Are you oka-"

“Did he pull your chair out?” Clark asked evenly then, knowing once he started, he'd barely be able to stop. “Open doors for you?”

You blinked, his tone change catching you off guard. “Clark-”

His words came out structured and steady, as if he'd rehearsed them thousands of times in his head before. He couldn't stop them. Couldn't bring himself to.

“Did he order for you?” his voice dipped even lower. “Did he pour your wine? The one you like?"

Your lips parted. “Why are you-?”

“Did he make you feel good?” the words were quiet, almost painfully so. And he hated himself for how much he needed the answer, because you were currently looking at him like he'd said something insane. "When you were there with him today- wherever you went. Did he make you feel like he should?" your breath stuttered in your chest.

He felt that, too.

You looked away, suddenly flustered. Clark's fingers flexed at his sides, a break from the harsh clench.

"Are you... are you seeing him again?"

“I don’t know yet,” you muttered, cheeks warming, brain a fog. “Maybe. Maybe I will, or- I don't know, Clark. Why does it even matter to you?”

That landed like a punch.

Clark stepped closer before he could stop himself. He was drawn in, pulled in; helpless against the gravity that was only ever you.

You backed up a little, not out of fear but out of knowing exactly what would happen if he got too close: you'd suddenly forget how to breathe.

He followed through with it anyway.

Your heartbeat kicked up- sharp, loud, panicked. He wondered if it was the thoughts of Jack, or residual guilt for not calling him while you were out.

But for you, it was everything. Desire tangled in irritation, tangled in something you didn’t dare name after a full evening trying to get rid of it.

He swallowed, gaze dropping to your lips for a split second too long.

"Your heart," Clark murmured, the words brushing against your cheek like a touch. "I can hear it."

You froze.

"Is that…" his voice thickened. "Is that what it sounded like for him?"

Your eyes flashed.

"Clark," your voice broke, but your tone bordered on a warning. "Stop listening to my heart."

He didn’t move away. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

"It’s all I listen to." he said then, pained.

A thick stillness wrapped around you both, thick with nerves, sick with heat.

Your lashes fluttered, breath hitching again. When Clark's hand brushed your wrist, barely there, he saw the slight twitch in your neck as you swallowed.

And God, he thought about it. About leaning in that last inch. About finally tasting the thing he’d been starving for since the day you moved in. About claiming something he’d spent years thinking about, dreaming of, chasing.

For a heartbeat, he swore you leaned in, too.

Your eyes flicked to his mouth, and that was almost enough. His forehead dipped closer to yours, a singular curl flopping forward, the world narrowing down to only the tiny space between you.

Then, Clark’s chest caved. A quiet, shaky exhale. Something breaking. Something giving up.

He didn’t step far, but he did move back. Just far enough that he couldn’t feel your breath anymore. His voice, when it finally came, was rough at the edges.

"You… you should call him," Clark whispered, eyes dropping to the floor. "If you want another date."

You didn’t move. You just stared at him, breath caught, his words echoing in the space where his closeness had been a second ago. The air still felt warm from him, your pulse still thundering from how near he’d gotten- near enough to kiss you, near enough to ruin the very foundation you'd spent the past four hours trying to tear down.

Clark stepped back like the ground beneath him had given out, jaw tight, eyes fixed anywhere but on you. Without another word, he turned and walked down the hall, shoulders tense, disappearing into the dim apartment like he was running from something. His bedroom door shut quietly, but it might as well have slammed.

He pressed his back to the wood once it closed, breath shaking out of him, hands braced against his knees as the reality of it hit him all at once.

What the hell did he just do?