Dean didn’t typically relent to your insistence of inclusion, but it was simple enough – the three of you were to scour the deserted properties of a former coven for a specialty grimoire, and his little one could surely handle a bit of urban exploration, right? 

This particular residence was thickly concealed in dust, with gossamers adorning every surface and shelf. It seemed to float in tufts, laced in cobwebs and wisps in the light, and it left your nose tickling, itchy, and red. You had sneezed about nine times, and Dean bit back his typical reprimands that you should be waiting outside – his mind reasoning that it was just dust. 

Your watery eyes continued to flicker through the shelves, delicately removing loose papers and novels in search of the spellbook, before sneezing yet again. And, in an involuntary etiquette, your elbow raised to enshroud your mouth, while incidentally toppling over a medium-sized vial that had lain upon a ledge. The crack of glass and the sudden cold splash of the substance made you jump, squealing in shock. It was already saturating through your clothes and skin when Dean sprinted into the room in response to the shatter. You were crouched on the ground, inspecting the glass for some sort of tell of what sludge had just stained your clothes, before frowning up to a very dismayed and disquieted Dean.

“Baby – what the hell happened in here?” He reproves, raising an eyebrow to you before glancing towards the fractures on the floor and splatters of liquid.

“i spilled yucky stuff,” You pout, before peering down at the puddle again. “i dunno what it is..” 

“Yucky stuff, huh?” Dean murmurs, kneeling down beside you and already gently reaching for your chin to survey your skin. His nose scrunches up at the scent – it’s chemical, industrial, with underlying hints of sweet rot – like dying lilacs seeped in bleach. 

Immediately, his eyes inspect for any marks or reactions, his solicitude and sharpness staining his face. “Damn, kiddo — got this shit everywhere.” He frowns, wiping your cheek with his flannel sleeve. 

“Lucky that glass didn’t cut’chya up.” He speaks, and then he stills, taking a rough aspiration of something that’s residing in thickened wafts, making him lick his bottom lip before he lifts you to your feet. His hunter’s apprehension is evident, beginning his typical inquisitions for mysterious spilled capsules – for all he knows, you could start growing two heads and a tail, or fainting from some sort of hex poison. 

“You feelin’ weird? Lightheaded? Sore? Anything?”

One of his hands departs from your waist, raising your chin up again, peering into your batting lashes and wide eyes, his own heart rate kicking up, even as you confirm with a little, “nope.”

His grip on you stays tight, grounding for a moment, before he lets go of your jaw to chuckle at your nonchalant response. He peers down at you, another once-over for error, but there is none – you’re still just his typical sweet and ditzy girl – thank god. 

“Mm. Alright, lil’ bug. But we ain’t takin’ chances. Gotta getcha cleaned up. Smells like a damn perfume factory exploded – ‘nd not like that powdery sweet stuff ya use.” His nose wrinkles as he reacts to the aroma again, drawing you closer by his grip, and pressing his nose into the sensitive crook of your neck. 

“h- hey!” You huff out, startled at the sudden movement and furrowing your brows as Dean draws in an invasive inhale of your skin, before he recoils away with a throaty cough. 

“Jesus, fuck – that’s strong.” His voice is dipping lower now. Rougher.

“Sure you’re not feelin’... off?” He questions, his throat bobbing as he swallows down saliva. His hands are gliding from your waist, down to your hips instead, fingers flexing with the subconscious desires that warm in his skull. 

“what are you talking about..? it doesn’t have a scent.” You question, bemusement flooding your expression as your nose exhales the same plain stale air you’ve been breathing in all this time.

Dean raises his eyebrows at your assertion, as if you're denying that the sky is blue or that water is wet. He steps closer, his body now crowding yours. 

“You can't smell that?” He chuckles out in an incredulous retort, eyes roaming your tilted gaze for a hint of falsehood, but there is none. 

“It’s like a damn tidal wave, kiddo. How the hell can you not smell that?” And before you can shove him off, Dean is leaning in yet again, nose grazing the tingling nerves behind your ear, his breath hotter, heavier, and inhaling wholly at the odor that transludes from your flesh. 

“a- alright! stop– stop sniffin’ me...” You squirm, maneuvering your head away from his face’s impertinent proximity. 

Dean pulls back sharply, hands hesitantly receding from your waist. His shoulders roll, trying to absolve tension, before he clears his throat and slaps on a half-grin over his tightened jaw. 

“Yeah… yeah, alright – sorry, babycakes.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your now slightly distressed gaze. “Just– makin’ sure you’re not gonna keel over from whatever the hell’s soakin’ ya.” His now empty fingers drum against the denim on his thighs, restless and wanton, before gesturing his chin toward the door. 

“C’mon. Let’s find Sammy before this place starts crumblin’ on us.” His gaze lingers a bit too long – it always does –  and then he pursues the venture out of the manor.  

Unbeknownst to both of you, the searing effects of the perfumed toxin are coursing through his crimson veins, constricting vessels and cerebral blood flow, making his mind misted with an induced haze of hunger. One that’s heightening the horror and sin he’s already envisioned about you; The previously conjured thoughts of your thighs spread beneath him, of him sheathing the throb of his cock inside, of you cumming, are all now projecting in the forefront of his mind. 

Typically, you would whine for Dean’s hand, for it to be held out of such funereal space, but you refrain from the touch – he’s seemingly bittered and harried, and undeniably tense. The residence is a labyrinth of mildewed books and rotting wood, and obviously lacking the sought-after grimoire. Naturally, you attribute his peculiar behavior to disappointment in the failure of the scavenge.

Until, of course, you find yourself noting how Dean won't stop looking back at you as he navigates, and how each of his steps are shakily steady – as if each one is planned rather than a thoughtless, simple tread. On the third glimpse over his shoulder, you stomp petulantly and pout, unnerved and annoyed. “why’re y’lookin’ at me like that!?”

Dean blinks, his vision refocusing and face relaxing slightly, as if he is slipping out of a trance. 

“What? Nah.. Nuthin’,” He mumbles a feigned dismiss, avoiding your stare now like the shitty liar he is when it comes to you. “M’just makin’ sure that stuff ain’t messin’ with that head a’yours.” 

Your nod is laced with apprehension, but you resume following his steps, recognizing the sweat that dots down his feverish temple, and how his lungs are now emitting deeper, more ragged breaths. There’s a slow burn at the base of his spine, and it’s now sundering through to his inner thighs.

Finally, Sam’s familiar face appears in the dimmed and dusted hall, raising an eyebrow to the sight of the two of you – eyes flickering to Dean’s uneasy gait and sterned glare, and your confused little headshake and shrug in reference to it all. 

“Everything okay? You two look…” Sam starts, his brows knitting together at Dean’s restive bearings. “Weird.”

You reply before Dean does, giving him a glared side glance as you speak. “i dunno. he’s actin’ off… i spilled something on m’self – says it’s potent, but i can’t even smell it.”

Sam’s eyes narrow, his tone shifting from banter to his brotherly concern for both you and Dean.

“What exactly did you spill?” He states, clipped and scrutinizing as he looks at Dean, who is exhaling harshly and scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“Hell if I know. Some fuckin’ vial – Kid broke it, got splashed. Says she can’t smell it, but–”

“Jesus, Dean, could've led with that.” He interrupts, scoffing. 

Dean stiffens, defensive and scowling. “I was handlin’ it.” 

Sam ignores him, speaking softly to you and gesturing to the wet sleeve of your wrist, still dampened with the liquid. “Mind if I..” 

“Mhm.” You nod sweetly before he can finish, holding out your hand for Sam to sniff, while Dean leans in much closer than necessary, his hands flexing with the manacle effort to not snatch you up and away. 

“Yea, I’m not smelling anything either,” Sam confirms, lowering your arm back down. His eyes bear to his brother once again, registering how his fingers are twitching towards your skin, before he abruptly clambers his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Dean, you good?”

Once again, Dean clears his throat, shaking off a weight and nodding. “Peachy. Let’s just–” His voice rasps before he corrects his staggering breaths  – “get outta this dump before the lil’ klutz is dumpin’ somethin’ else on her.”

You scoff at the insult, and Sam nods with trepidation, the three of you once again traversing the decaying wood that trails to the exit. The spored and moted air is charged with something headier than the scent Dean believes you to be effusing – like lightning surging to strike as he slurs again senselessly. “That – hhgn – fuckin’ smell.”

“What’s it smell like?” Sam asks now, curious, and Dean bristles behind you, hissing through his teeth.

“Like some – like her, but–” He’s interrupted by his own involuntary brimmed huff, his nose twitching like he can’t help it. He groans out at the pungency of your permeating scent, rubbing a hand over his jaw again. “Fuck– s’like some kinda aphrodisiac or somethin’.”

Sam shrugs, at a loss, looking back at his brother, before glancing back towards you. You're frowning, perturbed by the entire situation, tuned into Dean’s series of tight respires, and yes, ignorant to the way he’s practically salivating at your backside – raptured by the sway of your hips, the curves of your thighs, at just how supple your neck now looks. Without any regard for warning or reasoning, Dean finds himself striding forward, shoving past Sam and grasping at your wrists with one hand, his other snaking tightly around your waist. It’s nothing more than ferocious and completely flurrying, leaving you to gasp in flummoxed fear. Sam reacts in equal perplexity, blinking in shock at the brandishing behavior. “Dude – what the hell?”

When Dean doesn’t respond with more than the seal of his thumbs into your pulse, you yelp, whirling to pull away from his darkened eyes and suffocating grip. “the– the fuck, Dean?!” 

And blessed be, it’s enough to make his fingers twitch regrettably as your frightened tinge – at the unsteady whine of his rarely used name – Dean, not Dad – and the comprehension that you’re discomfited seems to inject him with enough sense to pry his grip away. 

“Shit.. Sorry, bug… I– I didn’t mean to grab.” He lies, voiced rasped with the means to console, even as the toxin simmers slick heat up his spine and licks brashly in his gut for you.

Sam still lours, observing his brother skeptically, as he falls into step beside you. He knows Dean has been a bit … smothering, assiduous, too paternal, and far too cosseting for only ever knowing you as an adult. To anyone, it was conceivable that you were his daughter figure, his baby. But this? Dean was incontrovertibly reacting to you in anything but an appropriate manner – instead of the sweet and spoiling father, he’s immensely feral, and overtly sexually frustrated. 

He's marched ahead, crossing the threshold out of the manor for a moment alone, and then bending over with a groan, veritably squeezing his cock in a pitied attempt for an abate – until he hears your ingenious essence gasping at the sight.

“Dean, the fuck!? We’re right here?!” Sam excoriates, watching as his older brother straightens up and glowers back at him. “Dude.. Whatever this is, you’re not immune. You’re reacting. Calm down, man.”

Dean snorts with a sneer, as if he wasn’t just palming himself eight feet away. His respirations remain hot and heaved, shaking his head. “Nah. Ain’t no way some fuckin’– fragrance is gonna affect me like that. I’m a hunter, not some hormonal-crazed teenager.” He scoffs, voice chock full of conviction, and yet, he’s waving a hand towards you.

“hey– don’t gesture to me. m’not a teenager anymore,” you frown sternly, arms folding over your chest in vexation.

Immediately, Dean’s expression inverts, the previously afflicted features peeling back into something searing and stripped down to dark amusement. He steps closer into your space, his grin drooling with wolfish satisfaction.

“Yeah? Coulda fooled me, sweetness – with the way you’ve been whimperin’ at night, lil' fingers fuckin’ yourself as hard as ya can.”

Your jaw is left slack at his bluntness, paling with Dean’s admission as Sam chokes on air from genuine revulsion. It’s as if all his inhibition has flooded out with each exhale of your aroma, now only filterless and feverish.

“Took ya long enough to figure out how t’make yourself feel good,” he chuckles, soaking in your stunned silence and the way you’re trembling with shame. “Was about to teach you myself, kiddo.”

“Don’t be so surprised, sweetheart. Walls are thin. I listen.”

Sam’s face is gaped with dubiety that wars with horror at his brother’s raw and deranged rebarbative. “Dude–” His voice cracks, the beratement left strangled. “What the fuck is wrong with you!?”

Dean scowls, shooting an icy glare at his brother. “Oh. I’m sorry, Sammy. Didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to tease my favorite girl.” He bites, his tone turned hostile.

“No, not– not just that–” Sam stops, eyeing Dean’s frenzied leer on the lines of your body, still and stern, as if he’s the ache of unnatural silence before a calamity strikes. 

Sam grimaces, discernment dawning on his face with despair. “It’s– it’s her pheromones, Dean. They’re– they’re exacerbated from that spell or whatever, and it’s affecting your mind.

Dean huffs out, rolling his eyes hard, shoulders tightening as that possibility flickers to life in the periphery of his sex-addled mind. 

"Yeah, right. Like some cheap spritz is gonna turn me into a damn puppet." He grins, all teeth, letting out a humorous laugh, before turning towards you again. “Jus’ ‘cause I noticed how my little girl squirms when she thinks no one’s watchin’ doesn't mean I’m – what, infected?”

But even so, your pleading eyes and shivering form furnish enough comprehension in him to recognize your consternation, how he’s the one crumbling the comfort he’s only ever sought to provide — and it’s enough to impel him to back away before he pours out more unfiltered remarks. 

“Just — let’s get outta here." Dean mutters gruffly, and then he’s tossing his keys to Sam and stumbling to the Impala before either one of you can interject on his actions. 

Every fucking step aches with waves of dolor and arousal. He’s twitching, and his bulbous, puffy tip is chafing against the waistband of his boxers. The rhythm in his hurried steps is enough to shoot sharp barbs of pleasure up his inner thighs, before they settle thickly in his swelling groin. Your scent just won’t stop permeating into every blood vessel, every cell, and it’s slickening him more with each unbearable breath and step. 

The ride back to the motel is no less than excruciating. For all of you. Dean is in the backseat, head in his hands, trying not to whimper in response to your simple existence. All the windows are peeled down to dilute the air, but it does nothing to simmer the surge in his gut and veins. The visions of you still torment the blackness behind his eyes, each visage imagined in his god-forsaken skull, making him throb harder – what your little pussy looks like, how it pulsates, and how puffy you may be. He thinks of how you may leak out your own cream, or how your hips may lurch up when you cum. He wonders if you orgasm to the thought of him. To the thought of your Dad. He knows what you sound like when you do – your whines endure primevally, permanently, within the confines of his mind.

And now? Well, you are whimpering, only it’s pooled with pure distress and contrition, tears silently rippling down your cheeks as you apologize for the fifth time on the trip back.

“‘m–  ‘m sorry i spilled that stuff, dada. ‘m sorry you’re affected.” You sniffle out, looking back at him through the gleam of the rearview window. The thought as to why only your Dad figure is terrorized by the pheromone, and how Sam remains intact, does not even penetrate into your guileless mind – you’re only concerned for your Dad’s wellbeing, his health, and for his forgiveness. 

Dean shakes his head, his words stammering out through gritted teeth, clenching his hands roughly over his face again. “Not your…  fault, kid.” He swallows and groans, bearing his throat that’s coated in a sheen of sweat, his eyes shutting with a grimace. “Fuckin– Jus’ can’t– think clear.”

Sam's gaze is pensive, looking down at you, sniffling and abashed. You're biting away at your nails and fingertips as the nausea and mortification sour your tummy and throat.

Finally, the motel slips into view, gravel rolling beneath the tread of tires as the Impala pivots into the lot. Although before Sam can even employ the stick shift to park, Dean is tearing out of the backseat, slamming the door, and stalking over in fervent strides to your shared room, throwing himself behind the door.

Neither you nor Sam have time to comprehend the matter, hardly out of the car when the frame of the motel room rattles, and the lock clicks shut. And then the moans commence, bleeding out through the door in Dean’s thick bursts of breath, his suffering attempts to sate himself sounding through in the lot.

“Alright. That’s not good..” Sam discerns, exhaling sharply and glancing towards where you stand, paralyzed by the open passenger door with wide, appalling eyes. Your ears are pink, and your thighs are tensing, as another one of Dean’s guttural groans reverberates through your form. Luckily, Sam’s voice manages to pierce through the predicament, his face a parallel of your own mortification.

“O- okay, kiddo” – back in the car.” He assuages in an appeal to your discomfort. “We’re.. we’re  gonna get food while he’s doing – that.” 

The burnt rubber sounds shrill as Sam speeds you off in the Impala, shipping you both away from such upheaval. But even in the separation, your scent still clings to Dean’s clothes. Adhered to his skin, his arteries – his conflagrant desire for you is now cohered to every blood cell. He is hardly able to flounder over to the shitty mattress, his fingers tottering shakily to disentangle himself from his belt and jeans. The buckle snags on the friction of where his cock is twitching, and his hips jerk in a violent response.  

“Fuckin’– shit!” he snarls, before finally able to bear out enough flesh to rut into his fist. And fuck, he’s already seeped into his boxers, the constricts of the denim moistened through with his precum, smeared in the shameful splotches he had pumped out on the drive back. Pained whimpers gnaw through Dean’s throat as he nudges the ruined fabric down his thighs, the sensation scraping the thick, tensed veins of his pulsing and slippery cock. He’s covered in himself already – glimmering in fresh droplets of white that are already wrung around his swelled, pounding balls and stickily beaded onto his pubic hair. 

By the grace of his extreme equanimity, he’d refrained from cumming in the backseat, untouched and in front of you. His kid.

A whined moan tears from Dean’s lips as he wraps his palm around his fat and tumescent cock, his other hand squeezing the muscle of his thigh so hard that his knuckles already ache. It’s piteous how fast he cums. He can’t even grunt out with the sensation of first touching his cock – it remains to be only incessant whimpers, laced within each pant. A firm squeeze accompanied by the envisioning of your face, your cries, your scent, and he’s melting. Dean's own forbidding, pleading strokes last around all of twenty seconds, before he’s choking on his breath. A crying gasp burns in his throat as he feels his slickened dick wrench up towards his belly in a violent convulse, his cock curling in a breach as his slit shoots out hot and fierce erupts of cum all over his abdomen. The angle of his body and dick prompts the creamy spills to plunge up his shirt, seeping through to his chest and stomach as his hips continue to cant forward in the aftermath of his orgasm. 

His breathing has gone shallow, and there is no fade into clarity. Everything remains to hum and hurt in the pulse beneath his skin. Dean’s dick weakly twitches out more release even a whole minute later, gnawing at his lip as he rubs over his still puffed and pleading tip. 

When his touch recedes from his own body, shivering and slick with his sweat and cum, he coils up on the bed – and there, his half-lidded eyes meet the glassed ones of the stuffed animals that ornament the motel mattress; the ones you insist on accompanying you on such trips. Only now, they glare back in derision at what Dean knows he cannot have – your innocence, your love, and you. He groans, but even in such spite, in the shame, his hand is already grasping towards his groin again.

 It’s well into the witching hour when you stumble out of Sam’s room – despite the insistence you bunk with him to avoid incident, you still cannot sleep; Not without the rhythm of Dean’s susurrations, without the solace he brings you. Your bare feet meet still-warm cement, breathing in soft night air while the faint motel lights bathe your skin in an amber glow. The spare key of Dean’s room rattles in your palm as you shift the weight upon your legs in contemplation. You miss him. It’s been hours. You’ve stripped and scrubbed your skin since then, showered off any possible remnants of the spilled substance. Your steps lead you to his room, surely convinced that his disarray has dissipated… 

You’re proven wrong the moment you turn the key to his door. The scent of his sex whirls in thick waves, heady and musked, hitting your face as you huff. Your clothes are entirely askew, spread upon the floor and the bed in slick heaps – Dean having rived through your bag in complete concupiscence, staining his cum on any surface that has ever touched your skin. And now, he lies naked, on his stomach, seeping secretions even in his sex-induced sleep. His biceps are curled inward and around your stuffies, clinging to them like they’re salvation, and the sight equally spikes and spoils something in your gut.

And then the door shuts, the lock pivots, and you hover above, like a succubus, wanton to strike. Your hands extend to trace down his spine, the sluice of his sweat sticking to your fingers, and Dean stirs. He’s startled awake by the touch on his sensitive nerves, his hips thrusting as he chokes out quiet caution.

“No.. no – Baby, please.” He’s begging, his cock grounding down as he keeps his eyes shut. He already knows you’re pouting, sweet and simultaneously seductive, and he knows if he sees it, he will spurt into the sheets once again. 

His libidinousness rages – and the scent was a spell, inducing a torment in the form of titillation. It has relinquished his refractory period, refilling his balls with semen, and seeping blood flow south in a salacious suffering. He’d lost count of his orgasms much earlier in the evening.

“da- dad.. m’just... i’m scared.” You peep out, and the whimper of his title, his role to you, makes him thrust his thickened cock down harder.

“Ba- baby.. You gotta– mmh– leave Daddy alone, ‘kay?” Dean gasps out, his mouth salivating on the sheets, still refusing to look at you.

“but i don’t wanna!” You pout, your hands trailing to where they're tucked on your plushies and beginning to run fingers over white knuckles, before attempting to pry them off.

“cuddle me instead..” You insist, and Dean groans softly before it blurs into a darkly aroused chuckle.

“Kid, cuddlin’s the last thing on my mind right now.” He rasps, the shape of his ass curving in as he ruts down in front of you again.

“dad… i— please..” You’re holding back tears now from anguish and fright – he’s sickly pale, sweating it out, dehydrated from the sheer exertion, and throbbing throughout his whole body. The tendons in his neck are outstretched in the strain, and when he opens his eyes, they look bloodshot, perhaps from pleasure, guilt, or a souring solution of both.

A moan punches from his gut as he makes mere eye contact with you. You, the young woman he’d practically adopted, the one who became his little girl. You, whom he recognized as a daughter, even through the throes of falling in love. You, who’d now infected every pore and nerve in his body due to his adoration, with no other absolution for his ailment other than a consummation. 

“Li– lil’ one, I can’t.” He doesn’t elaborate – he is unable to, really. The lust is sculpting itself higher in his spine, like that same dirt he’d shoved down his throat when he first began to ache for you; only now, that swallowed mud is reclaiming, thick like clay just before the kiln, and it’s boiling between his thighs.

And then you’re slipping yourself into his now limp grip before he can whine a dissent, curling against him as you breathe in his pants. The sheets are sodden beneath you, and still, you press him closer. The agony licks more fiercely in his gut, his fat cock dragging in the seam between his abdomen and the sheets. It's flesh on flesh, your bare thighs snuggling in against his, your skin only ablazing his nerves further in an indulgence Dean had only ever dared to dream of. Your form is now tucked tight to where he’s burying his body against the bed in debasement, and your aroma is impossibly more afflictive, pungent, and seemingly imbued with the salted scent of arousal.

“Y- y’gotta... hnngh – stop touchin’ kid.” He tries to bite, but his voice is too weakened to weigh the threat. It’s a cry. And he’s going to cum, slick with semen and self-hatred.

“Little girl.. I swear to God– M’ — m’not safe right now.”

His swollen slit spills out more sticky drools of precum, and another strangled sound cracks from his lips, carried high and broken, and yet, you remain. Because he’s still Dean, he’s still Dad. He’s your anchorage and your amity. The man who seeps succor when you’re saddened, who cradles you through sobs and stabilizes your system. The man who spends his spare moments sustaining your serenity through late-night cuddles, cartoons, and coloring pages – he’d been the one who always provided that sanctity and softness for your soul. 

And now, he’s the man suffering in his own sex, supplicant in the terror stirring in his groin, and he is simply the man that you love, even as he shatters.

“Sh- Shit— look away, baby, please—"  

“dad. it’s okay.. you can cum.” You implore, and that solicitation just further stimulates his arousal. And it’s ever enrapturing, his kid, luring out his orgasm in only love. Dean shudders, wincing as his nerves tear themselves apart in your touch as you slip your palm over his spine again. His fingers curl against the sheets as he whines out a wounded cry, his ass flexing as his hips slip into helpless little stutters, the pleasure sparkling as he thrusts his dick harder on the bed. And then he’s cresting, his cockhead pouring another sticky release of his semen. He’s cumming, in front of you, his breath catching in pained gasps as you coax him, caressing the tensed muscles of his back as more sweat sluices over his sides.

Through heaves, Dean does not heft to your gaze; he’s whimpering, quivering, and further turning his florid-blooming face into the mattress. His body is still racked, even as his voice withers, wrecked in pants of chagrin and pleasure.

“Oh– oh fuck. S- Sorry, lovebug– fuck.. didn’t mean–”

“dad.. no, no. don’t be. it’s okay.” Your hands climb down his back in a consoling allure. “lemme help..” 

Dean’s thighs immediately press together with instinct, like he can shroud his impending surrender, but that sickening scent of you makes that impossible. When he finally risks a glance at you, he’s red-faced, his body flush against the sheets, and his hazel eyes are glossy with tears – stained with the faults that he’s failed you and failed the fatherhood he’d prized and provided. His shame sears sharper than the pleasure that still simmers – and yet, your gaze remains to be sweet. A soft, sympathetic smile that gilds your features as you watch him squirm. 

"S’not— hnn—not over. Still hurts." Dean admits hoarsely, his throat thick and thrumming. It’s not quite a plea, but it’s just enough to prompt your lips to his. And you’re eminently gentle, almost inexperienced, as your lips caress his, and that sweet press of you is everything Dean has dreamt and decried for in an equal measure. He doesn’t deepen it, not yet – he just allows your warmth and innocence to penetrate his perilous lust.

“i love you, and i want to.” You whisper as you pull away, your lips a wisp away from his. 

For a moment, he just shivers, stunned, his heart racing as he reaches up to cradle your face. His expression fractures further – he always knew it was a question of time – and now, you had answered, you had appealed, and worst of all, you remained adoring throughout it all.

His thumb brushes your cheek with reverence, voice ragged with guilt.

"Y- you shouldn't want me. I- I shouldn't want you." But his hips twitch forward despite it all, the angle now allowing his bare and bulbous tip to slip out from between the sheets and onto your thigh. 

“but we do, dad.. please. let me give m’self to you…”

Yet another cracking whine forms in his throat, and then he’s kissing you. His little girl. His daughter and his demise. He can taste himself on your tongue from your prior touch, only now, he’s torn, and he’s lapping, lips slick as he swallows every whimper, his chin and nose dipping against yours with the incessant ache to embed himself inside of you. The kiss is tainting, exacerbating the tremors in his body as he holds you tight, his grip drawing you closer to where he’s grounding his hips. His pelvis presses to yours, your Dad pinning you to the sheets as his lips never part, suckling and slipping with his slackened inhibitions — it's as if he’s attempting to be gentle, but now unversed on how to administer that. He’s no longer that of meat and muscle; he's only a host to his heightened arousal and affection.

His shaky fingers roll up the t-shirt you’d slipped on in the surmise to sleep. Now, it’s tossed on the floor as Dean’s messy mouth trails down from yours and over your throat. He so desperately desires to make this good for you. To be a good Dad, even as he ruts his hotly dripping dick deeper into the plush of your thighs. His breath hitches with another whine as his hand slips to where you’re puffy and pulsing, burying his face into your shoulder as he frictions his fingers against your sweet, slickened, and clothed cunt —the one he’s salivated over for months, now just a gusset away.

“Fuck – oh… oh.. honey. This– this hole wants her Dad real bad..” The words are quivered through his lips with pure daze, nearly dumbstruck that his daughter desires him, too. You whimper, nodding, rolling your hips as his fingers smear your wetness down when the garment is stickily torn away.

His purple-flushed tip now flows out precum, veins twitching like electrical wires — eager and alight. He knows he will hurt you, you're untouched, tiny and tight, even as you pump out need, arousal trickling to your puckered flesh, it's not enough. And so, Dean prods, the thrum of his fingers nudging inside his kid’s pussy as tears prick your eyes. Two fingers, too big, but he needs this – he needs his daughter’s cunt, he needs to drip deep inside your womb to dissipate such a spell. And the scent of your slick little pussy is captivating, cloying, and it only makes his fat cock weep impossibly worse.

His thick fingers rub harder, rutting into a sweet spot you’ve never felt ache before, his digits hardly able to explore the teeny traverse of your cunt with how you’re already clamping. Dean drools onto your shoulder with sloppy kisses, fucking his fingers deeper as you whine at his hand between your thighs.

“M’baby… Bug—“ He whines softly, cleaved between his pure obeisance for you, and his torturous, lustrous groin. 

“Love you.. love you s’much.” He babbles, his hips unable to halt the arch of his back as his dick spasms against your thigh, threatening to erupt in creamy declarations once again. 

Your pussy is warming more, molding to his fingers with each curl and kneading rut inside, as Dean stretches his daughter by his own hand. And you’re both on the verge of sputtering sobs, sticky and wet, gasping in the scent of shared sex and sanguine devotion. The sensation of surrender stirs in your tummy, twisting in treacherous waves before his fingers pop out of your plush walls, your juice sliding out through suffused flesh.

And then his tip is flush with where his kid’s cunt cries, his own throat hissing with the stimulation, squeezing the base of his heavy and humming dick in the temperance to not trip over and spurt yet.

“da- dad!” you squeak out, his bulbous and crimson cock now working to breach inside your baby cunt. 

“Mmh— I know. Know it, sweet baby. M’— fuck– M’sorry.” He gasps, nudging your tiny pussy apart as he slots his sluicing, fat length further inside. He hardly fits, his hands on your hips, grasping higher, attempting to angle himself properly to immerse himself in your glossy hole faster. But the thought, the one he’s been damned by for months – that he’s finally going to be deep inside his daughter – deludes him further.

Dean’s hips quiver as you cry out, his eyes closed, brows knitted, tears trailing down scarlet cheeks that sear with shame. But the suppression of his orgasm is splicing, splintering. And your sloppy, compressing walls – the way his little baby is shuddering beneath him – sluicing up every inch he’s shoving inside with his most subdued effort, makes him spill. His fresh, hot, and heady cum pools thickly into your fluttering little cunt as his first orgasm inside you seeps deep. Dean is sobbing out, his cum-crusted belly visibly convulsing along with his arching spine. His hips rut his semen deeper inside until he’s slumping over you, seating his dick into the sticky heat of your soft, sweet little spot inside. He’s irrevocably helpless to his daughter’s pussy, his abdomen set ablaze, his thighs palpitating with the protest to stop, and yet, he doesn’t.

His stomach swirls with the overstimulation and the violent suckle of your hole, slotting into the press of your cervix, and a sob spears your throat. 

“My b– baby. My daughter– D... Dad loves you.” he prattles once again, feeling your little pussy pulsing again. “Nhhgn– N… nuthin’ feels better than bein’ inside you.”

You nod, cock-drunk and clenching, babbling back nonsensically, “mmh– love– love you, dada..”

Dean’s balls throb against your puckering hole, glimmering with a creamy ring of cum that’s slickening every crevice of where you’re connected. Where you’re finally consummating such love, with your Dad’s cock buried and bobbing inside the gummy and gooey walls of his own kid’s cunt.

Another squelching sound emits from your sloppy hole as Dean rolls his pelvis, unable to even pull and press back in, just rutting inside as if even an inch of disperse between you two would destroy him.

He’s graceless and glistening, moans muddled in his throat as your pleasured whines bleed through the sulcating folds of his brain. The fingers buried in your hips, and the thumbprints bruised into your thighs, soon boorishly bend you into a mating press, piercing himself deeper into the plush walls of your baby hole. The angle makes you squeal out, tears trailing down your temples as the tumid head of his cock frictions itself against the tender slit of your cervix. He feels himself there, entirely immersed inside as you writhe, his dick spasming in the tight sheath and seated against your aching womb.

His ballsack bloats once again, taut in each sluicing throb of your stretched and sodden pussy as his balls wrench tight, bullying into the garrote of your cunt before his milk is spurting inside you a second time. His face nuzzles into your neck through it all, whining through his orgasm like he’s starving to be closer. To be yours. And isn’t he already?

Since you first claimed him as a father, that ache, that forlorn feeling that nothing truly had mattered, had faded – disintegrated with each embrace and lacing of hands, every giggle that gleamed his own grin in return. He’s your Dad... and you are his. And all Dean can think is how he’s simply sanctified in you, with you, inside of you – and how the greatest divination he will ever endure will be when he sees his daughter cum for him.

Dean lifts his head to admire you through hazy eyes, moaning at the sheer sight – how you’re holding him against you, how your breaths hitch with each propel of his hips. His fingers embark through the cream over your cunt, his loads still leaking out in thick drools between your thighs and into the cleft of your ass. He feels the girth of himself, embedded into the entrance of your body, smearing what's sluicing out over your folds in an uncoordinated glide, before his fingers are spurring on the engorged bud of your baby clit. The rub on your exposed nerves makes you gasp, before those same, primal, incessant whimpers weep from your lips – the same ones he’s heard hollow out the walls countless times before, when you’d cum by your hand back at home. 

The sheer amount of stimulation leaves the heat in your belly to cinch up, shooting sparks from that spongey, sweet spot up and through the nerves of your spine. He continues to thrust lazily inside, grounding up into the plush press of your pussy, before you're seizing in a sputtering shudder. Your face is pinched in parted pants as you cry out, cumming carnally onto Dean’s cock, and he groans out at such a consecration. A final, visible, and physical culmination of your love. 

With your pussy still clasped on him in aftershocks, his shaky fingers draw to the dough of your cheeks to hold. “Oh, oh fuck. Mmh– My lil’ one.” He croons, tears prickling again at your pleasure-drawn face and clouded corneas – and all of it prompts his cock to twitch, libidinous once again.

The base of his balls is sticky with strings of semen that are still is sliding out, skin slapping the fat of your ass as he grounds himself into your little gummy walls; And in just a few, feverish bucks back into your runny hole, he’s filling you up again, blooming more scorching semen into your bruised womb with a shared, shattered cry between the two of you.

His body slumps into yours, his muscles growing unstrung and supple, and after so, so many hours, he’s finally growing soft inside the cavern where you’re still clenching. The rapacity, the debauchery, is ultimately bleeding away in ebbs of relief. 

He holds you flush against him, sighing out and planting butterfly kisses into the skin his lips can reach, before a self-reproach slips out.

“Should’ve– should’ve made it better... f’you. Slower,” he slurs out.

“no.. no– was good, dad.” You swear, nodding with a sated smile. Your hands slip over his shoulders in a soothing caress, his shoulders still sticky with sweat. "mmh– next time.. 'itl be slow. but... still– still was good..." you blather out, and the babble makes Dean brightly beam.

“Yea, bug? Dad was good?” He grins, all boyish and sweet, before pacifying your lips with his own in a delicate, slow kiss that states everything – that you’re bound to one another, in sync, and that he is entirely smitten with you. And he’ll stay slotted, deep inside you until sunrise, cum-sodden and clinging, and succumbed to what was only ever inevitable – it was merely a question of time, and he’d assented, faltering and falling for his own sweet daughter. 

Always You

The thing about loving Dean Di Laurentis was that nobody ever warned you how lonely it would be.

People talked about heartbreak like it arrived all at once a dramatic confession gone wrong, a breakup, a goodbye.

But loving Dean wasn't one heartbreak.

It was a thousand tiny ones.

It was being ten years old and choosing him first for every school project while he chose whoever made him laugh the hardest.

It was being thirteen and listening to him gush about his first crush while pretending your stomach wasn't twisting itself into knots.

It was being sixteen and sitting in the passenger seat while he drove around town with the windows down, singing horribly off-key, and thinking:

This is it.

This is the boy I'm going to love for the rest of my life.

And then realizing he would never know.

By the time Briar University came around, everyone knew the two of you were inseparable.

Nobody questioned it anymore.

Dean and you.

You and Dean.

Always together.

Always laughing.

Always showing up for each other.

The problem was that everyone saw the friendship.

Nobody saw what it cost you.

They didn't see how your heart dropped every time a pretty girl smiled at him.

They didn't see the nights you spent staring at your ceiling after watching him leave with someone else.

They didn't see the way you memorized every version of his smile.

The real one.

The fake one.

The sad one.

The smile he only wore when it was just the two of you.

That one was your favorite.

Because it felt like it belonged to you.

Even if Dean never did.

The worst part?

He loved you.

You knew he did.

Just not the way you wanted.

You were his first phone call.

His emergency contact.

His safe place.

The person he ran to when life went to hell.

But never the person he looked at and saw forever.

And there was a difference.

A devastating one.

The fight happened in November.

Cold rain hammered against the city.

Dean had been dating a girl named Brittany for three months.

Three months of watching him disappear.

Three months of cancelled plans.

Three months of pretending it didn't hurt.

Three months of hearing him talk about her like she hung the moon.

Meanwhile, you were drowning.

And he didn't even notice.

"She's using you."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Dean looked up from his phone.

"What?"

You sat across from him in your apartment.

The one he'd practically lived in since freshman year.

The one that smelled like coffee and old memories.

"She only calls when she wants something."

Dean's jaw tightened.

"Not this again."

"I'm serious."

"You don't know her."

"I know she treats you like an option."

His expression darkened.

Immediately.

Dangerously.

Because Dean hated criticism when it came to the people he cared about.

Especially when it came from you.

For years, you'd been the one person who never judged him.

The one person who always took his side.

And maybe that's why this hit differently.

Maybe that's why his voice became so sharp.

"So what?" he snapped.

"So maybe stop making excuses for her."

Dean stood.

"Maybe stop acting like you know everything."

You stood too.

"I know you."

"No."

He laughed bitterly.

"No, you think you know me."

The words landed hard.

Because that wasn't true.

Nobody knew Dean better than you.

Nobody.

Not his teammates.

Not his girlfriends.

Not even himself, sometimes.

"You're being ridiculous."

Dean scoffed.

"There it is."

"What?"

"That attitude."

Your eyebrows pulled together.

"What attitude?"

"The one where you act like you're always right."

Your stomach sank.

Because this wasn't about Brittany anymore.

This was years of frustration finally finding a target.

And that target was you.

"You think because we've known each other forever that gives you some kind of say in my life."

Your throat tightened.

"That's not what I think."

"Really?"

His eyes flashed.

"Because lately it feels like you have an opinion about everything I do."

You stared at him.

Hurt creeping in.

"Dean—"

"No. You know what? I'm tired."

His voice cracked through the apartment.

"Tired of feeling like I need your approval."

The words hit like a slap.

You physically flinched.

And Dean saw it.

For a second, guilt flickered across his face.

For a second.

Then it vanished.

Years later, you'd remember that moment.

Because that was when he could've stopped.

That was when he could've walked away.

Taken a breath.

Ended the argument.

Instead—

He kept going.

"You know what your problem is?"

You swallowed.

"What?"

His laugh was cold.

"You're jealous."

Silence.

Complete silence.

The room stopped moving.

The rain disappeared.

The air vanished from your lungs.

Because if there was one thing you never wanted Dean to know—

It was that.

Not like this.

Not thrown at you like an accusation.

Not weaponized.

"That's not fair."

His eyes narrowed.

"Then why do you care so much?"

You couldn't answer.

Because the truth was humiliating.

The truth was pathetic.

The truth was that every relationship he had ever been in felt like a funeral to you.

"You want to know what I think?" Dean said.

You shook your head.

Already crying.

Already breaking.

But he didn't stop.

"I think you've gotten way too comfortable."

Your heart pounded.

"What?"

"I think you've spent so many years being my friend that you forgot your place."

The second the words left his mouth, the apartment went still.

Even Dean looked shocked.

Like he couldn't believe he'd said it.

But he didn't take it back.

Your face went white.

"Forgot my place?"

Dean ran a hand through his hair.

Frustrated.

Angry.

Cornered.

And instead of backing down—

He doubled down.

The cruelest thing people do.

"Yeah."

His voice was hard.

"You're my friend."

The words shattered something inside you.

"You don't get to act like you're more important than everyone else."

Tears blurred your vision.

Dean kept talking.

Every sentence another knife.

"You insert yourself into everything."

"You make everything about you."

"Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe around you."

You looked at him.

Actually looked at him.

And for the first time in your entire life—

You didn't recognize the boy standing in front of you.

"Dean..."

Your voice broke.

A warning.

A plea.

A final chance.

Stop.

Please stop.

Please don't do this.

But he was angry.

And angry people don't realize they're destroying things until they're standing in the ruins.

"Maybe Brittany isn't the problem."

He laughed.

A harsh, ugly sound.

"Maybe you are."

That was it.

That was the moment.

The exact second your heart broke.

Not cracked.

Not bruised.

Broke.

Completely.

Because for years you'd convinced yourself that even if Dean never loved you—

He cared.

He understood you.

He valued you.

But the boy standing across from you now was looking at you like you were a burden.

Like you were too much.

Like you had always been too much.

A tear slid down your cheek.

Then another.

Then another.

Dean's anger finally faltered.

The reality of what he'd said beginning to settle in.

But it was too late.

Much too late.

You laughed.

A small, broken sound.

And somehow that scared him more than your tears.

Because you never laughed when you cried.

Never.

"Wow."

Your voice barely existed.

Dean's face paled.

"Y/N—"

"No."

You stepped back.

Like you couldn't stand being near him anymore.

And that hurt him immediately.

Because you had never stepped away from him before.

Not once.

"You know what's funny?"

Tears streamed down your face.

"I spent my whole life loving you."

Dean froze.

The room stopped.

Everything stopped.

His expression emptied.

"What?"

You smiled.

And it was the saddest thing he'd ever seen.

"I loved you when we were kids."

His breathing became uneven.

"I loved you in high school."

The color drained from his face.

"I loved you when we got to Briar."

His eyes widened.

"No—"

"I loved you every single day."

The confession fell between you like shattered glass.

"I loved you through every girlfriend."

Every word hurt.

"I loved you through every heartbreak."

Dean looked physically ill.

"I loved you so much it made me hate myself."

"Stop."

His voice cracked.

For the first time all night.

"Please stop."

But now it was your turn.

Now he had to hear it.

"And the whole time I knew you didn't love me back."

Another tear.

Another crack.

Another piece of yourself falling apart.

"But I thought at least I mattered to you."

Dean closed his eyes.

Like he couldn't bear the sound of your voice.

"I thought I was your best friend."

Silence.

"I thought I was home."

Dean's shoulders shook.

"But apparently I'm just someone who forgot her place."

The look on his face would haunt you forever.

Because that was the exact moment he realized what he'd done.

The exact moment he understood that some words couldn't be taken back.

Ever.

"Y/N—"

His voice shattered.

"I'm sorry."

But it wasn't enough.

Not this time.

Not after years.

Not after tonight.

You picked up your coat.

Your keys.

The pieces of your dignity.

And walked to the door.

Dean followed.

Panicked now.

Terrified.

Because suddenly he understood something he'd never considered before.

You could leave.

You could actually leave.

"Please."

His voice broke.

"I didn't mean it."

You turned.

One final time.

And God, you looked devastated.

Like he'd reached into your chest and ripped something out.

"That's the problem, Dean."

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks.

"You did."

Then you walked away.

And for the first time since he was seven years old—

Dean Di Laurentis watched you leave.

And couldn't stop you.

He'd given you space, but he tried. He'd left food outside the door that would be left untouched. He knocked a few times, with a gentle “sweetheart?” But all you could muster was a suffocated response, muffled by pillows and blankets.

“Go away.”

But Dean Winchester had enough. He pushed your bedroom door open roughly. The same way he would on hunts when he would kick through a locked door. The light from the bunker creeped in to your dark room and you quickly covered your face with your thick comforter.

“Dean,” you groaned from under the blanket. “Shut the damn door.” You cocooned yourself into the bed, nothing but a lump under the blankets. Your hair was a matted mess, and the air was stale. You didn’t stink, but the air was permeated with sweat, sheets that had been laid on for days, and the familiar scent of sadness.

"Alright, sweet pea," Dean said, his voice stern, but not quite mean, or judgemental. You were embarrassed as he walked across your room to open the curtains, then the blinds. You groaned again as even more harsh, blinding light spilled in your room.

"Times up."

You groaned again, seemingly unable to form a sentence. "Dean,” you whined. “Please. Go away.”

"Nope," he said as he grabbed your blanket and pulled it down, exposing your pale, tired eyes. Dried tears and drool on your face and dark circles under your eyes let Dean know that he absolutely was not giving you more time. "I have been patient,” he said as he continued uncovering your warm body, the air on your skin was freezing cold. “I have been understanding.”

He finally had you uncovered and was standing over you now, looking down on you in your bed. “But I am not letting this go on any longer, babygirl. Got it?”

You didn’t respond, you just curled yourself back into the fetal position without your blankets.

“Up. Now." He barked. “Feet on the floor, ass outta bed.”

You shook your head, tears beginning to swell again in your eyes. "I can't, Dean.”

Dean's heart was breaking as he watched you, but he couldn’t let it show. He sat next to you on the edge of the bed, cupping your cheek in his calloused hand brushing away a sweaty hair that was stuck to your face.

"Little one, I know it’s hard,” he said, his voice gentle but still rugged. “But I'm here, and I can’t let this go on anymore, okay?”

You didn’t say anything, you just looked at him.

“This is what’s gonna happen,” he said, matter of factly, gently patting your warm ass. “I’m gonna go run you a bath, ‘kay?”

“Dean, please, I’ll get up, but I’m just too tired.”

“I’ll do all the work.”

You looked at him, and nodded.

“And then you’re gonna let me take care of you. Got it?”

You nodded again.

“Can ya do that for daddy?” He said, with an arrogant smirk.

And finally, you nodded again, trying not to smirk or giggle, but whenever Dean referred to himself as daddy, it did something to you. And Dean knew it as he smiled at you. He pressed a warm kiss to your forehead. “That’s my good girl.”

After a few minutes, you heard the bathroom door creak open, followed by the sound of running water. When Dean came back to your room, your eyes had already closed again. He rolled his eyes as he set the thick towel, and your folded bath robe at the foot of your bed.

"Up we go, sweetheart" he said, scooping you up and out of bed as if you weighed nothing. He cradled you like a baby, and you rested your head in the crook of his neck as he carried you to the bathroom. You breathed in his scent, and closed your eyes at the comfort of his cologne. You were so light, and Dean felt a slight tinge of guilt for not forcing you to eat something sooner.

Once Dean reached the bathroom, steam had already permeated the air, fogging the mirror and the shower door. The tub was full of warm, steamy water, bubbles piled high, and a few drops of your favorite essential oil.

"Look at that, sweetheart," Dean murmured as he gently set you down on the bathroom sink. “Perfect timing.”

He quickly turned to shut the water off and was facing you again right away. He knelt in front of you, his big hands resting on your knees. "C’mon let's get you undressed.”

Dean helped you strip off his oversized Metallica t-shirt and old sweatpants you'd been living in for the last three days. His touch was gentle and slow. He did everything he could to not make you feel exposed or embarrassed. He just guided your clothes off, his rough hands against your smooth skin made you shudder and giggle.

He smirked at you, but his eyes were still filled with tenderness and concern. “There she is,” Dean cooed. “Been missin’ that little giggle.”

Once you were naked, he held your hand as you stepped into the tub. You eased yourself into the hot water, sighing with both relief and exhaustion.

Dean knelt down beside the tub and rolled up his sleeves. He dipped a plastic cup into the water and gently poured it over your hair. His large hands glided down the back of your head, and his fingers got stuck in some of the tangles. When you winced at the tug on your scalp, he noticed and started working his fingers through the knots with surprising gentleness.

"Your hair's a mess, sweet pea," he said gently as he reached for the shampoo.

You didn’t know how to respond, and you were embarrassed, so you didn’t say anything.

“Don’t worry, daddy’s got you,” he said as he worked the shampoo into a lather on your scalp. His strong fingers moved in expert circles by your temples, along your hairline, and all the way back to the nape of your neck. You moaned quietly and let your eyes close, your head tilting back into his hands.

"How's that, sweetheart?" Dean asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Mmm," you hummed, an exhausted smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. "Good."

"Just good?" Dean raised an eyebrow and stopped what he was doing to quickly and gently squeeze your side. You squirmed and giggled as he went back to massaging your scalp.

"This is the princess treatment right here, baby girl.” You looked up at him to meet his green eyes. “Should at least cost you a batch of fresh baked cookies. Or even pie.”

You couldn’t help it when you snorted and broke out into a fit of giggles.

He grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Thank you, Dean"

Dean brought your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Anytime, sweetheart. Now let's get some conditioner on this hair, what do ya think?”

He rinsed your hair, then moved on to washing your body. He took his time, his hands gliding over your shoulders, down your arms, across your collarbones. He used a soft loofah, the warm suds on your skin felt so amazing as he worked his way through your upper body. Dean chuckled deviously when you’d squirm after he passed a ticklish spot.

“Sorry baby,” he whispered with a smirk, but you knew he was doing it on purpose.

Dean reached into the water and rested one leg on the rim of the tub. From your ankle to your hip, he’d follow the loofah with his free hand, gently pressing his fingertips into your soapy leg. You moaned out loud as he loosened your tense muscles.

“Like that, baby girl?” He whispered, and you responded with a nod and a moan.

Dean did the exact same thing on the other side. He took his time, making sure every inch of you was clean. He reached a wet, pruned hand to your cheek and you closed your eyes and relaxed into his touch.

"That's my girl,” he said. “God, you're beautiful."

Your eyes welled up again, but this time it was different. These were good tears. "I love you, Dean."

"Love you too, sweetheart. More than you know."

He dried you off with the fluffy towel, wrapping you in it like a burrito, then helped you into the soft robe. After gently brushing your hair, he led you to the living area of the bunker. You were greeted by a nest of pillows and blankets on the couch, and there was already a steaming mug of your favorite tea on the end table. You also noticed a plate of buttered toast and cut up strawberries.

"Sit," he barked, pointing to the sofa. You obeyed, sinking into the cushions, and covered your lap with another blanket. He quickly reached for the plate and placed it on your lap. “Eat,” he commanded.

You almost protested, just to see how much you could get away with, but the truth was, you were starving. You sunk your teeth into the toast and chewed.

“Good girl,” he said as he settled back down next to you, draping his arm over you on the back of the couch.

He grabbed the remote and scrolled through the Roku.

"Raiders of the Lost Ark? Or Princess Bride?"

"Princess Bride," you said, snuggling into his side, once you were finished eating.

"Good choice." He pressed play, and the familiar music filled the room.

Halfway through the movie, you looked up at him, and you were sure he noticed but he kept his eyes on the tv. "Dean?"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Thank you."

He kissed the top of your head, his lips lingering in your damp hair for a moment. "I always got you."