There’s a slight trembling in your legs as you try to bounce, burying his cock deeper inside your sloppy pussy, all while watching him take hit after hit on his blunt. “Having a girl dripping on my cock while I smoke, that’s truly fuckin’ Heaven if you ask me.” You suddenly hear him say, thick smoke leaving his mouth just to hit your face, making you cough and clench around his cock. “Fuck, keep squeezing my cock and I’ll fill you up.” He groans, squirming to let his shoulders against the headboard.

His free hand moves to smack your ass, making you gasp and arch forward. “Keep bouncing, icky girl.” His hips thrust up only once, making you feel his tip almost kissing your cervix. You roll your hips after his action, hands grabbing his shoulders to hold yourself up.

Squelching noises are heard each time you lift and lower your hips on his cock, balls sticking to your ass. Thick and creamy white is pooling at the base of his cock, all leaking from your wet pussy due to the multiple previous orgasms you had (without much of his help). 

Your eyes are half-lidded with pleasure, trying to get some eye contact with the Supe under you but all he’s focused on is the state of your cunt. How wet makes your bush glisten, how creamy it is from so much stimulation, how your clit is pulsating with needs. Ben takes another hit of the blunt in his hand, the tip glowing red for a second or so before smoke is exhaled once more, the smell of weed flowing in the room, making you dizzy more than you already are now. 

“Ben—My thighs hurt…” You end up voicing, making him look up at your sweaty face, your lips parted with remaining dried drool at the corner of your lips. “Do they, now? What the fuck y’want me to do about it?” He groans, his free hand moving to swipe hair from his forehead, licking his lips before you reply. “Help me out, please?” You see his eyes rolling at those words, he sighs as you try to roll your hips onto his cock, smearing come against his bush.

“Can’t a motherfucker just relax? God, you youngsters can’t do shit anymore.” He says before bringing the blunt to his lips again, but only to keep it there. Then, both his hands move to your hips just to grab the fat there, and it’s almost painful. You can’t clearly understand what he is saying due to the joint between his lips, but he mumbles.

“Fuck—slick pussy—squeezing my cock.” And before you can say anything, his big and strong hands are helping you bounce up and down on his fat cock. 

But the pace is almost violent, making you gasp loudly; his bulbous tip is hitting your gummy walls all the right ways, rubbing and stretching everywhere necessary. You have to hold yourself harder onto his shoulders as he is using you like a fucktoy—slamming you down his cock, making you cream more and more. Your eyebrows are furrowed, lips parted wide with moans escaping from it. One of your hands moves to his mouth just to take the blunt from between them, just to hear him speak again. “That’s good, yeah? Love my cock hitting deep? You’re fucking dripping.” 

Ben hiss when you clench around him in response, the back of his head hitting the headboard. “Give me a hit, doll.” He groans at you so you move your hand back toward his mouth, letting his lips wrap around the blunt.

The tip becomes red, smoke leaving his mouth before you pull it away and having the smell directly in your nose. “That’s a good fucking girl. All that weed in your tiny brain, must be feeling all dizzy now. Creaming onto his old man’s cock with y’sweet young pussy. Feels good, yeah?” You nod, lips parted and pupils blown out.

Ben grabs your hips tighter, slamming you down on his cock, louder squelching noises are created by your sloppy pussy; his tip rubbing at the entrance of your cunt each time he brings you up and down. Your thighs are shaking once more but now, it’s from your orgasm being so close, heat in your lower belly. “Ben, m’gonna come again…” You whine out, and he decides to thrust his hips up, finally. “Yeah? Gonna make a mess on my cock like a good girl? Milk my cock dry again, doll?” He asks but you’re too far gone to reply anyway.

One of his hands moves to smack your ass again at the same time your orgasm hits, and his slap is strong, which mixes pain and pleasure. You cry out his name, head thrown toward the ceiling. You feel him taking the blunt out of your hand then, just to bring it to his lips once more. Your pussy clenches, thighs trembling and body squirming at the force of your climax; a trail of drool drips from your mouth toward your neck. More smoke is exhaled toward your face then, and your upper body falls to rest against Ben’s chest.

His hips thrust up a few more times before he shoots his load deep inside your messy cunt, filling it up with his semen once more.

It leaks from your hole, dripping all the way down his length and to his balls, and you feel it against the skin of your ass. You both stop moving, your breathing labored before you push yourself up to see Ben’s face and it seems like his daily routine; the way he just keeps smoking his joint, brushing hair away from his face. 

He looks at you, smirking before you are hit with the smell of weed again. “Want a hit before I start to pound your pussy, doll? That’d be nice to have you relax a bit. I wonder how fuckin’ icky you are when you’re high.”

It had never bothered him; how you preferred to keep your bush on (not that he had a say in it), on the contrary, it excited him if anything else. 

He liked to burn of hair against his pelvis, the feeling of you wet and messy with juice and come mixing together. That’s why he now had you sit on his muscled legs, thighs on each side of his hips as he just watched you whine and try to rub yourself on him.

“Little fuckin’ pussy, all wet and tight around my cock. Y’think I should give her attention, doll?” He asked, his hazel eyes lifting up to the expression of your face like he wanted to see and hear you beg. Your thighs were shaking, two orgasms denied already and juice leaking from your entrance to drip down to the fat of your ass and into the crack just to stop at his balls. Ben’s hands were strong and firm as they kept holding your hips so you wouldn’t move and give yourself pleasure. One of your hands curled through his hair, tugging on the strands as if to push him closer, trying to kiss him. He clicked his tongue on his palate, shaking his head. 

“What do you think you’re doing, kid? Want dad to make you feel good again? After you have been so bratty all day long?” He said, and your eyebrows furrowed at his words. “Ben—Don’t call yourself that, it’s so disgusting.” The words leaving your mouth only made him smirk because he truly could care less, and he knew the title made your right hole clench anyway. Like your body couldn’t deny the fact that it liked it. It liked Ben being disgusting and icky. “Your pussy loves it, doll.”

Your back arched as if to melt your body against his own, hips trying to rub and jiggle just to feel his throbbing cock deeper inside your hole.

He indulged you, strong hands shifting your hips just to lean his head toward your glistening pussy, spitting another fat glob of saliva right against your sensitive clit. The drool dripped to the hair resting at your puffy folds and around, adding wetness for you to rub your bundle of nerves against his own bush. “Ah! Yes, please, Ben…” He chuckled at the words, shaking his head. “It’s dad to you.” You whined, closing your eyes before rolling your hips once more. “Dad—Please…” 

Ben then hummed, his fingers burying themselves in the fat of your hips just to help you rub down. Your gummy walls clenched around the girth of his fat cock, you swear to feel the veins running all the way to the length throb inside you, pre-cum mixing with your essence.

Your bush created a friction against his skin as you rolled your hips to find pleasure. All Ben did was watch you whine like you wanted his help, but his head only rolled against the leather of the couch. What an asshole, you thought to yourself; letting you do all the work like he couldn’t just grab you and fuck you.

You ignored him, well, did your best to. It was hard when your clit rubbed against the patch of hair above his cock, harder when you felt warmth coursing through your lower belly again and gasped, thighs burning and shaking from the effort. Only then did Ben speak up. “Want to cum? Want to cum around dad’s cock like some sort of icky girl?” He asked, voice loud enough for you to hear it and have your dripping hole clench around him.

His hands tightened their grip on the fat of your hips and you nodded. “Yes, I—I want to come, now… Please!” Sweat rolled down from your neck to the dimples at your lower back, your muscles contracted as you felt the orgasm trying to course through you. You only fastened the grinding of your hips then, mentally begging Ben to let you come finally. But a loud curse escaped you when he suddenly grabbed your thighs, stopping you from moving anymore, denying your orgasm for the third time now. “Ben, no! Please, fuck!” You whined loudly, upper body folding toward his chest as he shushed you quietly.

“Now, doll, that’s not how you ask for what you want. I fuckin’ taught you about being polite, didn’t I? Your fuckin’ generation and saying please, swear to God.” he groaned as he watched you, your eyes becoming all teary from being denied once more. Your walls clenched around his fat cock, you swore to feel his pre-cum ooze out of his tip to mix with your juices at the feeling of your sloppy pussy gripping him tight.

Both your hands moved to his shoulders to stabilize yourself as he groped the fat of your ass, suddenly. His strong hands spread your asscheeks apart, his cock sliding deeper inside your hole.

You could feel his mushroom head kiss gently the skin of your cervix, bringing both pain and pleasure through your body. Ben’s hazel eyes lowered to the state of your pussy; glistening bush pressed against his own pubic hair, messy, puffy and wet folds gripping his cock to keep him inside you like you didn’t want him anywhere else. “Lean back. Let me see that mess of a cunt.” He groaned, hands shifting your hips to angle them forward just so he could see himself inside your cunt, how your hole was stretching around his girth, the wetness creating threads to connect your bodies. Saliva and juice pooled at your clit, making the view more perverted.

Ben groaned at the view, licking his lips before looking back up at you. “All that for dad’s cock, fuckin’ icky girl. Look at your pretty pussy and that pretty bush. S’fucking making me throb. Want me to fuck you full, don’t you?” You immediately nodded at him, but remembered all too well how he had treated impoliteness before. “Yes, please… I want you to fuck me, dad.” 

He groaned at the words leaving your mouth before nodding and his hands moved to your thighs to pull you back correctly on his cock, making you feel him all the way inside. A gasp left your mouth, making him smirk and he only replied by thrusting his hips up to slot against yours. “Ah! Mh, fuck, please…” You whined at him, not caring about how embarrassing you must look at that moment, truly needing him to fuck you. 

Ben didn’t stop at that, his hips immediately taking a fast pace as they thrusted up against yours. His cock rubbed and hit the spongy spots inside your sloppy cunt, creating squelching noises that echoed inside the empty room. Your juice smeared around, wetting your bush and his own, creating a friction that almost burned. His groans and grunts hit your ears, making your walls clench, and his pace faltered for a second.

“Fuck, keep clenching that pussy ‘round dad’s cock, yeah? Show me how much you love when I fuck you.” He spoke, but you could only nod your head in answer.

Your hands moved, grabbing at his shoulders and down to his biceps as if it could help you stay up. His mushroom head kept hitting the spot at the entrance of your hole, making you moan out each time. Your body was begging for a release, the muscles of your thighs were burning and aching for a new position but Ben kept going, nuzzling his fat cock inside your cunt. His ballsack kept hitting the skin of your ass, creating slapping noises that sounded so perverted. You could feel your wetness running all the way down to his base, making your skin sticky against his own. 

Ben’s head rolled against the leather of the couch once more before he moved it just so his eyes could lower to your hairy pussy; watching his fat cock disappear inside your hole. A creamy white ring of come had been created at the base of his cock, smeared into his pubic hair and yours. 

He didn’t say anything, too busy focusing on fucking you, his hands moving to your hips and his digits tightened their grip on the fat there. He kept pulling you back down onto his cock each time he thrusted up, not letting you do any work, using you like his personal fleshlight. Your body bounced, his balls sticking to your ass, his pubic hair brushing against your very sensitive clit as you started to roll your hips to add pleasure. One of his hands lifted up to the back of your head just to tug on your hair, making you wince in pain. 

Your eyes looked up at his face just to see him already watching you; his lips parted and eyebrows furrowed. “Fuck—Let me see that pretty face when I make you come, doll. Need to see how much y’like it.” He said, and your own lips parted just for your tongue to stick out, for saliva to drip from the tip of your tongue in a fat glob, hitting the skin at the valley of your breasts.

Ben groaned at the view, nodding his head. “You disgusting girl, what d’you want? You want dad’s cock? His finger?” A nod of your head was enough for Ben to let go of your hair, just to shove his finger inside your mouth.

His digit pushed against your wet tongue and you immediately closed your lips around his thumb. His other hand kept helping you down on his cock as his strong hips thrusted up, cock rubbing at your sweet spot. “That’s it, good girl, taking dad’s cock and finger so well. You were made for that, aren’t you?” He spoke as you sucked on his thumb eagerly, moaning his name as he slotted his cock inside you, making your pussy gush and leak down his shaft. One of your hands moved to hold his wrist so he wouldn’t put his digit away, your tongue rolling around the warm skin. The view of you like that made Ben fasten his thrusts, making you bounce harder.

You cried out around his thumb, tears forming at the corner of your eyes, drool dripping down your chin as you sucked on his thumb. Ben hissed as he watched tears slowly roll down your cheeks, his strong hand shifting your hips and angling them toward his body. The new position made his fat mushroom tip hit directly onto your g-spot, making you gasp loud. Your free hand moved to hold onto his shoulder like you had done before, and you tried to push his hand away from your face, but he clicked his tongue on his palate. “Keep suckin’ on that, kiddo. Let me see how you’d like to have my cock in your mouth next.” 

You had no other choice but keep his digit inside your mouth as he thrusted back to slot his cock deep inside your dripping pussy. Louder squelching noises echoed around the room, your wet pussy clenching around his cock as he kept rutting his hips up. Ben groaned, eyes lowering to the clearer creamy white ring at the base of his shaft that your pussy had created, both of your bushes glistening with come and wetness. 

Suddenly, Ben pulled his thumb out of your mouth and you were able to moan his name back, crying for release as big tears rolled down your cheeks to mix with saliva. You were a mess; muscles aching even more than before, sweat covering your face, breathing labored from the efforts. 

Your walls clenched tightly around Ben’s cock when he pressed his wet and warm thumb against your slick clit. Your body squirmed at the feeling, an overstimulating sensation coursing through you; you gasped. “Mhpfhhpf, Ben! Ah, too much!” Ben only started to rub and circle your bundle of nerves after your reaction. “Too much? I thought you wanted to come? Want me to stop?” He groaned, mocking you through his actions and tone. You shook your head, lips parted wide and head becoming dizzy. “No, I—I want to come!” You replied to him, rolling your hips to feel both his cock and digit.

“Then be a good fuckin’ girl and take it, I know you can. Y’can be good for me, yeah? For dad?” He asked, making you cry out as his tip rubbed against your g-spot once more. He started to thrust up toward this spot specifically, making you gasp non-stop, and more tears rolled down your cheeks; you felt his fat cock throb inside your cunt at the view he had of you.

“Yes, yes, yes! I can be good!” You replied with a shaky voice, both hands lifting to the back of his head, fingers running through his strands and tugging on them. The tug was so sharp that Ben hissed and his thumb rubbed harder against your slick clit, his cock slotting itself deep inside your dripping pussy, kissing all the nooks and crannies of your gummy walls. 

His Adam's apple bobbed up and down as his hazel eyes lifted up to your face. “About to come, aren’t ya’?”, he asked before looking down at the mess you were creating on his cock.

“Fuck, if only you could see your little cunt squeezing me up. Bet she wants me to stay all the way inside.” He grunted, words perverted and disgusting as they hit your ears, but only made you clench harder. A warmth started to spread around your belly, your muscles burning as you felt your orgasm showing the tip of its nose. “Ben—Dad! Going to come, please!” You said, rectifying yourself before he denied your orgasm again.

His hand on your hip tightened, his thumb on your clit rubbed faster as your walls clenched once again. “That’s my fuckin’ girl. So polite, aren’t you, baby? Go on, come on dad’s cock, make a mess for me.” He hissed and it sufficed you. Your lips parted wider, pupils blown out as you looked at him. He never stopped the stimulation of your clit as you came down his cock; the orgasm was strong and violent. Your whole body squirmed and twitched, and you tried to push yourself away from him. “God, god! Too much, please!” You cried, but Ben only groaned, his hips thrusting up harder for his cock to hit your g-spot. Your upper body folded against his chest as you drooled.

Your brain was empty of thoughts as he kept fucking you, pace relentless, overstimulating you. The muscles of your thighs contracted, your pussy clenched hard. “Fuck, that’s it, sweet little cunt… M’going to fill her up, yeah?” You were unable to reply, saliva dampening the fabric of his suit that he hadn’t bothered taking off. His bulbous tip rubbed against your clenched gummy walls, hitting your sweet spot on purpose. Ben was completely overstimulating you now, his thumb never stopping the circles around your clit, keeping pleasure course through your body. 

You felt another type of warmth course through your body as Ben cursed, his eyes focused on your cunt—and suddenly, you were squirting all over his cock. He didn’t even seem surprised as he kept thrusting up, juices flowing out of you to drench his hairy cock, balls, hips and the leather of the couch. Loud squelching noises were created his cock thrusting in and out of your sloppy, dripping pussy. The essence coated your thighs, your bush and made it glisten, as Ben finally stilled inside your hole. “Here is it, baby, dad’s cum. All warm and ready for you.” He groaned at you.

His hips stopped moving, cock slotted all the way inside you as his thick, warm cum filled you up. His balls tightened, the muscles of his thighs clenching and you gasped; your body convulsing slightly as you felt his semen against your slick gummy walls, dripping back down to the base of Ben’s cock just to pool there after kissing your cervix.

Neither of you moved afterward, just breathing loudly before you watched the made-up soldier extend one arm to the side, grabbing a blunt from the side table, putting it between his lips. You’re about to move off of his lap but he looks up at you, shaking his head while lighting up the joint.

“Stay here. Your pussy’s warm, I like it. Want to watch my cum make a mess in your bush.” He just says, and you cough when he exhales the smoke toward your face, smirking. You can smell the weed from it, making you scrunch your nose.

“That felt good, uh? Bet ya’ liked calling me dad while I fucked you.” His words bring shame and embarrassment to you, but your sensitive walls clench around his cock without you realizing, feeling his semen slowly drip out of your hole. Ben hum then, smoking lazily on his blunt, looking at you with half-lidded eyes and a sweat-covered face. “You made a fuckin’ mess.”

You can only roll your eyes at his words, making his strong hand slap on the skin of your ass, the fat bouncing from his action. A gasp leaves your mouth at the sharp sting his hand leaves on your skin. “Hey, that’s so mean!” You voice at him but Ben only exhales more marijuana smoke toward you, making you cough.

“Don’t be fucking impolite, doll, or I’ll fold you in two on this couch and fuck your cunt until you beg me to stop.” 

The sun hit his face, bringing a golden hint to his hazel eyes as he looked away. A gush of heated wind brushed his hair away from his forehead and Dean squinted his eyes for a second, realizing that he was way more sleepy than he thought he was. Summer wasn’t his arch-nemesis but it was almost like, if you asked him. He shifted on his seat when seeing a shimmery light in the distance, like the neon of a bar or a motel, something he was clearly accustomed with. A sigh escaped his pouty lips and he ran a hand along his face. 

Not only was he tired but a migraine was starting to show the tip of its nose through his brain; the memories of the fight with Sam were still so close and he wished to forget them with a drink and maybe someone in his bed. He pressed his foot onto the accelerator pedal, the wind hitting his face but he didn’t seem to mind it much. Dean drove until he saw the flickering neon sign of the HOTEL CALIFORNIA; and if you asked him, this didn’t look like a hotel at all but more like an old chapel. The entrance looked like something along the lines of the Presidio Chapel of San Elizario he had seen in a book once. A capilla abierta was on the side, looking lonely and old, abandoned.

The buildings seemed to form a square, probably hiding a courtyard in its center. A few palm trees decorated the place, here and there but besides that, everything seemed to be empty. There were no other cars parked, nothing that could tell him how many residents the hotel had. 

He parked the Impala but didn’t get out immediately; his hazel eyes stopped on a shadow at the doorway, looming and almost waiting for him to come. His hands trembled on the steering-wheel for a second and Dean thought to himself. Is this a mirage? Is this Heaven or Hell? But there was no direct answer to those questions. So he only squirmed on his seat to roll all the windows up and grabbed his duffle bag from the passenger seat before jumping out of the Impala. His shoes hit the sandy ground as he walked toward the entrance of the hotel, but stopped half-way just to look around.

“What the fuck?” The cursed whisper escaped his lips as he realized the fact that the highway was empty of cars, the sun had settled down and it was getting dark outside. Dean knew better than to let go of his guard when it came to places he didn’t know, places that were eerie and in the middle of the desert just like that. But God, he needed sleep. So he turned back to the person that seemed to wait for him, the heel of his shoes hitting the wood of the stairs before he stopped at the porch, mouth opening to speak up.

“Have you had a nice drive?” Your voice interrupted his thoughts and he gave you a grin, seeing you push yourself from the doorway and closer to him. He didn’t know what to expect but everything was brushed off when you turned and grabbed a box of matchsticks from your pocket and a candle stick that was just waiting on the wooden floor. Dean hummed at your question, shrugging. “Sun’s been a piece of shit, but I managed. The bar’s open?” He asked back at you as you lit the candle. 

“Follow me, I’ll show you around. Your name?” You simply said back and nodded at him to follow you through the door. “Dean. Dean Winchester. You?” The interior was way different than what Dean had expected but then again, he didn’t expect much. Passing through the hotel entrance led directly on an enclosed colonial-style courtyard—intimate, sun-warmed, and quietly luxurious. “Just someone.” You voiced back. A door on the side was open, letting him see a desk, a bunch of keys and a man reading an old newspaper that didn’t seem to be on date.

They locked eyes and the man immediately looked pained, as if he didn’t want Dean here; as if the only thought of having someone new at the Hotel California was a nightmare for him. The hunter furrowed his eyebrows before looking away, absorbed with the hotel. He walked deeper into it, following you closely. 

The space was framed by two levels of soft rose-pink stucco walls, wrapped in elegant stone archways that ran the full perimeter. Each arch was supported by smooth gray columns, giving the whole courtyard a rhythmic, almost cathedral-like symmetry. Above, dark wooden beams lined the ceilings of the upper galleries, adding warmth and contrast against the pastel walls. Then, a multitude of dark wooden doors, both on the second and first floor, and a simple staircase just on the side. In the back, a larger and elegant open dark door gave another courtyard in symmetry to this one.

Dean realized he had never seen a prettiest hotel before—the one he rested at with Sam always seemed so gloomy and sad, like life had decided to not stop there. This was a change and yet… He felt his skin crawl at the back of his neck. Something was entirely wrong here, and he could feel it. His eyes kept looking around, taking every single detail. The floor was laid with small, pale cobblestones reflecting the candle lights from old oil lamps on the walls. At the center and along the edges, lush tropical plants—tall palms with wide, arching fronds—rose from large clay and stone planters, their leaves casting shifting shadows across the ground.

Scattered thoughtfully around the courtyard were woven rattan lounge chairs and low cushioned seats in neutral tones; cream, sand, and muted brown. Small round tables sat between them, suggesting quiet morning coffees, late afternoon conversations, or secret meetings held under the open air. The furniture felt light and airy, almost Mediterranean, blending effortlessly with the architecture. On the side, a bit recluse from the rest of the courtyard, was a wooden bar with a few stools. The barmaid seemed to have disappeared for the night, though.

Hanging greenery spilled gently from the upper balcony, softening the stone and giving the entire space a secluded, oasis-like feeling. It was the kind of place where sound echoes slightly with laughter drifting upward, heels tapping against stone, whispers carrying farther than intended. It made a smile appear on Dean’s face for a moment and he tightened his grip on his bag, wishing that Sam was here with him at that moment. 

When Dean broke out of his thoughts, you were having an animated conversation with the man inside the reception room. His hazel eyes squinted for a second, as if he was trying to read on your lips but God, he knew he couldn’t do that. He grunted and before he could walk closer, a voice echoed behind him. “Welcome to Hotel California.” Were the only words he heard but when Dean turned around, there was no one here. No one on the second floor, no one behind a door, no presence whatsoever. He ran his free hand through his hair, telling himself that he needed sleep.

You came back by his side, holding a key in your hand and the candle still in the other one. “Follow me, I got you a room down the corridor.” He hummed at you, and just followed when you started to walk again. Dean gave a final look to the receptionist, who was already looking at him. The heels of his shoes hit the cobblestone floor, feet dragging down a little from the tiredness he felt. 

As Dean crossed the courtyard behind you, his boot caught on something soft between the cobblestones. He glanced down, for a second—just a second—he thought it was fruit crushed into the cracks. Dark, pulped and seeping like a pomegranate. But when he blinked, it was only shadow pooled in the grooves. Still, something clung to the sole of his shoe. When he scraped it lightly against the stone while walking, it left behind a faint smear, brownish-red and glistening before it sank into the cracks like the ground had swallowed it whole.

Soon enough, you stopped at a door and turned to give the keys to Dean, the hunter lifting his eyes to you. “Breakfast is served in the courtyard at 9.” And you walked away, not giving him the attention he seemed to want for the night.

Dean’s hazel eyes stayed on your retreating figure for a moment; he couldn’t help himself but lower his orbs at your curves, humming to himself before finally looking away when you passed the door of the second courtyard and disappeared into the night. Then, he pushed the key into the lock and opened the door—the interior of this one had nothing to do with the colorful and inviting exterior. It was dark and gloomy, with the strict minimum; a bed, an old TV straight from the 80s, a bedtable with a phone, a small closet and a door that probably gave way to a bathroom.

Dean scoffed as he saw that, but it would do. This wasn’t the worst for him; he had slept multiple times inside the Impala before, or even on the floor of an old motel to let Sam sleep on a bed when they were younger. He ended up by entering the room, threw his bag around, kicked his shoes off and fell on the mattress, face in the pillow.

The whole room smelled like flowers—but not the type that made him think of joyous things. No, the smell was more like Lilies, known as a harbinger of misfortune or even yellow Roses that Dean knew as omens of ill fortune too. 

Lilies and the unmistakable fragrance that is both sweet and subtle; sweet and floral with a hint of spice and citrus. The smell hit his nostril and he coughed once, twice; was it rot? He sniffed, looking around for a bouquet, but he saw none. The overbearing smell of rot then came back; musty, pungent, almost mushroom-like. The hunter knew the difference between dry and wet rot, but at the moment, there was no distinction. He almost gagged at it, bringing his forearm to his nose, but when he sniffed again, the odor had simply disappeared from the room.

He was half-tempted to get out of the room and ask for a second one but his eyelids were starting to get heavy, suddenly. A yawn escaped his mouth, arms stretching up with shoulder bones popping. He thought about Sam, about Castiel, about the hunt he was driving for; a pack of werewolves.

And it was on those thoughts that he fell asleep, not even thinking of checking his phone or moving under the covers. 

There was a knock on the door, sharp; feeling like nails scratching on old wood. It broke the hunter from his sleep, a hum escaping his mouth when he nuzzled the pillow under his head. His hazel eyes fluttered open and he immediately pushed himself up from the bed, all alert and ready for danger. When Dean realized that he was still in that motel bed, his muscles relaxed and he sighed before running a hand through his disheveled hair. “M’coming!” He groaned, standing up.

He was still groggy, feet not following the movement of his heavy body and he hit his toes in the bedtable. A curse left his mouth, he closed his hand in a fist like this would help him. When he ended up opening the door, you were here; but now he could see your face better with the sun so high in the sky. Why was the sun so high in the sky?

“It’s two in the afternoon. You overslept.” Your voice spoke and Dean’s eyes blinked, jaw gaping for a second before he turned to look at the clock on top of the bedtable. No surprise, 2:21p.m, was showing. “Jeez… I really needed that sleep.” He spoke to himself before turning his head back to you. “Uh, sorry. I guess breakfast’s not on the menu anymore.” His expression was sheepish, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “No breakfast anymore, but we are having brunch in the courtyard.” You offered, head nodding to the large open door that gave to the other side of the motel.

Dean only looked at you—eyes focused on your facial expression and how you held yourself. Of course he had seen how pretty you were yesterday, even though the sun had fallen and the sky had gotten dark back then. There was no mistake; you were beautiful. But now, with the sun high, the sky blue and the heat back to the day, you were mesmerizing. He blinked his thoughts away and hummed. “Yeah, need some food. I’ll take a shower and uh… join you guys.” You only nodded at his words before turning on your heels and walked away. 

He was ready to close that door when the same voice from yesterday was heard. “Welcome to Hotel California.” Dean immediately turned his head to the open space, but no one was standing there. His eyebrows furrowed and he took one step out of the motel room; sure that someone was fucking with him. But that wasn’t the case, and he brushed it away: hoping he wasn’t going insane already.

It was only after a shower and too much time in front of the mirror to make sure his hair was in the right places that Dean got out of his motel room, looking around until he spotted you talking to a pretty boy. He closed and locked the door, key in hand as he approached you after making sure he had his phone in his pocket and a gun hidden in his back. He was still a hunter, after all. 

The boy only gazed toward him as Dean approached before giving you one last look that seemed to be a warning before he stepped away. Only then, when it was only you, did Dean hear the melody of a vinyl player and Fly Me to the Moon echoed in the air. But it wasn’t the Frank Sinatra version, but the voice of Kaye Ballard. He hummed quietly, remembering hearing this voice back when Mary was alive and Sam was nothing but a baby. 

He stopped in his steps after standing next to you, his eyes taking over the courtyard and he realized the hotel had more passengers than he thought, with at least fifteen people around. Some couples danced to the song, a few people were talking and laughing together like they had known each other forever. 

Some of them seemed to be directly from other decades; one woman was wearing a flapper dress and a cloche hat, while a man wore what seemed to be a slim-fitting Italian-cut suit with narrow lapels and Chelsea boots. Dean wondered if it was a special occasion and he had intruded. 

The sun was high in the sky, making him sweat even though he had made no efforts to do so. “Some dance to remember, some dance to forget.” Your voice made his eyes shift to look at your face. You were focusing on the people dancing, slowly waltzing around with smiles on their faces. A middle aged man walked past you, hands brushing at your waist before pressing a fat kiss on your cheek, talking in a low tone. “Hey, darlin’, it’s nice to see you out.” Dean only heard before you started a conversation with said-man, the brightest smile on your face. 

It only lasted a few minutes before the man walked away to meet a woman on the courtyard made-up dancefloor. The hunter’s hazel eyes glazed at your expression before clearing out his throat. “You have a lot of pretty boys around?” He asked, cursing at himself at the tone of his words. Your eyes shifted to focus on him a second before looking away, again. “I call them my friends.” You shrugged and stepped forward, leaving Dean behind, eyebrows furrowed. 

His hand moved to grab the phone in his pocket; he thought Sam deserved to have some news, just in case. Because one little fight wouldn’t change the fact that Dean still cared for his brother.

His expression became bewildered when there was no data signal showing. Yeah, he was in the middle of the desert and then some, but no data? That was mildly suspicious. “There’s no use, lovely, you won’t get any calls in here.” A voice broke him out of his stupor and he blinked up, just to see a woman that seemed to be straight out of the 80s standing in front of him. Her hair was bright ginger, curls that fell on her forehead, a pretty brown skin that glowed under the sun and big eyes that looked at him like he was the new attraction around.

“What d’ya mean? There’s no data?” He asked back with confusion. The woman smiled at him, shaking her head like it was cute that he didn’t understand yet. “Nope. Some of us haven’t heard anything about the outside world for decades.” The words escaping her mouth made Dean chuckle, until he realized she wasn’t joking at all.

“In decades? Like… You guys have been living here? No one ever left the place, or what?” His shoulders squared like he was prepared for something he didn’t understand yet. The woman didn’t reply to those words and simply turned her back to him, walking away. He was half-tempted to follow her and get answers to his questions but he did none. Dean just thought, thought and thought until his brain was burning inside his head. 

There was something entirely wrong with this place and the Winchester man was starting to believe, finally, that he wasn’t going insane. He slapped the back of the phone in his palm before pushing it back in his pocket, deciding that a drink wouldn’t do bad. He excused himself, passing through the couples waltzing until his feet took him to the wooden bar; he remembered seeing the same one when he arrived. There, a man wearing an old barman uniform from what seemed to be the 20s was making Martini’s. 

Dean sat down on one of the wooden stools (so uncomfortable that he hissed), and observed the man behind the counter. He was wearing a crisp white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, with a small black bow-tie at his collar. Around his waist was a long white apron tied neatly, falling about mid-calf. It was paired with dark trousers and polished black dress shoes. 

“Can I get you something, Sir?” The barman ended up asking and Dean hummed. “A beer, thanks.” He waved his hand like to say I don’t mind the brand. A scoff escaped from the man behind the counter, his hands moving as he wiped a glass. “Sorry, we haven’t had that spirit since 1969.” Dean straightened on his bar stool, looking at the man like he had grown another head before he scoffed and ran a hand through his hair. “A glass of Whisky then, on the rocks.” The bartender nodded before preparing the drink. 

The burning hot sun of California’s Mojaves desert was making Dean overwhelmed already but his thoughts took another turn as he saw you come back his ways. You now wore a shawl around your shoulders; a piece of clothing that seemed to have seen better days. 

A quiet thud made the hunter thank the barman as the drink appeared in front of him on the wooden bar. Hazel eyes moved to your figure once more when you stopped and sat on the stool next to Dean’s. “You look pale,” you murmured at one point, your thumb brushing lightly over the crease between his brows. “The heat does that… Makes people imagine things.”

“I’m not imagining the smell,” Dean shot back, quieter than he meant to be. You tilted your head, almost pitying. “Smell?” The breeze shifted and for a fleeting second, the air was clean—sun-warmed stone and citrus from somewhere unseen. No rot, no lilies, just summer. “See?” you whispered gently at him like trying to explain something that made sense only for you. “You’re just tired.”

And the worst part was, for half a heartbeat, he almost believed you.

“I supposed you will be leaving today?” You asked him then, but the tone of your voice hid something deeper now.

Dean took a sip of his Whisky on the rocks before hissing. “Nah. Summer afternoons make me feel angsty. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.” He said, focusing his eyes on you. His lips parted to add a few words when the murmurs started again. “Welcome to Hotel California, plenty of room at the Hotel—” Dean turned around vigorously on his stool, alert and eyes wide. He felt the pumping of blood through his veins, the beating of his heart inside his chest, the tingling down his legs. The grip he had on the glass tightened and his knuckles became white.

“Dean?” He heard you call, freckled face pale as he turned it back to you. His eyebrows furrowed as if he didn’t understand why you seemed to be so calm. “You didn’t hear that?” He expressed, voice paralyzed by the slight fear he felt a few seconds ago. But the thing was… Dean is a hunter. He shouldn’t be afraid of people talking around. Of people fucking with him. When your own eyebrows furrowed, he gulped. “Heard what? The wind?” You asked him, body shifting forward like you were waiting for something.

“No, nothin’. The sun is hitting hard.” Dean only replied, protecting himself from any judgments you could have. He chuckled, brushing it off before porting the Whisky glass to his lips once more. “You should drink water, maybe.” A silence fell between the two of you after that; heavy, sun-driven, and the minutes passed like that. Dean’s hazel eyes on your face and you looking at the people of the courtyard; the vinyl softly echoing in the air. Discs were changed as time flew, as the sun slowly settled down on the earth and the oil lamps of the motel illuminated the space. Whiskey and wine were served, a buffet that Dean was glad to see.

The hunter’s laugh had resonated in the air when the woman in the flapper dress had pulled him to a dance, swirling with him around. People clapped him on the back afterward, someone cheered with alcohol, you had even bumped your shoulder with him. Dean thought that if he hadn’t the life he currently had, maybe one like that wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could dream about this; about this place, about those people, about you. Maybe he didn’t have to think about damnation, about Hell, about burning in the fire of the pit for eternity.

The vinyl crackled as the song shifted, but Dean could’ve sworn it was the same one playing. The woman in the flapper dress laughed again—the exact same laugh as a minute ago, breathy and sharp at the end like it snagged on something invisible. He blinked, and the couple waltzing near the archway had rotated back to where they’d started, her heel landing on the same pale cobblestone. The sun hadn’t dipped any lower but it pressed against his skull, unmoving, heavy and watchful.

Another man clapped him on the shoulder in congratulations after the dance, the sound echoing too loud in the open air. Dean turned to grin back at him but the man was already across the courtyard, laughing with someone else like he’d never moved. The spot on Dean’s shoulder still tingled. He rubbed at it slowly, eyes scanning the courtyard. The bar now seemed farther away than before or maybe the tables had shifted. He couldn’t tell. The palms rustled overhead without wind.

He checked his phone without thinking: 6:17p.m. The battery was lower than it should’ve been and he didn’t remember using it. When he looked back up, the couple near the archway were still dancing except the record had stopped spinning. The needle dragged in a soft, endless hiss but no one around seemed to notice and the hunter brushed it off.

The time passed too fast for his liking after that, it was now night after the blink of an eye. He couldn’t remember the last gestures, the last words, the last smiles that had happened. Like his head had become all hazy, or if he just had a nap. But it wasn’t the case, and Dean told himself it was probably just the summer sun playing tricks on him again. There was still no data but his phone now showed 10:43p.m when he entered his motel room for the night, closing the door behind himself. 

The smell from the night before hit him again—thicker this time. Not just rot, but something sweet tangled inside it. More lilies. Funeral lilies. The kind that sat too long beside polished wood and grief-stricken families. It curled into his lungs, syrupy and suffocating. Beneath it was dampness, mold blooming somewhere unseen, like the walls themselves were sweating decay. He swallowed hard, but the sweetness clung to the back of his throat. It tasted like something that had already died.

He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging under the weight of his tired body. For a moment, he stilled; hands on his knees, head thrown to the ceiling but a sigh escaped him. Dean finished by moving and he pulled his phone from his jeans pocket. His fingers were quick as they typed on the keyboard. 

DEAN to SAM. Hey, just wanted to send this. I’m okay. In a cool motel right now.  FAILURE TO DELIVER.

Dean sighed at the message showing back on his screen as he tried to text his baby brother, but then again, what did he expect? The thought of it all seemed strange to him but he didn’t dwell too much on it, only moved his body to rest the phone on the bedtable. His feet moved and he kicked his shoes off, not caring as to where they would land. The mattress groaned under him as he laid down, eyes to the ceiling. 

The temperature inside the room was perfect—he was surprised. The motel didn’t seem equipped with air conditioners, nor did it look new. It was on those stupid thoughts that Dean’s eyes closed and he fell asleep like that; wearing his clothes, hands under his head and eyebrows slightly furrowed. The sound of cicadas outside was his lullaby. 

But that didn’t last long: Dean was awakened by a loud gasp coming from his own throat, muscles aching and heart pumping inside his chest like a storm ready to destroy anything on its passage. His back was sweaty and so was his forehead and his neck. Eyes alert, pupils blown out, cheeks red. He looked around like a panther searching for prey, but nothing was giving him the impression of being in danger. His calloused hands gripped at the covers under his body and for a second—but what seemed to be eternity—his mouth pooled with saliva.

He swore he heard that voice again. “Welcome to Hotel California. Such a lovely place.” Dean wondered if it had only been in his dream or if someone had entered the motel room he was residing in. His whole body moved, muscles aching and trembling as he sat up, hands grabbing the gun that had been hidden behind his back. He didn’t feel safe at that moment; and it was worse than any hallucinations from before. His back hit the headboard after that, and he inhaled through his mouth.

The hunter swore he heard footsteps outside his room a few times as he stayed awake; but the only gush of wind through the dark was enough to make him paranoid. Visions from the corner of his eyes, bugs on his arms, thoughts that didn’t only belong to himself. Dean was now sure of one thing; this place wasn’t the paradise it seemed to be. There was something entirely wrong with the motel, and he needed to leave this place as soon as he could.

So when the sun started to show the tip of its nose at 5:45a.m, he was already on his feet. He was too shaken up to even think of taking a shower, but changed clothes, washed his face and his shoes were back on. Dean moved through the room, glad that he didn’t have taken things out of his bag. He grabbed his jacket from the floor, grabbed his phone from the bedtable and turned to the door. Though, his eyes caught on the clock on the wooden nightstand where 9:53a.m was now showing.

The hunter’s body stopped straight, a tickling sensation down his spine when his fingers pulled his phone back out to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating again. But he wasn’t, and his screen showed the same time as the clock. It wasn’t possible because Dean was sure it had been at least 5:47a.m when he had started to move around the room. There was no way in Hell four hours had passed by the blink of his eyes, no way in Hell he couldn’t remember what had happened a few minutes ago. And while those thoughts hit his brain, he remembered the evening before, in the courtyard.

How time had seemed to pass so differently than what he was used to, and how the people around hadn’t seemed to be surprised by that. Like they were used to the shift of space.

All of this was pushed away in his mind when a sharp knock on the door made Dean blink. His hand immediately grabbed the gun that was hidden underneath his shirt once more; his grip firm and unforgiving. His free hand moved toward the doorknob before a voice was heard behind the wood. “Dean?” It was you. It was always you, he decided. The shadow that had made him park the Impala, the temptation of the devil, the apple in Eden’s garden. 

He lowered his gun before opening the door, just ajar to see your face and for you to see his own. “Yeah?” His voice was tight, eyebrows furrowed like he suddenly could see through you. See through who you really were. “We are having breakfast in the master’s chambers.” Your voice was light but demanding, like you wouldn’t let him escape this. Like guarding him in your cocoon was the safest thing you could do for him, the safest thing you could offer to someone like Dean. 

The door was pushed as he appeared in front of you, almost sweaty and disheveled. “Thanks but I have to drive for a few hours, it’s best if I leave now.” He tried to excuse himself, hand carefully hiding the gun behind his back. “You’ll need a bit of sugar for that trip. The sun is hitting hard today.” You voiced back at him, not giving him the choice to refuse the opportunity of a breakfast and something in his stomach. Dean grumbled under his breath, hands shaking as he grabbed his bag back and his jacket before following after you.

The slam of the door closing behind his back made him jump; you were already walking away to realize how jumpy the hunter was now. He followed your steps to the stairs that bring you to the second floor, his hazel eyes all wide as he looked around. The master’s chambers was the last door of the floor, the door open to let a low level of music escape the room. Once more, the space was filled with residents of the hotel; a buffet on a long table and chairs all along it.

The mirrors on the ceiling caught his attention next; they weren’t placed for vanity—they were positioned like watchful eyes. The reflection looking back at him felt higher somehow, distant. The chandelier above the long table resembled a crown of thorns when he squinted, twisted metal casting jagged shadows across the walls. The buffet stretched long and ceremonial, like an altar laid out for offering. Pink champagne in crystal flutes shimmered under the light like diluted blood. And everyone sat as though waiting for communion.

The longer he stood in that room, the more it felt like something had already been decided. The residents watched him the way mourners watch a casket being lowered; solemn, expectant, almost reverent. A fork scraped porcelain somewhere, slow and deliberate, like dirt hitting wood. “You’re safe here,” someone said from the far end of the table. Safe. The word echoed wrong, like being buried was safe from storms.

You pushed Dean inside the room, leaving the door open for more light. Inside, the warmth was on the roof and Dean immediately felt the sweat trickle down his neck, his hands becoming damp. It was harder to breathe in this space but he wondered if it had anything to do with the summer sun or his anxiety that begged him to leave, running. He felt a hand on his back slowly lowering him to a chair, he lifted his eyes to see you as you sat next to him. The voices were overlapping, laughters and whispers. A few glances his ways made him even more jumpy.

The laughter in the master’s chambers rose and fell in strange waves, like it was rehearsed. A woman across the table tilted her head back to laugh—and held it there a second too long, throat exposed, mouth open, no sound coming out. The man beside her nodded at something no one had said, nodding and nodding and nodding until Dean felt dizzy watching him. Forks lifted in perfect unison around the table, but none of them ever seemed to pierce the food. The motion repeated; lift, pause, lower, smile and repeat.

A couple near the far end of the table sat too close together, their shoulders pressed tight, unmoving. They hadn’t blinked once since Dean entered the room. He noticed because he had to. He was counting now—breaths, blinks, movements, about anything to anchor himself. 

“We are all just prisoners of our own devices.” The sentence made him turn his head back to you, and his hazel eyes swiftly shifted on your face, trying to grab at all the features he hadn’t truly seen before. The tiredness in your eyes, the slight twitch of one of your eyelids; the pain, the fear you seemed to carry around like an armor. Dean hadn’t seen deeper than your beauty when his eyes paused on you, that first night. “I wonder: what’s yours?” You added to him after a second of silence and his eyebrows furrowed.

A cold took over Dean’s body when he looked around again, truly seeing the scene in the master’s chambers. The smell hit him first—rot, sweat, sex. A reflex made him gag quietly when he saw the rotten food and fruits on the table, flies flying around like lions ready for their prey. Bottles of alcohol with moldy liquids inside, patches of white and green like decoration. But to everyone else around, nothing seemed to be out of place, like it was their usual routine. Dean had smelled death before; it had been his job to hunt all kinds of creatures; but the smell in this room was something he had never known before.

“You can’t kill this beast, Dean.” The touch of your hand on his made him recoil, like he had been burned down to his bones. Eyes glared at him, residents fixating on him like they were waiting for a miracle. “What the fuck is happening here?” The words echoed out of his mouth as he gulped, bile on the bottom of his throat. All he wanted was to bolt out of this chair, grab his bag and get the fuck out of this place. He needed to get back to Sam. He had to get back to Sam, now. The feeling of danger coursed through his veins, making his heart pump inside his chest.

His hazel eyes glared at your face and all you could do was shake your head at him, as if you could hear his thoughts. “Welcome to Hotel California.” A voice spurred from behind his back, making him shiver. It was the same voice he had heard when he arrived here, through the corridors, the voice that had woken him up during the night. Dean’s head turned slowly, eyes wide open.

The silhouette of a man rested at the doorway; one he hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting him before. A gelled hairstyle, a trimmed mustache, a three-piece suit with a tie, a cane in his left hand. and all Dean remembered was running for the door, bag in hand. When the man with the cane smiled from the doorway, the shadows behind him stretched tall and narrow, forming something almost halo-shaped—if halos were made of smoke. The cane tapped once against the floor, sharp and deliberate, like a gavel in a church that had forgotten its God.

All Dean remembered was running for the door, bag in hand. He could have taken his gun out, threatened for an explanation, demanded what was happening here. But the danger he felt was stronger at that moment, his body and brain begging him to leave the place. That’s what he did; boots stomping down as he ran down the stairs, your voice loud as you called him from the second floor. 

The staircase felt longer going down than it had going up. His boots hit more steps than he remembered climbing. He counted without meaning to: twelve, fourteen, seventeen. When he reached the bottom and glanced back for a second, there were only twelve. A door along the courtyard wall stood slightly ajar, he didn’t remember seeing it before. Inside was only darkness—not shadow, not a room but the emptiness that made a cold run down his back. He stared a second too long, and the door eased shut on its own with a soft click, like a mouth closing, eating on the darkness.

“Dean! Dean!” You cried out but he didn’t stop, not even to look above his shoulders. It didn’t matter; you didn’t matter, because all Dean wanted was to get back to Sammy. Because if he didn’t, what would his baby brother think? What would Sam ever believe, if Dean never came back without any explanation?

They had separated for a few days on a stupid fight, Dean had left for a hunt all alone. He hadn’t been able to use his phone since he got to the motel, not able to tell Sam what was going on. And if something happened to him, if Sam thought his brother just left…? Dean couldn’t deal with that. He had to get home to his brother and make sure Sam knew their fight had been nothing but stupid. He had to make sure Sam knew there was nothing more important in this world than him. That nothing could break their bond, not even death.

The force of a grab on his shoulders made Dean’s body stop in its course, a groan leaving his mouth as he turned around, his gun now glued to his hands as he lifted it up. The barrel of his gun met the forehead of the three-piece suit man that had previously been in the master’s chambers. Dean’s breathing was labored, eyes squinting as he looked at him. His thumb moved to undo the safety, index on the trigger but the man in front of the weapon only smiled; like nothing would happen. Like he was sure Dean wouldn’t do anything. “Relax,” said the man. “We are programmed to receive. You can check-out anytime you’d like, but you can never leave.” The words made bile burning in the back of the hunter’s throat, his stomach lurching. 

This couldn’t be true—this was just a nightmare from the sun hitting too hard on the back of his neck. “Shut the fuck up!” He ended up screaming, pushing the barrel of the gun harder against the other man’s forehead before he groaned, and took a few steps back. When Dean backed away, heart hammering, the man with the cane sighed softly; not annoyed, not even angry at Dean’s attitude. “Everyone arrives the same way,” he said. “Confused and still clinging.”

“Clinging to what?” Dean demanded, jaw tight. The man’s smile widened just enough to show too much gum and what seemed to be rotten teeth.

“To the idea that they were meant to leave.”

Dean only threw his bag back on his shoulders before he passed through the arch that gave on the reception room and the main entrance, leaving the man behind memories. A few steps were enough for him to leave this hell-ish nightmare but a voice made him stop. “Dean! Wait—” You appeared, eyes all wide and hands shaking. “You can’t leave.”

He scoffed at those words, not even turning his head to you. No one on this Earth could stop him from going home to his brother, to Castiel, to his life. “Watch me, because I’m sure as Hell ain’t going to die in this place.” He simply voiced back at you before his hand closed on the doorknob and he pushed the white door open. His body stopped straight when the sun in the sky met his pupils; the burning sun of California’s Mojave’s desert hitting his face.  The sunlight beyond the doorway was wrong; too bright, too flat, like a painted backdrop in an old Western.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it, the most important was to take Baby and drive far away from this place. He could see the shape of the highway, the shimmer of heat rising off asphalt, the silhouette of the Impala waiting faithful and black against the desert. Relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled and the air shifted, thick as syrup. The sound of cicadas cut off mid-cry. His hand brushed the doorframe as he crossed it but when his boot met the ground, it wasn’t gravel. It was cobblestone. The courtyard opened before him again, exactly as it had been with the same angle of sun, same couple turning beneath it, same laugh snagging in the air.

Dean gasped sharply, breath coming faster. The door behind him still showed desert—endless and golden and free. He could see his car, he could almost feel the steering wheel under his palms. He reached for it again, stepped through.

Cobblestone, laughter, vinyl hiss again.

It didn’t make any sense. His hazel eyes lifted up to see you, you hadn’t moved one inch but Dean was now facing you instead of giving you his back. “No—No, what the fuck? What the fuck is that?” He hissed, turning his body back to the door, passing through it one more time. He ended up coming back to his previous position, facing you. “Fuckin’ hell, let me go!” Only then, he watched as you walked closer to him, taking the same to see the expression on your face. “Dean… I told you, you can’t leave.” The hunter shook his head at the words, only realizing what they truly meant now. 

His bag hit the floor in a dull thud, his breathing fastening, pupils blown out. He felt like his body was letting go; he couldn’t feel the tip of his fingers nor his tongue in his mouth. Warmth coursed through his body, but not the summery, soft one. This warmth was burning him alive, closing around his heart and expanding in his chest like he had never sensed before. Your cold hands on his cheeks brought him back into his body. “It’s going to be alright, Dean. Everything will be alright now.” You spoke and his orbs lowered to look at the skin of your forehead, like he couldn’t meet your eyes.

“You don’t understand, I have to go back home. I have to go back to my baby brother.” He whispered at you but you only shook your head at his words. Your palms cradled his face, fingers on his cheekbones. “We are your family now, Dean. You’ll see… Time passes so differently here but you won’t even remember your brother after a few days.” The sentences coming out of your mouth made him gag, and his body curled toward yours. His head hid in your neck, hands trembling that tugged on the shawl you wore around your shoulders. He didn’t seem to cry, but his lips parted to let a gasp escape before he spoke once more.

“But I have to get back to Sammy… I have to tell him I’m sorry.”

Your expression softened with something almost like pity. “You did already,” you whispered and Dean wondered what that meant. He couldn’t remember talking to his brother all the while he had been here.

He tried to picture Sam’s face clearly. Not the way he looked two days ago, or last week, but young. Gap-toothed, too-big-for-his-body, clutching a cereal box at some motel table. The image slipped like oil between his fingers. He could see Sam’s mouth moving, hear the cadence of his voice but the words wouldn’t come. The reason for their fight felt distant, blurred at the edges.

Sammy.

That was right.

Wasn’t it?

It was on those final words that Dean heard the low and soft melody of a vinyl being played in the courtyard; the same song he had heard the day prior. The chatters of voice from the residents, the clicking of knives and forks, ice being broken inside the barman’s shaker. The sun was high in the summer sky, heat making clothes stick to sweaty skin, shoes and heels hitting the concrete as couples and people danced around. A joke or two being made, champagne being served in flute glasses. And in his ear, the softest voice of them all, murmuring words.

“Welcome to Hotel California.”

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He was seated in the high-backed chair like it was the Iron Throne itself, legs spread wide, breeches shoved down just enough. His cock stood thick and flushed, veins ridged under pale skin, the head already slick from your spit and the bead of precum you’d lapped at earlier like an obedient little thing.

Now it was buried to the root in your throat, stretching your lips into a wide, obscene 'O' around him. Every time you tried to pull back for air he simply tightened his grip and pushed you down harder until your nose was mashed against the coarse silver hair at his groin.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, voice ragged. “There it is. That’s the spot, sweetling. Feel how your throat flutters when you choke on me?”

You made a broken, wet gag noise around his length and your hands scrabbled uselessly at the muscled thighs bracketing your face. Nails digging crescent moons into his skin. He didn’t mind the sting. If anything it made his hips twitch forward another cruel inch, forcing you to take him deeper until your esophagus spasmed and your eyes rolled back for a heartbeat.

He groaned, head tipping back against the carved wood. The fire in the hearth snapped and threw gold across the room, painting stripes of heat over his bare chest, catching in the short platinum strands that stuck to his sweat-damp forehead.

Dragons ran hot. Always had. Right now he felt like he was burning from the inside out, every nerve lit up where your tongue was pinned flat beneath him, where the soft, slick walls of your throat milked him with every helpless swallow.

“Look at you,” he murmured, dragging his gaze back down. He used the hand not tangled in your hair to thumb across your cheekbone, smearing the tears sideways. “Crying like a virgin on her wedding night, like you didn't already have my cock in every hole I could fit it in. Pathetic.”

Your lashes fluttered. Another choked sound vibrated down his shaft and straight into his balls.

Fuck, that. He wanted more of that.

He rolled his hips in a slow grind, not thrusting, just stirring himself inside your throat so you could feel every thick inch dragging against the tight ring of muscle that kept trying, and failing, to push him out. Your pulse hammered against the underside of his cock; he could feel it, like a trapped bird.

“Breathe.through.your.nose,” he ordered, voice dropping into something almost gentle, except for the way his thumb hooked into the corner of your stretched mouth and pulled your lip down farther, exposing more of the glistening shaft disappearing between your lips. “You know how I like it. Slow. Deep. No rushing. You’re not some dockside whore I can fuck stupid in five minutes. You’re my wife. And my wife take what I give her until I decide she’ve earned the next breath.”

Your whole body shuddered. Your shoulders jerked, dry heave you couldn’t complete with him lodged so far, and fresh tears spilled over. But you didn’t fight. Not really.

Instead your hands slid up his thighs until your fingertips brushed the sharp jut of his hipbones, then higher, palms flattening against the taut muscle of his abdomen like you were trying to anchor yourself. Trying to please him even while you drowned.

Aerion’s lips curled. A vicious smile that showed too many teeth. “Good girl,” he purred. “That’s it... Hold it just a little longer.”

He counted the seconds in his head. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Your face had gone from flushed to mottled red, veins standing out at your temples, lips swollen and shiny with spit that kept dribbling down your chin in thin silver strings. At thirty your eyes started to lose focus, pupils blown wide, and a low, helpless whine buzzed around his cock. Only then did he ease back. One long, slick inch. Then another. Until only the fat head rested on your tongue and you could drag in a huge, wrecked gasp through your nose.

You coughed once, wet and ugly, strings of saliva snapping between your lips and his tip. Your chest heaved. More tears. Always more tears. Aerion tilted his head, studying you like you were some rare artifact he’d just pried out of a tomb.

“Again,” he said simply.

Your eyes snapped up to his, you didn’t speak, just stared at him while your tongue flicked out instinctively to lap at the slit, chasing the salt and musk that had leaked while you’d been choking.

He laughed once, short and mean. “Don’t look at me like that, sweet sister. I know you like that too. You're not as subtle as you think.”

He reached down and dragged two fingers along your jaw, then lower, tracing the line of your throat where he could still see the faint bulge his cock had left. “Open wider, love. We’re nowhere near finished."

‎

ׄ 　۪ 𓂃 final notes : for someone who hates blowjobs, this seems decent, right? 😰 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 2026 , ‎ ‎dolcefloral 𓂃　۪ ׄ

He leaned one elbow on the window frame and tilted his head. “You coming, or do I have to dramatically perish in this parking spot?”

You blinked, looking at the hood of the black van. “Did you paint hearts on your van?”

“They’re anatomically accurate.” He paused. “Sort of, I think...” You walked closer, squinting at the hood. “Art, that one has fangs.” He grinned, slow and proud. “Love bites.”

You laughed, the kind that fogged in the air. He softened immediately at the sound, that always happened; you’d noticed it early on: the way his posture shifted when you smiled, the way the sharp edges rounded off. “You look nice,” you said as you opened the passenger door. He scoffed lightly. “I always look nice.”

“You look extra nice.” He tried not to preen, but damn, it failed.

You climbed in, and the inside of the van smelled faintly like leather, clove cigarettes, and something sweeter... vanilla? Cinnamon? You glanced at him suspiciously. “Are you wearing cologne?”

“It’s called Eternal Nightfall.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.

“It smells like a bakery.” He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I panicked.” You reached over and brushed a strand of hair from his face. “I like it.” He froze for half a second like he still hadn’t quite adjusted to being touched gently and then leaned subtly into your hand before starting the van.

“Good,” he said quietly. “I bought it because you said you liked warm smells.” You stared at him but he kept his eyes on the road, trying to look focused. Your heart did a small, traitorous flip at his words.

He wouldn’t tell you where you were going.

Every time you asked, he’d shake his head and say, “No spoilers, this is curated and super carefully orchestrated. I have a vision.”

“Should I be worried?”

“I don't think so.” That did not reassure you.

Twenty minutes later, he parked in front of an old industrial building on the edge of town—brick exterior, dim lights glowing from the inside. You looked at him. “This looks like a murder documentary setting.”

He gasped at you, eyes wide, scandalized. “First of all, rude. Second of all, it’s romantic.” You squinted at the flickering neon sign above the door.

It read: MIDNIGHT REQUIEM – ONE NIGHT ONLY.

You turned to him slowly, recognizing the name of a small metal band Art had befriended a few months ago. “Art?”

“Yes?”

“Is this… a metal concert?” He smiled like a cat who’d just knocked something over on purpose.

“Valentine’s Day special, all love songs.”

You blinked. “Metal has love songs?” He leaned closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “You’d be surprised.” Inside, the venue wasn’t crowded, it was intimate; dim red lights bathed the space, black streamers hung from exposed pipes, candles—actual candles lined the small stage.

And on the back wall, projected in gothic lettering: FOR THE LOVERS & THE LOST.

You turned to him again, eyes wide He shifted awkwardly, suddenly less confident. “I... uh... rented it out.”

“You what?” Your eyes shifted back to the space, not seeing anyone else but the band at the back of the room, doing their own things. You were alone with Art. “For tonight, just for a few hours. It’s mostly acoustic and stripped-down versions.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Figured you might like something quieter.”

Your throat tightened. “You rented out a venue.”

He chuckled at you, shrugging. “Yeah, well. Don’t make it weird, it's like super romantic.” You stepped closer to him, staring up at his face; at the eyeliner, at the bright blue eyes, the faint nervous crease between his brows. “You did this for me?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Because I don’t really like loud concerts.” He nodded at your words, lifting a hand to brush a strand of his hair away from his face. “And you remembered that.” You added.

“Of course I remembered that,” he said softly, almost offended. “You think I don’t listen to you?” The sincerity in his voice made your chest ache. Before you could respond, soft guitar chords filled the room. One of his friends gave him a subtle nod from the stage.

Art looked at you. “You ready?”

“For what?”

“For the most aggressively tender night of your life.”

You laughed and he took your hand. The music was nothing like you expected, it was heavy, yes, but slow; emotional, deep, resonant chords layered beneath lyrics about devotion and longing and dark, dramatic promises of eternal loyalty. You didn’t understand every word, but you understood the feeling.

Art stood behind you at one point, arms wrapped loosely around your waist as you both swayed. “This one,” he murmured into your hair, “is about loving someone so much it ruins you.” You tilted your head back to look at him. “That’s comforting.”

He smirked faintly. “It’s romantic.” You turned fully in his arms. “Is that how you feel?” You asked him, and he didn’t joke this time. His fingers tightened slightly at your waist. His gaze sharpened, not harsh, but intense.

“I feel like,” he said slowly, carefully, “before you, everything was loud all the time. And now it’s… different. Still loud but not in a bad way, more like—” He searched for the word. “Grounded,” you offered.

His eyes softened. “Yeah, grounded.” Your hands slid up his chest, over the black fabric of his shirt. “You’re grounded?”

“Don’t ruin it.” You smiled at him, all softness and understanding.

“You make me better,” he admitted, almost under his breath. You felt it—that familiar flutter. That quiet awe he seemed to carry around you. “You make me braver,” you replied to him. He blinked, feeling a bit surprised at the word you used.

“Braver?”

“I wouldn’t be here if not for you,” you said. “I wouldn’t try new things, I wouldn’t listen to music outside my comfort zone, I wouldn’t…” You hesitated for a second. “Open up the way I do.” Art’s jaw tightened slightly, an emotion he didn’t quite know how to handle. He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours. “I don’t deserve you.” You frowned. “Don’t say that.”

“I don’t,” he insisted gently. “But I’m really glad I have you.”

You cupped his face. “You deserve love, just as much as anyone. And I love you, Art.” He closed his eyes for a second, leaning into your touch like a man starved.

Then, softly, he spoke once more: “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

After the music ended, he led you upstairs to a smaller loft space overlooking the stage. There was a table set up; black tablecloth, dark red roses in a vase and even more candles. And, very on-brand, heart-shaped cookies iced in black.

You burst out laughing and he looked deeply offended for a second. “What? They’re thematic.” He said, but with a little smile on his face.

“You made these?”

“…Maybe.” You picked one up, it read: BE MINE OR PERISH.

You stared at him with raised up eyebrows. “It’s romantic,” he defended himself and the heart-shaped cookies. You took a bite and they were actually… really good. He watched anxiously. “Well?”

“You’re amazing.” He relaxed visibly, happy that they were good, not like the first ones he tried to make.

Dinner was simple but thoughtful; your favorite comfort food, plated carefully. He’d even remembered that you didn’t like certain ingredients. Every detail was deliberate. At one point, you leaned back in your chair and studied him. “What?” He asked.

“I just… don’t think anyone’s ever done something like this for me.” He shrugged lightly. “No one’s ever made me want to.” You reached across the table and laced your fingers with his.

“You didn’t have to go this big, you know?” You wanted to make sure he knew that those things didn't define how much he loved you or how much you loved him. “I wanted to.” Art replied to you.

“Why?” He tilted his head, like the answer was obvious. “Because I love you.” It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but it felt so much heavier tonight; softer and real. You squeezed his hand in yours.

“I love you too.”

He held your gaze; long, steady like he was committing the moment to memory. Like he wanted to remember this moment even in his dreams.

Later, when the candles had burned lower and the city lights blinked outside the loft windows, you found yourselves sitting on the floor together, backs against the wall. Your head rested on his shoulder while his fingers traced absent patterns along your arm.

“Did you hate it?” he asked quietly. You tilted your head. “What?”

“The metal Valentine’s Day.”

You smiled into his shirt; still smelling like a bakery, still warm and sweet. “I loved it.”

“Even the fang hearts?” He joked, looking down at your face with a smile. The nervousness he felt earlier seemed to have disappeared. “Especially the fang hearts.” You joked back to him.

He huffed a soft laugh at your words. “I didn’t want to change everything about it,” he admitted. “I just wanted to make it… us.”

“It was us.” You hummed softly and quietly, nuzzling your face into his shoulder for a second. Art turned slightly, pressing a kiss into your hair. “You’re okay with the darkness?”

“I don’t see it as darkness,” you said gently. “I see it as passion.” He stilled at that and you lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not dark to me... you’re intense and loud, and dramatic sometimes.” You smiled. “But you’re also soft and thoughtful... and ridiculously romantic.”

He looked stunned. “Ridiculously?”

“You rented a venue, Art.” He tried to look dignified. “You deserve theatrics.” You leaned forward and kissed him; slow, warm, unhurried. He melted immediately, one hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other resting at your waist. Not possessive, just close and grounding.

When you pulled away, he chased you for a second before opening his eyes. “Stay the night at mine?” he murmured. You smiled at him and nodded your head. “Of course.”

He exhaled like that answer mattered more than the entire evening. And as you both sat there, surrounded by black roses and flickering candlelight and faint echoes of love songs rewritten softer, you realized something. Valentine’s Day didn’t have to be pink to be soft.

Sometimes it was black, sometimes it wore eyeliner, sometimes it painted fanged hearts on a van hood. And sometimes it looked at you like you were the only gentle thing in a world that had once been too loud.

Art brushed his thumb along your cheek and that broke you out of your thoughts. “Next year,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m thinking gothic picnic.” You laughed. “I’ll bring some heart-shaped strawberries.” He grinned like an idiot.

“Deal.”

And in that quiet loft, wrapped in warmth and candlelight and something that felt steady and real, you knew... metalhead theatrics and all, you’d never had a sweeter Valentine.