can i request?? one where you were a hunter and you used to date dean, you were his first and basically his only love. he thought you had died but bumps into you during both of your cases and rekindle the love (((ps sam knew you were alive but didnt tell dean)))
beware it gets smutty at the end!! double beware bc i am terrible at smut!!!
You sit down wearily in an equally weary diner somewhere in Kentucky and pick at the peeling faded lino seat. Some part of your brain comments that itâs a shame, really, since this couldâve been a nice place.
Your head snaps up when you hear a voice. It belongs to a balding, overweight bearded man in leather who looks notably out of place. Speaking, or rather leering, directly to your chest, he winks. âFree later, darling?â and licks his lips.
He looks taken aback for a second and his grin disappears. For a few moments panic flashes through you and it seems as if heâs going to use force, but his chin merely juts forward and he mutters âdumb bitch,â before wandering off.
You shift about uncomfortably. You hate getting your boobs out at the best of times, but in certain places â such as this â where the police force was predominantly male, using your assets to your advantage couldnât hurt.
Youâve just about finished your beer when the police scanner crackles to life. Another death, this time a few blocks away. You frown. In daylight?
You stride out to the car park and select a car. You scan the area to make sure nobodyâs around before easily breaking in and hotwiring it to start. Sure, you could have walked, but with 6 inch heels on youâd have bloody stumps by the end of it.
After a minute or two you find the place easily enough. The police tape is a dead giveaway.
Making your way through the crowd that has begun to gather, a tubby police officer with an extravagant moustache steps forward to meet you. âHow may I help you, maâam?â
You stick your chest forward not-so-subtly and flutter your eyelashes slightly, touching his shoulder with newly manicured nails. âDetective Balgrove, FBI.â
He nods and lifts the tape up to let you through. âFBI sure got here quick,â he remarks, but doesnât make an effort to stop you. He says something else indistinctly that you donât catch, but you donât bother to ask for a repeat since it could easily lead on to a wait, who the hell are you?
A couple of middle-aged policemen mill about inside, taking little notice of you, save for ogling gazes.
The place itself is a small grocery store with no more than two or three aisles, and an exhausted dĂŠcor not dissimilar in atmosphere from the diner, although a little less colourful. The shelves are filled with own-brand long life packet mixes that probably contained little natural substance in.
You scan them for any telltale hexbags or sulfur on your way to the scene in order to rule out the possibilities with a familiar metallic smell filling the air. It was rather ironic how you were often around blood, being a hunter and all, but you could only barely tolerate it at the best of times â and now was no exception.
Your mind whirs. Not a demon or witch, then. Angel? Very unlikely. Ghost? Probably.
Youâre about to round the corner when your feet are nailed to the cheap lino and your blood runs cold.
10 million square kilometres and heâs here?
No. It had to be a mistake.
Your body reacts before your brain does, and youâre backing away towards the door. Suddenly the air seems heavy and this room too small and the bloody stench clogging your nostrils.
Your hand is on the door handle when it happens. The unthinkable.
Your opportunities sprint through your mind. Walk out and ignore him? Heâd probably check the shopâs tapes for confirmation it was really you. Turn around? He thought you were dead, for crying out loud. How would that play out? Yeah, sorry for ditching you, Dean; but hey, Iâm alive!
Maybe Sam would help you out? Yeah, of course he would. Sam was the one who facilitated your whole Sherlock Holmes getaway, after all.
A few tense seconds pass and all three of you are silent.
What are you waiting for?
You turn around slowly to face him but donât meet his eyes. Heâll crush you with them and you both know it.
He simply stares at you for what seems like a lifetime, and is only broken when Sam clears his throat.
Dean looks at his little brother then back at you. âWe need to talk.â His voice is tight and closed and everything you wish it wasnât.
âI donât think thatâs ââ You begin, but he cuts you off.
âWeâre staying at Sleep Inn.â
Youâre either about to burst into tears or vomit or both at once. âDean, I donât think thatâs such a great idea. Letâs just forget this ever happened.â You turn around to the door.
His jaw and fist tighten simultaneously. âYeah, no. Not gonna happen.â
You close your eyes. Heâs right. Oh, God, heâs right. Dean Winchester is the worldâs best tracker with the determination of a hellhound. Heâd find you wherever you went. âYou going all Liam Neeson on me?â You let out a jittery laugh that falls noticeably short of its target of humour.
Dean ignores you and turns to the shop owner. After a few quiet words with him, and subsequently Sam, they both walk towards you so youâre left with no choice but to exit the shop.
Suddenly the 80 degree heat is way, way too hot and you clutch your throat, forcing in the oxygen to your lungs.
A hand on your back makes you jump about 10 feet in the air and instinctively pull away slightly, but it merely follows. For a second youâre terrified itâs Dean, but to your minimal relief itâs his younger brother. You send him a pleading look but he presses his lips together and looks away.
You note how his hair has really let itself go, and it flows like a lionâs mane to brush his shoulders. This would be acceptable, but Deanâs hasnât changed at all, so you figure maybe there must be opportunity to get their cut at some point, so really thereâs no excuse.
These thoughts take place in the small part of your brain that isnât in overload. Itâs like someone crossed the wires and everything is crashing into each other at once, threatening to cut out completely.
You three arrive at the Impala. Oh God, the Impala. Hours and hours in there youâd spent â sometimes it was way too hot and you melted into the leather seats; the rattling in the air conditioning had annoyed you no end. Sometimes it was too cold and its complete lack of insulation had meant youâd frozen until Dean bought you a huge fur blanket. Sometimes you rode in the front with Dean and sometimes, just sometimes, heâd let you choose the music. And in extremely rare cases, he wouldnât even complain.
Then there were the times in there where it was you two alone. You blush slightly. Those times were the best.
You sit in the back â it goes without saying youâd promptly lost front seat priveliges â and for a few seconds thereâs a horrid, arid silence that youâre too scared to shatter.
You attempt to swallow down the lump in your throat. âDean, Iâm ââ
âYeah, youâre sorry. Thatâs what everyone says. Funny, that.â He pauses as if to let you speak, but carries on. âWay I see it, you ditched me and Sam when we needed you most and let us think you were frigginâ dead.â
âI canât change that.â
âToo damn bad, Y/N. I trusted you!â His volume rises a few notches. âDoing this stuff when it suits you!â
You raise your voice, too. âIt did not suit me! How could you even think that?â
âOh yeah? Like the time in Salt Lake City?â
You fall silent. He was bringing up Salt Lake City. He was bringing up Salt Lake City. That was a low blow.
The three of you say nothing for the remaining 20 minutes of the journey, at the end of which you pull up to a duffed-up motel that was once called Sleep Inn, but as a result of the missing letter, it now reads âSeep Innâ. Huh.
Sam and Dean get out and straighten up, Sam managing to hit his head in the process, and both begin walking to the reception. You stay sat where you are, trying to prolong the time before the inevitable.
Dean would make you crumble, you know that. He would crumple you and tear you into pieces without so much as touching you, which was both the worst and best thing about him. He hated what he dubbed âchick flick momentsâ, aka showing emotion, but if you lifted the mask then he was emotion all over, and you kind of loved it.
They return, Dean raising his eyebrows at you as signal to get out, and you follow the wordless instructions silently. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
The sick feeling wells up; your head pounds, but somehow your feet are still moving.
Once inside, Dean closes the door behind you and you cross the room to slump into the cheap off-white plastic chair by the matching table and stare at that dodgy yellow stain on the floor.
Dean rubs his face. âOkay, uhâŚâ He turns to look at Sam pointedly. When Sam just raises his eyebrows, he raises them back. Eventually Sam rolls his eyes and leaves, the sound of the Impalaâs husky voice growling and her tires chewing the gravel, before speeding off.
You look up at Dean. âYouâre letting him take it?â
You both laugh, and itâs a nice but surreal moment.
Youâd hoped for a while that you could just get over him, and youâd tried. You really had. Youâd had fling after fling and even been on dates just to try out different guys, even if you werenât looking for anything long term; just something to get him out of your brain.
âI missed you.â You say quietly.
He lets out a short, sarcastic laugh.
He turns around so his back is facing you, but you still see the tremble of his shoulders and stand up to brace yourself.
âYouâre frigginâ impossible.â Barely contained anger tinges Deanâs voice and you wince. He spins around suddenly, causing you to shrink back in your chair.
âWhat the Hell were you thinking? Did you even stop to think about how it made me feel? I thought you werestone cold dead!â
You jump up with such vigour the chair tips over and clatters to the floor, but youâre too furious to care. âI did it for you!â
âCut the crap, Y/N! How the fuck was that for me, huh? Yeah, sure, thinking you were dead like pretty much everyone else close to me was darned peachy!â
âHey, and you know what the worst thing of all was? Feeling like Iâd failed you like every other God forsaken thing that I care about. I donât need to feel like crap! I donât need it!â
You take a step towards him, so youâre close enough to touch his chest. âThatâs your problem, Dean, you keep trying to look after me all the time. Well newsflash: Iâm not a kid and I can look after myself!â You punctuate each word of the last sentence with a jab of your index finger to his broad chest.
Thereâs a brief pause, then Dean is leaning down and youâre meeting him halfway with your lips. You crush together with some force and you feel the anger, the passion, and the hunger pulsing through him as he turns you 90 degrees and slams you into the wall, his mouth never leaving yours.
You link your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer to him and extinguishing any space between your bodies. Without your brain telling your body to, you grind into him, never wanting to leave â but Dean abruptly pulls away.
Your mind flails for a few hundredths of a second. Does he not want me? Am I unattractive? Have I lost it? Is he having second thoughts?
Your thoughts are interrupted when he tugs off your blazer and attempts to undo your blouse before getting frustrated and ripping it open, buttons flying everywhere.
He does the same with his own blazer and shirt, forgetting the tie so it lay on his bare chest. Obstructing his bare chest. You rectify that by undoing the knot with ease and throwing it over his shoulder.
Momentarily you pause and stare up at his green eyes â like in some kind of movie â marvelling a little at the beauty of them for a second, when Dean cuts you off by rather forcefully pulling him into you again.
You unbuckle his belt and pull down his flannels, bending down, pausing by his crotch and noticing the bulge straining through the grey fabric. Deanâs breathing suddenly becomes even more erratic and you look up to see his lip trembling slightly, him staring down at you with pure lust.
You stand up and he groans slightly, to which you smirk. Yep, you definitely did still have it.
He removes your skirt and tights with ease so youâre both standing there in only your underwear. Just for a second or two you pause to take the vision of him in. God, he was gorgeous. You loved every little bit of his personality, his quirks and all, of course, but damn, was he beautiful.
You reach to lay a hand over his heart, which beats in competition with a hummingbirdâs, and he shudders.
Again with an abrupt action, he grips your elbow to jerk you towards him and undoes your bra. You assist by pulling down your panties, scrunching them up and launching them across the room. Dean does the same with his boxer briefs until youâre both standing completely nude.
You wait for him to make the first move toward you â you always did â but all of a sudden his eyes flash with fury. Itâs then you remember youâre pissed.
Dean rams his fist into the wall above you. âDamn it, this is your fault!â
You place both hands on his chest and shove him away with as much force as you can muster. It does force him back a pace, but heâs a hefty guy.
âMy fault? My fault? I was fucking protecting you because of your fucking incompetent hunting skills and I had to get Sam to help me!â
âSam helped you?â Deanâs breathing and volume increase even more. âYouâre telling me Sam freaking helped you?â He regains his space lost and rests his elbows either side of your head, pinning you in place.
You swallow. You can feel his rage radiating from him, and you see his Adamâs apple go into overdrive.
âYouâre mine.â He all but growls.
You tip your head up to meet his eyes and lick your upper lip. Through gritted teeth you mimic his voice. âSays who?â Your eyes flicker down and then up at him again. Go on, you will him.
Impulsively and quickly he thrusts his hips to yours so they touch, and you let out an audible gasp as he enters you.
Youâre letting out shallow, jagged breaths, and so is Dean, but he collects himself enough to pin both your arms above your head and stare you hard in the eye, nostrils flaring.
You let out a small laugh and thatâs it. Heâs gone.
Dean pounds into you, squeezing moans and grunts out of the both of you. Itâs sore for lack of lubricant, but so, so, good. So right.
You feel Deanâs on the edge before he says it. âY/N,â he says softly at first. âY/N!â His voice raises, and you feel a warm pool in your belly.
âHold on for me,â you breathe, it growing by the second. âHold on for me - oh, God, D-Dean,â your right hand grabs a hunk of his hair whilst the left scratches at his back. âDean!â And youâre gone, which sends him over the edge. You pull your legs up around his waist and clench around him while he lets out the most delicious moan youâve ever heard, and youâre sure youâll utterly lose it unless you do something. You bite down hard on to Deanâs shoulder so he reciprocates by pressing little hickies down your collar bone, all the while the both of you riding out the orgasm.
When youâre finally done youâre both shaking with your heads leant on each otherâs shoulders and neither of you say a word.
When your breathing slows, he slips out of you without a word. You expect him to walk away and start pulling his clothes on, since heâs still supposedly mad at you, but instead he gives you a smile. A perfect smile, the smile youâd been waiting for, the smile that secretly holds a ray of sunshine and a look in his eyes like he genuinely thinks youâre the most perfect thing in the world. He shakes his head slightly,