Summary: You bring lemonade to Dean after a long day of working in the yard.
Content: You and Dean have your apple pie life, domestic fluff, kissing, suggestive language, implied female reader
Word Count: 394
Notes: Decided to write a short piece for domestic!Dean... it's what I wanted for him all along </3 Season 6 of SPN I'm coming for you
You use your hips to push open the screen door leading onto the back porch, balancing a tray in your hands. You're wearing a cotton sundress that brushes your thighs and a pair of sandals. A light breeze carries the scent of honeysuckle from the patches growing along the edge of the woods. Dean is reclined in a wooden lawn chair under an oak tree, his eyes roaming over the freshly cut lawn before he has to return the mower to the garage.
You smile as you approach from behind, steadying the pitcher and nudging the glasses apart on the tray.
As you set the tray on the ground beside his chair, Dean sighs softly, taking your hand and kissing it. You stand by his shoulders, brushing your fingertips over the back of his neck, watching as his eyes flutter.
"What’s this?" he murmurs. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his skin, and freckles dot his nose.
"Lemonade," you say. "I wanted to try something new."
“Mhm,” Dean hums. He toys with the hem of your dress. “And where’d you get this?”
You swat his hand away with a knowing glare. “You’re sweaty.”
Dean reaches for the pitcher, pours you a glass first, then fills one for himself. Ice clinks gently against the glass as he brings it to his lips. After a sip, one corner of his mouth lifts. “Didn’t ever stop us before.”
“And what will the neighbors think?”
Dean glances at the house next door and sighs. “We don’t have a fence.”
“Maybe that can be your next project.”
The fence would only add to Dean’s list of projects—putting a sunroof in the kitchen, installing shelves in the study, and upgrading the bathroom sink.
"Maybe," he agrees. Dean sets his glass on the thick, soft grass and pats his thigh. “C’mere.”
You settle onto his lap as Dean's hands find your waist. His warmth seeps through the cotton of your dress.
“My girl,” he says, pressing slow kisses to your neck and the bare skin along the straps of your dress. “Always doing sweet things for me.”
You bury your face in his hair. “Come inside. I’ll start on dinner.”
“Just stay here with me for a moment, yeah?”
You nod, wrapping your arms around him as the sun lowers beyond the treeline.
The mower will wait. Dinner can, too.
