#dean x reader

“Have sex with me-“

“Yeah, I- I heard you the first time, that’s not-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “It’s eight in the fuckin’ morning-“

“It’s eight fifteen.”

That earns you a flat look, and you smile innocently.

“That’s fifteen extra minutes, it matters-“

“Not for this. And- I ain’t even showered yet-“

Your nose wrinkles. “Why haven’t you showered?”

“I shower after coffee,” Dean mutters, turning his mug in his hands. “If I don’t, Sammy’s stinkin’ up the kitchen from his run.”

“Oh- Okay.” You clasp your hands behind your back, peering at his tight jaw, his mussed, soft-looking hair. “Is that… A yes?”

Dean’s eyes widen on yours. You’re worried he’s going to choke on the air this time. “Yes?”

“Are you going to have sex with me,” you clarify, and his mouth falls open.

“I- I’m- You’re-“ His throat bobs, and he starts to look around the room with a worried squint. “Are you fuckin’ with me?”

You frown. “Why would I be fucking with you?”

“’Cause, sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He lets out a sharp breath. “Is it Sam? Did he put you up to this? ‘Cause I told him- That kinda prank, it’s off the table-“

“What kind of prank?” You’re a little lost, and there’s shame starting to burn up your neck.

A prank. He thinks it’s a prank.

It’s not. You’re so serious it’s almost embarrassing. You wouldn’t have asked him if you weren’t. You’d almost talked yourself out of it, after spending too much time convincing yourself into it. Nights of tossing and turning in bed, an insatiable and aching heat between your legs and the sheets bunched around you in a mockery of a body. Weeks of watching the boys slip out of bars with women that seemed to fall into them like magnets while you spun around, alone on a barstool without any prospects.

Months, of watching Dean with a flush he never saw. An adoration written all over your face he didn’t seem capable of noticing. You’d tried to stomp it out. Your stupid, useless little crush. Dean was older. Seasoned and desirable in the way that made you wonder if he was even real sometimes. Out of your reach, tantalizing, and impossible to just forget about. 

You’d neglect your feelings in the hope they’d die, but he’d water them until they were in full bloom and overtaking your heart and mouth and head. He’d buy the snacks you like and let you chose the movie. He’d open doors and let his hand linger on your lower back, he’d smile at you in the dim light of the Impala and make you feel like the only person in the world, he’d call you when he was away on a separate hunt every single night, just to update you. He’d play wrestle you for the remote, and somehow never manage to wonder why he always won when he’d see you take down men closer to Sam’s size with barely a grunt of effort.

“Nice try, sweetheart,” he’d whisper in your ear, when he had you pinned on the floor beneath him, and you’d have to swallow down your moan.

He’d get up, turn on the TV, and leave you on the couch while he went to the bathroom. You’d sit with your knees to your chest and your breathing uneven, unable to focus on anything but the ghost of his body over yours. The heat of him, the way his arms had caged you in, his knee pressed far too close to your neglected core.

If Dean knew how you dreamed about him—how those moments followed you into bed, every single night—you’re so sure he’d never look at you again. He doesn’t see you like that, you’re sure. You’re the kid they took in, the annoying girl who’s got too much mouth on her and not enough experience, in every possible way.

You’ve never done sex. You sort of just missed the window, where it’s supposed to happen, and then it became too big a deal, then you met Dean and you were lost. What was the point of being with anyone else, when you had his shoulder bumping yours in the hallway. When you were so hopelessly in love with him, you think your heart might beat out of your chest like a cartoon every time you see him.

So you made a choice, a few weeks ago. A choice it took a lot of courage to work yourself up to following through on

You just need to have sex. With someone. Anyone. Preferably Dean. It just needs to be done and over with—one time, where he doesn’t know he’s taking your virginity, where he’s peacefully oblivious of your worship of his very existence—and then you can try to move on. Once you’ve had sex, it won’t be this big monster you shy away from anymore. It’ll just be another thing.

So you’re asking Dean. Outside of your alternate motivations, it’s a sound strategic call. You know about his prowess. He’s bragged to you about all his five-star reviews. And maybe that always made you gag over a toilet bowl after, but if it did, that’s none of his fucking business.

Maybe you’re not up to par with his usual partners, but you can do your makeup, or he can turn off the lights, or whatever else makes it easier for him. Anything that makes him touch you. You won’t even cry about it in front of him.

But he thinks it’s a prank. Why would he think it’s a prank.

“You know,” he says, watching you wearily. “Sammy gives you a tenner, you come and ask me for sex, everyone gets a good laugh at Dean. Good joke. Classy.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, shrinking slightly into yourself. “It’s not a joke,” you mumble. “I- I was serious.”

“You were serious?”

He says it like it’s insane. You shrug, fixing your gaze on the floor. A joke. He thinks fucking you would be a joke.

“Sweetheart-“

“You don’t have to,” you take a step back, trying to sound casual. Like your heart isn’t being torn to ribbons.

You really hadn’t expected him to leap at the opportunity, but this is so close to cruel it hurts. Tears are threatening your eyes, and a lump is forming in your throat. Pathetic, a voice spits in your head. Why the fuck would he ever want to fuck you.

“Wait, just- Hold on-“

You look up, faster than you want to admit. Dean staring at you with pale face and slack jaw, throat working like he’s swallowing his own words every second. You wait, because you’re a fucking useless idiot. Bouncing nervously on your feet—they’re smarter than the rest of you, they want to run—and trying not to melt under his gaze.

“You’re actually askin’ me to fuck you?” He rasps, and you nod.

It’s the tiniest motion of your head. Dean shifts in his seat, staring at you with wide, dark eyes.

“Why?”

“Why?” You frown, saying the first, easiest, least embarrassing reason that pops into your head. “Because- You- You’re good at it?”

“I’m good at it,” Dean repeats. “You wanna fuck me ‘cause you think I’d be good at it?”

You wish he’d stop saying fuck like that. With a harsh ending and low drawl. “I don’t think,” you offer. “You’re the one who said you would be.”

Dean’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t look amused. “I could be lying, sweetheart.”

“I don’t think you are.”

He stares at you. His eyes flick up to the ceiling—maybe he still thinks he’s on a prank show—and he lets out a sharp, slow breath from his nose.

Then he shakes his head, and you feel the echo of your heart as it howls in pain.

“No,” he mutters. “I ain’t- Doin’ that. Not just ‘cause you- No.”

You blink at him, the world blurring a little. You stumble back, and Dean says your name, moving to his feet. You shake your head, moving back another step. Your eyes are stinging with tears, but that’s not his problem. He’s allowed to reject you. You’re also allowed to cry about it.

“Sweetheart-“

“It’s fine.” Your voice is too high. Too wobbly. “It’s- That’s okay.”

“No, just- Fuck-“ He rubs his jaw. “Listen to me, alright-“

“You don’t have to explain,” you shrug weakly. “It’s okay.”

Dean gives you a disbelieving look, but you move further back before he can try to make you feel better about the rejection. It’s not going to help.

“I’ll just-“ You look over your shoulder. To the door, just one more step back.

Dean says your name again. When you look back, he’s reaching to you, trying to beckon you back into the kitchen. You smile, tight and watery.

“Thank you for your consideration.” You say, because you’re a fucking idiot. Dean certainly looks at you like you’re one.

You flee the kitchen. He calls your name again, but this time you don’t look back.

Rejection is fine. You’re fine. You’re so fine, you lock yourself in your room for the rest of the day and eat so much ice cream your stomach hurts. Because it’s fun. It’s fun to cry over something you never even had.

At least you anticipated this. You have a very solid plan B.

If Dean won’t sleep with you, you’re going to find someone who will. You’re going to get it over with. This week.

You’re learning something about yourself.

You are not good at flirting.

The first thing you try is the bars. Sam and Dean slide into a booth, and you go to get the drinks. A guy makes eyes at you, and you smile sweetly in return. When you bring the drinks back, you set the beers down in front of the boys and turn back on your heels to give the bar-guy a shot.

Dean says your name, and you freeze. You always do that for him. It’s a habit you don’t think you’re able to break.

“Where’re you going?” He frowns at you, one arm slung around the back of the seat. Around where you’d usually sit.

“Bar,” you say lamely, and the lines on his face deepen.

“Why, you forget something?”

“No.”

“Then what-“

Dean cuts himself off, his gaze flicking over your shoulder. To the bar. To the man, waiting for you with a smirk, because you promised you’d be back.

Dean grunts your name, low and rough, and if he asked you to stay, you don’t think you’d be able to tell him no.

Things have been strange, since the kitchen. Neither of you have brought it up, and Dean hasn’t stopped treating you the way he always has, but there’s something charged beneath it. A live wire that frays and crackles, every time your fingers brush or your eyes meet. You’ve caught him staring at you with an open mouth a few times. Last week he tried to talk to you, alone in the Impala while Sam got snacks from a gas station. You announced that you had to shit, and scrambled out of the car.

You don’t want to talk about it, and Dean has no right to make you. He’s not the one who got his heart broken. He’s not the one who sort of wants to cry, whenever your eyes meet.

He certainly has no right to glare at you, when he puts together what you’re doing. He said he wasn’t going to sleep with you, and you’re a grown woman. You can, if you so please, have casual sex with a stranger. It is your right.

“You can’t be for real, sweetheart-“

“Dean.” Sam stares at his own beer, looking like he wants to vanish into the floor, and Dean scowls.

“C’mon, Sammy- Tell her she’s being crazy-“

“Crazy?” You snap, and Dean leans back in surprise. “You fuck around all the time, how is it crazy that I’d do the same thing?”

“It’s not- You just- You don’t-“ He swallows. “You don’t do this-“

“I do now.”

“Sweetheart, just- Sit down-“

You flip him off, and march back to the bar before he can ask with a little more conviction. You just need to break out of his orbit. To force yourself to realize that there are plenty of other men, and not having Dean isn’t the end of the universe.

Unfortunately, you sort of just keep proving the opposite.

“What’s a pretty little thing doin’ in a place like this?” The first guy at the bar asks, and you fumble.

You have no idea. You giggle nervously and spin in your chair, speaking words you can’t really hear. He seems into it—no matter how pathetic you must be coming off—until his fingers brush your arm, and you flinch back because his skin is cold. It sends a shiver up your spine that’s not the hot rush of Dean’s touch, but the sliver of a snake.

You go home alone that night, and you don’t look Dean in the eyes. He tries to talk to you, before you retreat to your room. You ignore him, because that’s the only way this is going to work. 

But you try again and again and again, and you never get anywhere. They always touch you, and it all falls apart. You look at them too long, and you can’t manage to squeeze them into a Dean shaped hole in your heart, and there’s no way forward. You try dating apps. That goes worse. Every dick pic you get sent just makes you wonder if sex is even something you want. They’re all worm-shaped and ugly. At least dildos come in nice colors. Maybe you should just buy a dildo.

No. You’ll just pretend it’s Dean all the time, and that’s the opposite of what you’re supposed to be doing here.

So you keep trying. And you keep failing. And Dean’s been looking at you weird—brow pinched and jaw set, every single night—and you’re getting desperate and fuck it.

“Sam.”

Sam hums, not looking up from his book. You clear your throat, leaning further over the table.

“Sam.”

“I’m listening, what’s-“

“Have sex with me.”

Sam, to his credit, doesn’t choke. He just goes very, very still, and looks up at you with an expression close to horror. He says your name slowly, and you shake your head, holding up a single hand.

“Just- Listen-“

“No?” Sam gapes at you. “I’m not- I’m not going to listen to that- Jesus Christ-“

“Come on, we could turn off the lights, and- I wouldn’t make it weird-“

“It’s already weird-“

“You’d be doing me a favor-“

“I’d be making a death wish!” Sam’s voice drops to a hiss. “Dean would fucking kill me.”

 You roll your eyes. “Then don’t tell him, dumbass.”

“No, I- I’m not doing that.” Sam shakes his head, like he’s trying to jolt the image free. “To you. Or him.”

“To him?” You narrow your eyes. “I- What the fuck would this do to Dean?”

Sam gives you a puppy-eyed, hopeless look. “I… Can’t say.”

“Sam Winchester-“

“Why are you asking me?” Sam whines. “I’m not- You’re not even into me-“

“Exactly, there would be no strings attached-“

“That’s not healthy-“

“Fuck off, like you don’t have casual sex-“

“I mean, I do, but I’m not-“ Sam cuts himself off, sighing dramatically. “Just- Why would you even want to have sex with me?”

You flush, but shrug. It’s just Sam. It’s easier to tell him than Dean. “I want to get it over with.”

“Get it over with?” Sam echoes. “It- You mean sex?”

You nod, and Sam blinks.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Maybe.”

“You- You’re-“

“Don’t be an asshole-“

“No, I’m not- I mean- It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It actually-“ Sam frowns at the air. “It makes sense, I guess.”

That makes you scowl. “It makes sense?”

Sam shrugs, giving you an apologetic smile, and you can’t even think of an argument. You sigh, your shoulders slumping, and Sam clears his throat.

“You know I’m not going to sleep with you, right?”

“Yeah.” You sigh, and he nods slowly.

“Does Dean-“

“No.” You point a stern finger at him, and Sam raises his hands in surrender.

“I think you should-“

“Sam. I’ll cut your balls off.”

“I- Okay.”

You give him one last glare, and go to leave. But before you can go, the question scratches up your throat. You turn around, hands tucked behind your back, and speak softly. “Would you?”

Sam blinks. “What?”

“If you didn’t- Know me,” you mumble. “If we weren’t like- Friends. And you just met me, and I asked you- Would you?”

Sam snorts, and you scowl.

“I’m serious-“

“Yeah, I know you are.” Sam’s lips twitch. “It’s just- Yeah. I would. Of course I would.”

You stand a little taller. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean- You know you’re attractive, right? If you just didn’t, like, annoy me. I’d be in.”

“I do not annoy you-“

“You’re annoying me right now.”

You laugh despite yourself. Sam smiles, his voice dropping to something gentler.

“Anyone would be lucky to have you,” he says your name slowly. “I just- Don’t want to be lucky.”

You huff in amusement—if Sam isn’t lying, aversion to luck is a family trait—but dip your head. “Thanks. I think.”

“You’re welcome. And-“ Sam pauses, looking you up and down with a strange expression. “I’m sure the whole- Thing will work out for you. There are… People. I think you’re going to figure it out.”

“You need to sleep with her.”

Dean needed to stop drinking coffee when people walked into the kitchen. This was the second shirt he’d ruined in as many months, and it was because everyone kept saying crazy fucking shit.

“Sammy, what the fuck-“

Sam said your name, and Dean’s hands fisted on the table.

Again. Son of a bitch, he was about to go through this again. The first time had been bad enough. You’d looked at him with glossy, hopeful eyes, practically begged for him to fuck you, and Dean had wondered if he’d died in his sleep last night and been dragged back to hell. Forced to experience some new kind of torture Crowley was developing, where everything he’d ever wanted was just a stretch away from his fingertips, and he wasn’t allowed to take it.

He had to be the noble one here. The wise, old asshole who didn’t take advantage of you. Taking you up on that offer would be one of the worst things he’d ever done. It would be selfish, and cruel, and a worse fate than anything else. To get what he wanted, for one night, then never fucking have it again. To get hooked—because he would, he fucking knew he’d never be able to kiss and touch you once then go back to just living—and turn into an addict willing to do anything to get another hit.

Dean would’ve turned into a bigger creep than he already was. Instead of stares and long, shameful showers with his cock in his hand and your name on his lips, he’d stuff your panties in his pocket and press them to his nose while he fucked himself raw. He’d get possessive, he’d snarl at anyone else who got to close, he’d fall to his knees and beg you to stay if you ever decided you had enough of him.

And he knew that last thing was going to happen eventually. You had a whole life ahead of you, and he was stuck here. In this dim bunker with blood on his hands and under his feet and staining his past and future all at once. He swam in a river of it. In front of him, behind him, washing over him all the time, there was just fucking blood. You deserved better than that. Better than Dean. You deserved the fucking world.

So he’d told you no, and you’d looked at him like a wet fucking kitten he’d kicked into the rain, but it had been for your own good. You’d get over it. Dean was the one who had to watch you flirt with douchebags at the bar. Who couldn’t get in another bed anymore, because he kept getting kicked out for moaning your name.

He was the one who was rooted here forever. You’d find something softer. Something good.  He’d accepted that, with a lot of beer pushing it down. You’d find something better, and that was what he wanted.

Sammy knew all that. Dean had gotten drunk once and confessed his stupid, undying feelings, then sworn Sam to secrecy in the morning. He’d kept his word, only shooting Dean sad looks whenever you went off to flirt and smirking whenever Dean called you on a hunt.

But now he was asking Dean to sleep with you. Like he’d lost his damn mind.

“No,” he grunted, and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Look, Dean, I get that you’re being cool and righteous and whatever-“

“I’m not fuckin’ her, Sammy- I shouldn’t.” He shot Sam a glare. “You know why I shouldn’t.“

“Yeah, well, I think your why is pretty stupid.” Sam said flatly. “You’ve never even asked her if she’d be- You know. Open to it-“

“I know she’d be open to it,” Dean scowled at his coffee. “But that’s- I ain’t doing it, Sammy. Never.” Not like that.

Sam was silent for a moment. When Dean looked up, he was staring at him with wide eyes. “She asked you first, didn’t she.”

Dean frowned. “What’d you mean, asked me first-“

“To take her virginity.”

He hadn’t taken a sip of coffee again. This time, he managed to choke on nothing at all. “To- What?”

Sam leaned back slightly. “Did she not ask you to sleep with her?”

“No, she did, I just didn’t fuckin’- She’s a virgin?”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged. “You know that’s not a big deal, right?”

Dean grunted. His head was spinning. Of course it wasn’t a big deal, he didn’t care. He’d wanted you before, he wanted you now, that wasn’t the fucking issue.

But you’d asked him.

You’d asked him to fuck you. You’d wanted him to- Do it. Take it. Pop it, whatever. You’d chosen Dean, to be the guy, and he’d told you no, and then you’d started flirting around with other people, and you could’ve ended up with someone dangerous, someone who took advantage of you, who thought your inexperience was hot for all the wrong reasons and hurt you and-

Dean paused. He looked at Sam. Sam blinked, and Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“How the fuck do you know that.”

Sam swallowed, taking a small step back. “Uh…”

“Sam-“

“She might’ve… Asked me.”

“She what-“

“I said no!” Sam said quickly. “I told her I wouldn’t. But- You know.” Sam cleared his throat. “If you’d said yes to her the first time…”

Sam gave him a pointed look. He was asking to get punched in the fucking face.

“No.”

“Dean, just-“

“No. I’m not takin’ advantage of her, Sammy, I’m not-“

 “It’s not taking advantage of her if she wants it!”

“She doesn’t want it-“

Sam snorted. “Oh, fuck off.”

Dean blinked, leaning back in his chair. Sam turned a little red, wincing at himself, but didn’t back down.

“Wow, Sammy. Big claws, huh.”

Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean… Just- Think about her, okay?”

Dean almost laughed. “All I fuckin’ do is think about her-“

“Then think a little harder.” Sam said flatly. “Before both of you get actually hurt.”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that. Sam didn’t seem to be asking for one. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Dean alone. With only his coffee mug and thoughts for company. A dangerous thing to do. Dean could talk himself into and out of almost anything, if the logic police weren’t there to stop him.

He was going to do something really fucking stupid and selfish, and it was all Sam’s fault.

“Come in!” You call to the knock on your door, glancing up from your laptop as the door creaks open.

Dean shuffles into your room with his head bowed. Your face heats, and you slam the laptop closed. He doesn’t need to see you scrolling through hookup websites and think any lower of you. You’re already losing sleep over the worry you’ve fractured something between you beyond repair.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he swallows.

“Uh- Hey.”

“Hi.” What the fuck is wrong with you.

Dean’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

You start to pull the sheets between your fingers, trying not to ogle him too obviously. He’s wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and it’s sexier than all the profile pics you’ve spent hours staring at. His hair is a mess, and there are bags under his eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever wanted to climb over him more.

“You, uh-“ He glances at your computer. “You busy?”

“No- No.” Never for him. You shove your computer onto your bedstand, moving to sit on your knees. “What’s up?”

Dean’s throat bobs. He runs a hand through his hair, huffing something close to a laugh, and shakes his head. “Jesus.”

“What-“

“Nothin’.” He clears his throat, giving you a strange look. “Did you ask Sam to sleep with you?”

Your mouth falls open. You almost trip sitting down. “I- I didn’t-“

“You didn’t?”

“No, I mean- I- He wasn’t supposed to tell you,” you whine, avoiding Dean’s stare. “I didn’t- Fuck-“

“Hey- It’s- Woah-“

Dean crosses the room in a few strides, grabbing your wrists with firm, warm hands. You’d started to pick at your nails with the anxiety. You hadn’t even realized it.

“Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart,” he mutters, his thumb dragging a circle on your wrist.

You nod, your voice only a breath. “Okay.”

He’s so close. You can count all his crow’s feet, map his stubble, trace his lips with just your eyes. He’s still frowning at your wrist, so you allow yourself to stare.

Then he looks up. And you freeze in panic, but don’t manage to look away.

Dean’s tongue flicks over his lips. Your breath catches. Neither of you move, and you let yourself have it. For a single second, you imagine that Dean is here, in your room, on your bed, and that means something. You get lost in the warmth of his proximity, the calloused but soft feeling of his touch.

“Sammy told me something else,” Dean mutters, scanning over your slack, flushed features.

“Yeah?” You whisper, and he nods tightly.

“Yeah. Said you’re, uh-“ He clears his throat. “Said you’ve never- You know.” He cringes. “Been fucked.”

Your mouth falls open. You think you’d like to die now. “Dean-“

“Is that why you asked me?” His grip tightens on your wrist. Not allowing you to pull away. “’Cause you just wanted someone to take it?”

You drop your gaze to his crotch. There’s a soft bulge there. You’d drool over it, if you didn’t think you were going to explode any second now. 

Dean says your name, and you shake your head.

“Don’t,” you mumble. “Don’t just- Feel bad for me- You said no, that’s- It’s fine-“

“What if it’s not.”

Your eyes shoot up. You’d think he was joking, if he didn’t look so fucking serious. His jaw is set. His eyes are blown out and fixed on yours. Your mouth hangs stupidly open, and Dean smiles softly.

“Huh?” You manage to choke out, and he almost chuckles.

“What if I wanted to. Help you.”

“But-“ You blink. “You don’t.”

Dean shakes his head. “Wrong, sweetheart. I do-“

“You said you didn’t-“

“I lied.”

You stare at him. He doesn’t back down.

“Would it mean something?” He muttered, reaching up to trace the curve of your cheek. “If I did it?”

You nod weakly, leaning into his touch. It sends violent, hot shivers through your whole body. Almost like a fever. You don’t want the cure. “Would it matter to you?” You ask, and Dean’s eyes flash. His fingers curl on your cheek. He leans an inch forward, then another inch. Your lips brush, the lightest possible touch, and you let out a soft, uncertain whine.

Dean pushes forward, his lips fully crashing into yours, his kiss demanding but certain. He presses over you, pulling you a little further up on your knees. You grab the collar of his shirt for balance, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to kiss him back with as much fervor as he’s offering you.

“De- Dean-“ You gasp against his lips. “Dean-“

He groans, his arm sliding around your back so he can pull you tight to his chest. You melt into his arms, and his kisses turn messy. Open mouthed and rough, his tongue dragging over your teeth as his fingers dig into your hips. You run out of air fast, but don’t try and pull away. You don’t want this to ever end, and you’re afraid that if you dare to break the moment, it will never be repaired.

High gasps start to escape your throat, though, and Dean pulls away. He cups your face between his hands, frowning slightly, and presses his brow against yours. You struggle for air, almost pressing forward to try and kiss him again, but he holds you in place.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he mutters, rough and thick. It’s the same voice he uses on you during hunts. When he’s giving an order you didn’t ask for.

Usually, you protest or ignore him. Right now you’re putty in his hands. He could tell you to follow him to hell, and you would. You’d do anything, just for him to never let go.

You inhale unevenly, and Dean rubs your upper back. His hand slipped under your shirt, and his palm is broad and warm. It—annoyingly—helps a lot.

“There you go,” he murmurs, watching you under hooded eyes. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine again. “Dean-“

“Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t fucking look sorry. His lips are twitching, and there’s a smug glint in his eyes that’s almost dangerously intoxicating.

“Better?” He asks, and you nod, slumping closer to his chest. He doesn’t push you away.

This might be real.

“Are you sure, ‘bout this?” Dean rasps, and you almost giggle.

“Yes.”

“I’m old, sweetheart-“

“I like it.”

Dean blinks, and you stutter, so sure you should shut up but not really sure how.

“I- I mean- I like you, so- I don’t care if you’re old- I like you old- I like you-“

Dean smirks, holding your face so firmly against his  you can’t shy away.

“You- Can you- I mean- If it’s just- Just sex- You can forget I said- I think you being old is hot-“

He finally takes mercy, and shuts you up with a long, rough kiss. You hum, pushing further up on your knees, and climb slowly into Dean’s lap. He sucks on your lower lip, angling your head back as your core settles against his bulge, then pulls back with a low sigh.

“Not just sex,” he mutters, dragging his thumb over your swollen lower lip. “Not with you, baby.”

You nod, smiling wider than you probably should. “Cool.”

Dean grins back. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Cool ‘cause you like me,” he teases, shoving your hips down, right over his crotch. “Of ‘cause I’m old.”

You face burns. All you can do is stare and him and whimper, “You’re spritely.”

Dean huffs, in disbelieving amusement. “Spritely? You think I’m-“

“Youthful,” you babble quickly. “You’ve got a lot of…” You flush as he stares at you, sort of wishing he’d just kiss you and shut you up. “Youth.”

Dean’s mouth curves up. “Youth, huh.”

You nod, and he chuckles, pressing the lightest kiss over your lips.

“Hurts when I bend over now, honey, don’t think that’s very youthful of me.”

“So don’t bend over,” you mumble, and Dean snorts.

“Demanding, aren’t we?”

You shrug, trying not to turn into a puddle and miserably failing. Dean kisses your cheek, then under your eye, tracing his mouth down so he breath tickles your ear.

“Mouthy and demanding,” he rubs your hips, dragging your hips back and forth across his crotch. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna fix that.”

You whimper, and Dean’s grin grows.

“You like that, huh.”

“Dean-“

“Ah,” he kisses the corner of your mouth, moving away before you can chase his lips. “You wanted my help. This is how I’m gonna help, baby. Takin’ real good care of you,” he thrusts his hips up, and you whine as the hard outline of his cock hits your clothed pussy. “Just like this.”

 You nod, pressing your face into the crook of Dean’s neck. You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on. It’s different, with Dean’s hands wandering your sides and his voice right in your ear. Your heart pounds and everywhere gets slick with sweat and arousal, just his dirty talk reducing you to a heap of confused nerves. Dean’s lips drag over your jaw, and you curl further around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he nips at your throat.

“Just gotta do what I tell you, alright?” He mutters, squeezing a handful of your ass. “Can you do that, baby? Do it for me?"

You nod quickly, and Dean chuckles against your skin.

“Eager,” he drawls, pushing his fingers slowly under the hem of your shorts. “Eager and soft.”

He squeezes your ass again, his fingers brushing against the edge of your pussy. You grind backwards, trying to push him to where you need him so very desperately. He lets you, teasing his fingers over the lips of your pussy, and you whine in his ear.

“Sit still,” he grunts, and you have to bite your lower lip, but you force your hips to come to a stop.

It earns you a sharp slap of your ass, and a kiss on the side of your head. Worth it.

“That’s right,” he mutters, letting those thick fingers dance back over your cunt.  “Good work, baby girl. You fuckin’ love the attention, don’t you. Eager to please me, eager to make me proud.”

You swallow, hugging him so tight you’re a little worried you’ll choke him. Dean doesn’t even flinch. He dips two fingers into the wetness of your heat and groans right in your ear, spreading the arousal everywhere between your thighs.

“If you’re gonna hide that pretty face,” he grunts in your ear. “At least fuckin’ kiss me.”

Nervously, you wander your lips over the strong curve of his shoulders, the arch of his neck. Dean moans in your ear, his cock jumping in his jeans. His fingers keep wandering near and around your pussy, and you get a little bolder. Kissing up his jaw, over his cheek, the top of his lip. You’re panting, trying to focus on your job as Dean keeps pulling and teasing you with his touch.

“Shit,” he moans your name, tracing around your flutter entrance. “That’s it, baby, just like that-“

 Dean grabs your jaw with his free hand, like he can’t fucking help himself, and slams his lips against yours. You squeak in surprise, but kiss him back, grinding down onto his hand. His fingers dip inside of you for a moment, and you moan. Dean grunts and shoves those fingers inside of you.

Your mouth falls open, your eyes widening at the thick, pleasurable stretch. He feels so good, so fucking right, you’re worried his cock might kill you.

“Look at you,” Dean coos, smirking at your slack face. “Just my fuckin’ fingers, baby. Keep breathin’, or this is all we’re doing tonight.”

You take a deep breath, sharp and sudden, and Dean smirks in approval.

“Good girl,” he pushes his fingers a little deeper, scissoring them and bumping against a spot that makes your whole body jerk.

“Dean-“

“Shh,” he kisses you, crooking his fingers to rub against that hidden button, and you mewl against his lips. “You feel that, baby?”

“Mmm- Mhm.” You press your cheek against his, eyes fluttering as Dean keeps pushing and tickling deep inside you. “Feels good.”

“I know it does, sweet girl,” he wraps his hand back around your neck, guiding your brow to press back against his. “It’s that special little spot, gonna make everything feel good.”

His words are sweet and mocking all at once, and it sends a new gush of arousal between your legs. You watch him with wide, clouded eyes, and Dean’s smile softens for a single second. He kisses you, more gentle than before, and pulls his fingers slowly out of your cunt.

“Lie down,” he whispers before you can protest, and you swallow, but obey.

Dean hums in approval, rubbing a massive hand on your thigh.

“Everything off,” he says, and you go still.

“Everything?”

“Mhm,” he raises his brows at your flushed expression. “That gonna be a problem?”

You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your stomach. You don’t want to disappoint him, but he’s going to see you. Really, fully see you. God, you really don’t want him to see you and change his mind, and-

“Hey,”  Dean takes your hand, squeezing it gently. “You want my help?”

“Yes, please,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes. 

Dean rips off his shirt first—makin’ it even, he says—then makes quick work of his jeans. You don’t get more than a second to marvel him—flushed, tanned chest and thick everything, and heavy cock that does not look like a worm—before he’s touching you. He shimmies your shorts down, then peels your shirt over your head, leaving you in only your underwear. For a moment he just admires you, palming his cock with a tiny grin, and you roll onto your stomach.

Dean laughs, tapping your ass with a single finger. “Gettin’ shy, baby?”

“Shut up-“

“Ah.” He drags that finger down your clothed pussy. “Who tells who what to do?”

Your face burns, and you press your face further into the pillows. Dean chuckles, and you feel the bed shift as he crawls over your body. You can feel the heat coming off of him, feel the drag of his cock somewhere near your ass as he whispers in your ear.

“You were doin’ so well,” he drawls, unhooking your bra with a single hand. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

It doesn’t help. You keep grinding, trying to get some friction with the sheets. Dean’s hand comes down on your pussy with one, sharp smack, and you squeal, pushing back against his hand.

“Needy fuckin’ baby,” he mocks. “Can’t even help it, can you. Still tryin’ to be good for me.”

He hooks two fingers around your panties, pulling them tight so they push against your clit. You push back against his hand, and he smirks against your ear.

“You want a little more?”

You nod, and he snaps the fabric down, sending a tiny shock through your body.

“Say please-“

“Please,” you gasp, moving your arms up to hide your face. “Please, Dean- More- Oooh-“

Dean’s thumb finds your clit, rubbing in slow, tight circles. Your words fall off, and he fists a hand in your hair, tugging your head back to allow him to kiss you again.

He’s not cruel, with how he touches you. He’s generous, but controlled. Every stroke of your clit is deliberate, making your head spin and your mouth fall further open. That seems to be exactly how he wants you, though, because he pushes his tongue further down your throat and flicks his thumb back and forth, working you up into a writhing frenzy.

When his fingers finally push back inside of you, Dean almost seems unwilling to pull back and stop kissing you. You’re bent back and pliant under him, whimpering happily as he feeds his fore and middle finger into your hole.

“Greedy little pussy,” he rasps against your lips. “Know you’re gonna strangle my cock, baby, son of a bitch-"

He groans, like he’s the one being fingered into oblivion. He’s set a harsh pace with his wrist, snapping his fingers in and out of your cunt without relent. His thumb moved away from your clit, replaced by the heel of his palm, rubbing in tight, unrelenting circles on your swollen clit.

Every single time, he hits that spot inside of you, and your head is starting to get light. All the electricity and heat in your body is pushing down into your core, building like a bomb and threatening to explode. You almost sob, with how overwhelming the sensation is. Dean notices, kissing you a little softer.

“Poor girl,” he mutters. “Already like this and I’m not even properly fuckin’ you.”

“Your- Your hands,” you push out the word between sharp breaths. “They’re big.”

Dean grunts, his cock jumping near your ass. “Yeah, sweetheart? You like how fuckin’ big my hands are?”

“Mh- Mhm.”

You try to kiss him again. He pulls back, moving his hand impossibly faster against your cunt.

“Words,” he grunts. “You’re not stupid enough to not speak, not yet.”

“Like it,” you breathe out. “Love- Love it, Dean, oh- Oh my god-“

You moan again, and Dean grunts. His hips are starting to jerk near your ass, making him rut against you as his fingers work.

“Your close,” he mutters, pressing his fingers fully inside and crooking them against that gooey spot. “Cum for me, pretty girl. Now.”

His voice must have some kind of supernatural power over you, because that pressure in your lower tummy bursts, and your orgasm rips through you link a hurricane. Your thighs clench, trapping Dean’s hand between your legs, and he groans, rubbing his fingers harsher and harsher against your g-spot. You’re shaking and rolling beneath him, and he has to grab the back of your neck and pin it down to keep you still.

Dean works you through your orgasm, whispering low praise in your ear as you float back down to earth. Your pussy feels empty, when his fingers finally pull away. Your eyes are slightly crossed, and your smile is dazed and a little stupid.

You don’t even squeak, when Dean grabs your thigh and flips you over. You keen, back arching and body twitching, but you’re mostly just staring stupidly and happily up at him. Dean swallows, his chest rising and falling fast, and leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. You hum, eyes fluttering shut, and cup the back of his neck to hold him against you.

He drags his fingers lazily through the mess between your thighs, sending pleasurable little shivers up your spine. He drags your panties fully off your body, holding them up to his nose and taking a deep, long whiff before tossing them off to the side. He gathers your arousal on his fingers and slowly pulls away, rising over you with parted lips and gleaming, almost wholly black eyes.

Dean sucks your juices off his fingers, lapping them up with his tongue and a lazy, knowing smirk. Your breath catches. You almost push up to try and grab him, but you’re still foggy and boneless from the orgasm, and he shoves you back down with a broad hand splayed over your tummy.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off under his stern gaze, swallowing nervously.

“Please?” You try again, and he chuckles.

“You’re cute.”

“I- I am not-“

“Yeah, you are. Cute when you cum for me,” he dips his fingers back into you, smirking lazily. “Cute when I touch you. Cute when you beg.”

“Deeeean-“

“Deeean,” he mocks, squeezing your upper thigh. “Listen to you. Fuckin’ adorable.”

You flush, a new wave of arousal hitting you like a rising tide, and you don’t even understand how you could possibly be ready that fast. Dean watches you pussy tremble and flutter, letting out a slow, rough breath.

“Son of a bitch,” he shakes his head, his hand moving to rub against his cock. “You got no idea what you do to me, baby, no fuckin’ idea.”

You swallow, watching him move against himself, almost enchanted. He really is prettier than is fair, in every possible way. His cock is thick and long, flushed at the head and leaking pre-cum against his thumb. Your tongue flicks over your lips, as you try to mentally measure the girth and length of him. You’ve taken toys before, when you got really curious. He’s bigger.

“You wanna touch, sweetheart?” He prompts, and you nod, your tongue flicking over your lips.

Dean pushes his hips forward, slowly taking your hand and guiding it against his shaft. He’s warm. Warm and hard. You dance your fingers down the length of him and he grunts, a vein ticking in his neck.

“Easy…” He rasps, and you nod nervously.

You find his balls, give them a light squeeze, and Dean catches your wrist.

“That’s enough.” He mutters, twining your fingers together. “Jesus, woman, gonna blow it before I even get inside of you.”

Your eyes widen. You’d almost forgotten about that part.

“That’s not going to fit inside of me.”

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, it will.”

“No, I mean like- It can’t-“

“It can.”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

He shuts you up with a quick rough kiss, and you go embarrassingly limp. His cock rubs between the folds of your pussy, bumping and pressing against your clit, and your breath hitches. Oh, God.

“Just do what I tell ya,” he mutters. “We’re gonna make it fit.”

You do. It is very easy to do what Dean tells you, when he follows through on all his promises. When he gives you such low and certain orders, and you find yourself molding perfectly around his cock.

Because it does fit. Somehow, Dean spreads your legs and kisses your pussy once—as if he can’t help himself—before crawling over you and slowly pushing the head of his cock inside of you. It’s tight at first. He grunts, pressing his brow to you shoulder, and rubs tight circle around your clit with his thumb.

“Open up for me, baby,” he rasps. “C’mon.”

You go limp with every inch he feeds you. The stretch is glorious, pulling you apart with every drag over your fluttering walls, every low grunt of your name from Dean’s lips. His determination to tease you seems to dissolve, by the time he’s fully seated inside of you, his balls pressed against your ass. He pants in your ear, hot and heavy, and cradles your body in his arms like it’s fragile.

“Slow,” he mutters, and it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than you. “Gonna go slow.”

You keen, at the first, lazy thrust of his hips. A lewd, wet sound fills the air, and the head of Dean’s cock pushes right up against that already abused spot inside of you, making stars dance behind your eyes. Every roll of Dean’s hips makes your whole body spark. He kisses all over your face, his own voice thick and wrecked as you clench around him.  

“Takin’ me so well, baby,” he rasps. “Feels good, doesn’t it. Feels so fuckin’ good, bein’ filled up with cock like you deserve-“

His words fall into a moan, his hips snapping forward, and the air gets knocked from your lungs. A sound you’ve never heard escapes you, and Dean chuckles, kissing your open mouth as he repeats the motion.

“Yeah, you like that.” He pulls almost fully out, then slams back forward. “Say it, baby girl, say you like it-“

“I like it,” you gasp out, sounding drunk to your own ears. “Love it, Dean- Fuck- Fuuuck-“

Dean captures your mouth in another kiss, and sets a brutal, drilling pace. You’re split open with every thrust, your every nerve on fire as he fucks you like a machine. He never gets too fast, just hard. Over and over and over again, until you’re gasping for air and clawing at his shoulders. That pressure turns molten and demanding, threatening to burst. Dean’s fingers dig into your hips. He moans in your ear, his own words staring to slur.

“Tight,” he moans. “So fuckin’ tight- I- I can’t- Shit-“

Dean’s hands fumble, dragging over your thighs and as he gropes for your pussy. Two fumbling fingers find it, rubbing tight circles, and you cry out, clenching down on his cock.

“Let go, sweetheart, need you to let for ‘f me- Fuck-“

Your orgasm hits you even harder than before, and your vision goes white. Your pussy flutters and clenches, something hot gushing out as your body trembles with overwhelming pleasure. It’s a strange sensation, but not bad. Not even close. You think you scream with pleasure, but Dean slams his mouth over yours and muffles the sound.

His hips stutter and jerk. You whine his name and he grunts, slamming forward and burying himself at the hilt as his cum spurts deep inside you, mixing with your own release.

You’re almost gone to the world. Dean lies over you, kissing you as you float back down, murmuring praise you can barely hear.

“Gonna clean you up,” he grunts, and you whine when his weight disappears.

“Deeean.” You grab at the air and catch his bicep. “Stay.”

You pout at him, eyes watery and hopeful. He just chuckles, kissing your knuckles before drawing back up, and promising to return.

He better. You really don’t want to let go of him now.

Dean brings a wet, warm towel, and cleans between your thighs. You didn’t realize how sore you were until he touches you with such light hands, but it’s a good kind of sore. When you moan, it’s not even really in pain.

He brings you water. A snack and a fresh shirt, that he bundles you in like a penguin. You somehow end up curled against his chest, half asleep and smiling against his bare, warm chest.

“I like you,” Dean says suddenly, and you beam. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so bubbly in your life.

“I like you too-“

“No,” his jaw works, the words low and tight. “I like like you- Like- Fuck-“

He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. It’s almost adorable.

“You- You’re just- That really wasn’t nothin’ for me, sweetheart, not even close-“

You take his trick. You push up on his chest, press your lips together, and kiss him until he shuts the fuck up. He kisses you back immediately, cupping your face between shaking hands. You smile against his lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “I like you too.”

Dean’s eyes snap open, his voice hoarse. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you flush. “A- A lot.”

Dean grins. He smiles wider than you knew he could, and slams a shorter rougher kiss against your lips before pulling back again. Like he can’t stand not to look at you for too long.

“Can I take you out?” He says, and you nod.

“Can we have more sex,” you whisper, and he laughs, pressing another kiss against your lips.

“Any time you want, baby.” He says. “You’re mine now.”

✦End note: drooling for him ✦

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“Um yeah,” you mutter, because you may have to fake your body language, leaning away from him in a way that’s supposed to express discomfort, but you don’t have to fake your shyness. 

“Lemme buy you a drink. Pretty thing like you shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I’m good, thanks,” you say, twisting your beer bottle around. 

“C’mon, just one drink. I don’t bite unless you want me to,” he says smirking, and the way he says it is so unlike Dean, it sets your teeth on edge. If you were really a girl he was trying to pick up, he would have taken no for an answer, but left the door open for you to change your mind, which you inevitably would. He would have said something like; ‘If you’re sure. You know where to find me, baby’ and taken his seat back with a flirty wink. He wouldn’t have insisted or thrown that corny, overused innuendo at you.

“No, really, I’m okay. Thank you.” And you’re squashing your eyebrows together, squirming in your seat, trying to look intimidated but this is Dean and nothing about him is intimidating. Not to you.

“It’s just one fuckin’ drink, bitch. Don’t be such a stuck-up priss.” 

Dean’s a good actor but you know he feels remotely uncomfortable having to say any of this to you. It doesn’t matter. The man beside you, taller than Dean but not quite as broad, stands up off his stool. 

“Didn’t you hear the lady? She said she doesn’t want a drink, punk.”

Dean makes a big show of backing off, raising his hands in submission and muttering something about how he was ‘only trying to be nice’, before backing away to his table once again. You turn to your saviour with a smile that you hope is radiant.

“Thank you so much,” you simper. “That got a bit scary for a second.”

He looks nice. He is lightly tanned with wavy brown hair, soft green eyes and a handsome smile that verges on shy. You think that this must be what Sam would look like, if life had been a little kinder to him.

“Don’t mention it,” he says with a modest shrug. “God, I can’t stand guys like that. I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“Happens more often than you think. Not many people would step in like you just did.”

His chest puffs out like a pigeon at the praise. “Maybe it’s because I’m a cop, but I can’t stand when people sit around and do nothing when something like that is happening in front of them. Makes me sick.”

“You’re a cop?” you ask, smiling and trying to do that ‘doe-eyed shit’ that Dean always accuses you of. It’s harder to do on demand. “That’s so cool, I really admire you guys. Your job must be really hard.”

He shrugs again, cheeks going a dusty pink. “It’s worth it if I can get to help people. But yeah, it can get a bit hairy sometimes.”

“I bet,”  you sigh. “I heard about this weird killing spree in the next town over. Those guys sure aren’t living the dream right now. I can’t imagine all the things they have to see.”

He straightens up immediately, animation dropping from his face. “Actually, I- uh, I’m working on those cases right now. You’re right, it’s not pretty.”

You’re losing him. His eyes are drifting away from you, away from the conversation. He’s searching for an out. You’re dimly aware of Dean’s eyes on you from afar, boring holes into your head. In a blind panic, your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, one hand reaching out to his arm in a consoling manner. His eyes drop just once to where your hand meets his wax, green jacket and you feel him coming back to you. 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for bringing that up,” you say, teeth worrying your lip with anxiety that you don’t really have to falsify. “I had no idea. I’m a bit of a true crime junkie, but the last thing you want to do is talk about that right now on your time off. I’m just gonna go. It was nice meeting you and thanks for, uh-” You make a vague gesture towards Dean, who is still watching you with dark eyes.

“No,” he says, hand moving over your own one on his arm to stop you from moving. He smiles in such a genuine way, it almost makes you feel guilty. “I can let you in on a couple secrets if you promise to keep it between us.”

You brush your hair behind your ear and laugh, soft and shy.

“I’m Jeremy, by the way.”

You have to stop yourself from saying I know.

“Sold it a bit too hard back there,” Dean grumbles, leaning against Baby with his arms folded and watching you dart out of the bar. He’s wearing an irritated scowl.

“Don’t be an ass,” you say, rolling your eyes as you open the car door and slide into the passenger seat. It’s not often that you get to ride shotgun and it feels weird - like you’ve suddenly become more important. Dean follows. “You’re the one that told me to ‘charm the pants off him’ if I remember correctly, so-”

“Yeah, charm him,” he says. “I didn’t say to fuckin’ feel him up.”

“Feel him up?” you splutter with a half-laugh as Dean pulls out of the drive. “You’re ridiculous. I put a hand on his arm. I’ve seen you do worse.”

“Yeah, whatever. You get anything outta him?”

You launch into the story and try to share all the same bits that Sam usually does. You tell him how the victims were all men in their early 20s, recently discharged from a hospital not far away. How the cops are currently questioning the hospital staff but haven’t found anything suspicious just yet. You describe all the gnarly injuries, all the pieces of evidence left behind.

“Um- I think that’s it,” you say, eyebrows furrowing together as you try to figure out whether there is anything you left out.

“That’s it?” Dean says with surprise, eyes shifting from the road to you briefly. “You were in there for damn near an hour. Thought this was about to be some fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes shit.”

“Well I couldn’t just leave straight away once he gave me the information, Dean,” you say, frowning at him. “That’s suspicious. And rude.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a second and shakes his head. “Never mind. What hospital is it?”

You bite your lip, face flushing. “Um- I don’t know. Should I have asked?”

“Goddamnit, sweetheart-”

“I can ask!”

“Ask who?” Dean frowns.

“Jeremy. The cop from the bar. I mean, I probably can’t just call him up and ask him outright but if I tell him I want to meet up then maybe I could-”

“You exchanged numbers?”

“Well yes,” you say, watching Dean carefully. He is looking more wound up by the second. “He asked and I couldn’t really say no after talking for so long. Besides, it’s useful now because I can ask him what hospital it was.”

“Jesus Christ. I asked you to charm information out of him, not to start a fuckin’ fling-”

“Well maybe you should have waited for Sam or done it yourself!” you say, voice raising in frustration. Your lip is wobbling a little bit and it feels like barbed wire is tightening around your throat. “I’m no good at this stuff, the flirting for information. I get nervous. You know that.”

Dean takes one look glance at you out of the corner of his eye and all his exasperation slips away. He lets out a puff of breath and his body deflates with it, eyes going soft and gooey like they always do when you get upset. It makes you feel like a kid in a horrid, humiliating way, but it’s better than being on the receiving end of his frustration. Dean being annoyed at you is your own personal hell. Of course, he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know anything about that and you’d like to keep it that way for as long as you possibly can.

“Hey now, none of that. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find out what hospital is it, don’t you worry about it.”

You nod once and turn to face out the window, still fighting the unsteady feeling in your throat and behind your eyes. Damn him - you’re so soft when it comes to Dean. No matter how much you rebel against it, no matter how many phases of denial or resistance you go through, you just can’t fight how you react to him.

He is still giving you cautious looks whenever he can pry his eyes away from the road. “C’mon, sweetheart. Y’mad at me?”

You shake your head because you don’t trust your voice to carry anything, but you still don’t look at him. He sighs and pulls in to a gas station at the side of the road. It’s one of those small, Americana-style ones you’d find on route 66. You can’t imagine he can get very much in there. He gets out without saying anything and you flinch as the car door slams shut.

You tap your fingers against the window as you wait for him and think resentfully about the fact that he, and he alone, seems to determine whether you’re going to have a good day or a bad one. One smile is enough to make you feel the sun on your skin even when the clouds are out, but his disapproval or disappointment shatters you in a way that not much else can.

It’s hard to remember a time when that wasn’t the case. You look back on your life before the Winchesters as boring - insignificant, even. It’s probably pathetic and un-feminist to admit, but it’s true. 

The before of your life seems grey. Before Sam convinced Dean to let you tag along with them because you had nowhere else to go. Before you managed to convince him that you were more than just a burden - that you could help with their jobs. Before you wormed your way into his heart, even if it’s not in the capacity that you might have wished for.

When Dean slides back into the car, he has a cherry cola and a pack of those sour green gummy worms that make your face scrunch up and your tonsils hurt. They’re your favourite.

He watches you as you take them from his hands and when you smile, so does he.

Dean finds out which hospital it is two days later. You’re not sure whether he called up Sam, who is out of commission in a motel a few towns back with the flu, or if he did some digging of his own while you were asleep. But he’s tugging on his jacket by the time you wake up in the motel bed, bleary eyed and sore from the awkward position you slept in.

“Dean?” Your voice is thick with sleep. “Where are you going?”

“I’m headin’ out to the hospital to poke around. It’s early. You go back to sleep, I’ll be quick.”

You would usually fight him on this, but your body is tired, having only recently shaken off the flu that you had so kindly passed on to Sam. You nod drowsily, a bit dizzy with sleep, and he gives you a fond, amused smile, as if you did something very funny. You watch him leave.

Your mind is too awake to drift immediately back into your stupor, and your body gradually wakes up with it. Within a few minutes, you’re too alert to even try. The red digits on the alarm clock read 7:09, and you suppose most coffee places would be open about now.

Dean has all your expensive hair products and shower gels out on the counter of the bathroom and you file that away to complain about later, even though you secretly kind of like when he uses your stuff. You like to think that he might have struck out a couple times because the woman could smell the sweet, girly scents on his skin and hair, and assumed he had a girlfriend.

The shower you take is short, only because there is a film of dirt on the shower floor that makes you feel like you might slip. Most of your clothes are in dire need of laundering so you pluck one of Dean’s plaid shirts up. You tell yourself that it’s ok because he has used something of yours too, even though you know you’re lying to yourself. This is very different. You’re wearing Dean’s shirt because some ugly, desperate part of you wants to feel close to him - wants to smell his scent on your skin. He’s explained to you why he uses your toiletries; “All that girly shit is fuckin’ luxe. Makes my skin feel like a baby’s goddamn ass”.

You check your phone for any updates from Dean before you leave the room, but you see only the same text that had been sitting there since yesterday.

JEREMY (COP FROM BAR - HOSPITAL MURDERS): I really loved meeting you last night. Let me know if you’re free any time soon. I would love to take you on a date.

You smile despite yourself as you descend the stairs of the motel, which leads directly onto the streets of the town. The guy really was sweet, but Dean’s reaction is enough to stave off any intentions to respond, even just for a ‘fling’, as he termed it. It’s hypocritical, really, that Dean has the freedom to chat up whoever he wants on a job but considers you to be ‘derailing the operation’ whenever there is the slightest hint of a connection on your end.

Ultimately, though, it’s fine. Your feeble old heart has a one-track mind and any attempts to satisfy it with some shoddy, off-brand replacement, whether for one night or more, leave you feeling sick and heartbroken. You’ve learned well enough by now that any time you try to move on, it just leaves you bereft.

It’s not even that you think that nobody can compare to Dean - not exactly. Dean is good and he’s kind and is smooth enough to make a nun blush. He’s smart, funny, loyal - the best kind of person there is. But you’ve met a lot of guys with those same qualities. It’s just Dean’s unique blend of those characteristics that you feel must have been concocted within him specifically for you.

And it’s fine that Dean flirts with other women. That he can pick up a girl as easy as others can tie their shoelaces and throw them away even easier. Because he has suffered enough and done enough good in this world to be allowed these kinds of indulgences, and you know that if he was aware of how you felt, he wouldn’t do it anymore. He would lock himself away to avoid hurting your feelings and eventually go insane with frustration and you know he would bear it for you if he thought the alternative was hurting you.

But you won’t let him. Because you love him and there aren’t many things you can do with your love. You can’t get rid of it, you can’t put it down anywhere, or give it to someone else. So you choose to love him in this strange, silent way instead. You suffer so that he doesn’t have to.

The diner you choose is straight out of one of those ‘small town America’ travel brochures. You’ve seen ones just like it in those autumnal TV comedies that you put on in the background. Sam watches them with you with mild interest, even if he pretends he dislikes them, but Dean complains about anything that isn’t chock-full with cars and guns and hot girls. It’s bright when you walk in and fairly clean, even if the red vinyl of the booths is cracking and there is a small stain on your table. A tall, pretty girl takes your order of coffee and scrambled eggs on toast and manages to bring them over to you almost immediately. The food is not great, but it’s not bad either.

“Hi there. Mind if I join you?”

Jeremy is standing in front of you, dressed in his blue uniform and hair askew. He’s smiling hesitantly, as if he’s not sure whether you’re about to tell him to get lost.

“Jeremy, hi,” you splutter, even as you do your level best to seem collected. “Of course. Please.”

He seems a lot more assured of himself as he slides into the booth in front of you, hesitant smile giving way to a charming grin. “You remember my name. That’s a good sign at least.”

You breathe an awkward laugh. “Sure I do. Wouldn’t forget. Are you on duty?”

“Nope, coming off. Just ordered some breakfast at the counter. Then I gotta head over to my niece’s seventh birthday party.”

“Ouch,” you say, wincing in an exaggerated way. “A seventh birthday party is a lot for the morning after a night shift.”

“Tell me about it. You kinda forget how loud kids are at that age.”

He uses the waitress’ name when he thanks her for bringing his order. It makes you smile.

“So you remembered my name and you’re good with me joining you, but you didn’t reply to my text,” he says with a small, teasing grin when the waitress - Justine, apparently - goes back behind the counter. “Trying to figure out what that means. Can you help me out here?”

Your face flushes with shame and mortification, your brain racing to come up with an excuse. He’s handsome and nice and not even trying to make you feel bad about the fact that you ignored him and he should be perfect for you. You should be jumping at the chance for someone like him to take you on a date.

“I’m so sorry,” you gush, real guilt pouring through. “Your text was so sweet, it was really shitty of me to not reply to you. It’s just- well, I’m only here for a couple of days and I didn’t want to waste your time.”

“Relax,” he laughs. “I wasn’t mad. Just don’t wanna be sitting here bothering you if you’re not…”

“You’re not bothering me,” you say, and it’s the truth. Jeremy smiles.

“Where do you live, if you’re not from near here?”

“I travel around a lot for work,” you say, and because you know that’s not really an answer that doesn’t raise suspicion - you add; “But technically Kansas.”

“Kansas isn’t that far from here. Just a matter of a few hours when the traffic’s light.” He’s not looking at you, cracking pepper onto his plate casually.

You’re not worth this kind of attention. Guilt, along with something much more complex and difficult to describe, gnaws low in your stomach. You know that you should be thankful that someone like him would even look twice at you, let alone suggest hours of travel to see you again after meeting you once. But your ungrateful heart can only scream that he is not Dean. Not even close.

“I’m in Kansas maybe thirty percent of the time,” you say with a regretful smile. “I really do move around a lot.”

Jeremy responds, but you don’t hear it. Because another sound has taken up your attention; something low and gravelly and something that sounds an awful lot like Dean.

Your eyes snap over to the counter where Dean has just ordered two coffees to-go. You watch in slow-motion while he looks around the diner - probably looking for a hot girl to chat up, your traitorous mind taunts you - before his gaze finds you. 

Sitting in the booth. 

With Jeremy. 

It looks so bad - it looks planned - and you can only gawp open-mouthed as Dean stomps over, looking completely murderous. Jeremy is giving you a strange look now, wondering why you have suddenly stopped responding, but there’s nothing you can say. You feel like a mouse in a trap.

“We’re going,” Dean snaps out when he makes it all the way over, placing his hand on your arm in a firm grasp. “C’mon.”

Jeremy’s eyes darken as he stands up. “Get away from her right now,” he spits. “Or we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Dean seems to remember the part he played in that little private investigation at the same time as you. The pushy creep who wouldn't take ‘no’ for an answer. His eyes flick between yourself and Jeremy for a second, before he decides it’s not worth it to blow your cover, or to get arrested on charges of sexual harassment. He scoffs for just a second and shoots you a very unimpressed glare before walking out of the diner without his coffees.

“I told you to stay here!” Dean snaps as soon as you walk in the door to your motel room again. It has been over an hour since that moment in the diner and you had been dreading this every moment since. The rest of your breakfast was pleasant, if a little awkward after that interaction. Jeremy had insisted, insisted and insisted again on dropping you back to the motel in his cruiser in a show of gentlemanliness that did more to annoy than impress you. And sure, maybe a part of you understood that you would consider the same gesture charming if it had come from Dean, but Jeremy isn’t Dean so that doesn’t matter.

“No you didn’t,” you sigh, throwing the key onto the table.

“Well, it was fuckin’ implied.”

You give him a bewildered look before collapsing down to sit on your bed and peel off your shoes. “In exactly what way was it implied?”

“When there’s a ghost going around whacking people, your natural instinct should probably be to stay the hell outta the way.”

You roll your eyes and make sure he sees you do it. “Well I’m not a male in my early twenties, so I’m not really the target here, am I?” Your mind catches up a second later. “Wait, you found out it’s a ghost?”

“Yeah, it’s a ghost,” he replies, but he really doesn't seem to want to linger on that subject right now. “That little piggy you were with might be a male in his early twenties. You don’t know, which is why you should have stayed the hell inside.”

“He’s late twenties at the very youngest and you know it,” you say. “And since when am I not allowed to go get breakfast while on a job? Come off it, Dean.”

Dean is still furious, but he seems to be scrambling to figure out how to respond. You take advantage of his momentary speechlessness. “Tell me what you got.”

He is hesitant to drop it there, but he eventually does. He still looks displeased while he walks you through what he figured out - the fact that it’s a ghost; a female from the early 1900s who was left to rot in hospital in favour of a male patient in his early 20s and subsequently died from medical neglect. She has been enacting her revenge with a host of killings every ten years around the anniversary of her death. You will be going back to the hospital after hours, when it’s a bit quieter. 

“Pretty standard job. In and out,” he shrugs, and you thought he might distract himself with the details and have gotten over the whole diner incident by the time he finished telling you about it, but he’s still not looking at you. It sends a bolt of hurt through you but you shake it off.

“Right, in and out,” you agree.

The job is simple. In and out, just like he said. You distract the receptionist by asking after a grandmother that doesn’t exist while Dean chases the leads he had found earlier. He finds the bones within thirty minutes and burns them. He’s a bit banged up by the time he makes it back to where you’re waiting in reception, clothes askew and hair mussed up with a cut or two spilling blood through his shirt, but he won’t tell you what happened except that he ‘Sorted it.’ The receptionist gives you a skeptical look when you walk out with him, but she doesn’t say anything else. 

You feel exceptionally useless when you climb back into Baby. The power rush you had from riding shotgun has evaporated.

“I can’t believe you made me be the distraction again,” you mutter, scuffing your shoes against the car floor just to piss him off.

“Someone’s gotta to do it,” is all he says back. He still won’t look at you, not even to give you evils for the way you’re treating Baby. Hasn’t looked at you properly since this morning in the motel. It hurt before and it still does, but now you’re just fed up more than anything. There’s only so much awkward silence you can take. 

“Dean, will you- Goddamnit, can you look at me?” 

He takes a second, fingers flexing around the wheel as he pulls out of the carpark. His lips flatten into a thin line, before he looks at you for a brief second, raising his eyebrows as if to say; ‘There. Happy?’

But you’re not.

“What the hell is wrong with you? I don’t know what the big deal is. You can pretend all you want that this is about me going to get a breakfast, but it’s not is it? You just didn’t like that I was with Jeremy.”

Dean wasn’t expecting that. All exasperated sarcasm melts from his face as he steals an astonished glance at you, eyes alarmed and mouth somewhat ajar. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“You don’t want me getting distracted on a job.”

At that, he seems to relax, slipping back into the same easy grouchiness as before and you wonder what it was he thought you were getting at. “Yeah, that’s it,” he mutters lowly.

“You’re such a hypocrite,” you sigh. “How come you can do whatever you want but I can’t?”

You surprise yourself as much as you surprise him by bringing this up. That’s a subject you always stay well away from - Dean and girls. You look away and pretend not to hear when Sam teases him after he stumbles into the motel room the day after a job ends. You’ve smelt all kinds of perfume on him - sweet, spicy, cheap expensive and say nothing. You excuse yourself to go to the bathroom so you can stop yourself from retching when he approaches some random table in a bar and shoots a suave smile to someone who isn’t you. But it’s spilling out of you now; not because you can’t hold it in anymore (because you can and you will until the end of time), but because it’s simply not fair. You couldn't move on if you tried, you know this, but who is he to tell you whether or not you can try?

“Because, sweetheart, it’s different,” he says, and the word ‘sweetheart’ is uttered almost sarcastically, in a way you had never heard before. You had always been his only sweetheart - one of the only things he could give you and you alone, but it was always said with a sort of gentle veneration - never like this. It feels tainted now. No longer yours.

“How is it different, Dean?” You’re trying to keep that damned barbed wire from closing in on your throat again. Trying, for once, to not be the baby that cries too easily and loves too easily and gives herself away to him for nothing in return.

“Because those girls don’t mean anything. They’re not distractions,” he explains, voice thick and low. “But you can’t have someone who doesn’t mean anything. You carry on with that asshole and you’ll end up in some fuckin’ picket fence house with a wraparound porch.”

He’s halfway there. He’s right, of course. You couldn’t just have an indistinct someone who doesn’t mean anything. You could never let them warm your bed without making yourself feel ill and blue - you had tried it before and it didn’t work out well. 

But he really doesn’t understand that you could go on a hundred dates with Jeremy or with anyone else and you still wouldn't end up anywhere but right here. Following Dean around like a slobbering puppy. Because your sick, stubborn heart decided what it wanted years ago and has not forgotten.

Dean must mistake your silence for something else, because he watches you wearily, frustration falling away from his face and giving way to a panicked sort of concern. “Unless that’s…” he coughs nervously. “Unless that’s what you want.”

“That’s not what I want,” you confirm glibly. You don’t mention that it could be what you want, if he decided that it was what he wanted too. It’s your turn to avoid his eyes now. You watch the rain stream down the car window.

“C’mon, I’m tired of fightin’ with y’, sweetheart,” he says and the designation of ‘sweetheart’ is once again yours to claim. He is speaking to you sweetly, coaxing you out of your corner. But tears are springing to your eyes so you keep them trained away from him.

It’s mostly for his benefit, that you hide this from him. It’s not his fault that your world is moved by his hands alone. It’s not his fault that all his attempts to take care of you have worked so well that they backfired and hurt you.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve-” he sighs and you can hear him running his hand through his hair, even though you can’t see it. You can smell a burst of your shampoo when he does it. “I don’t know how to… Did I upset you?”

You don’t say anything for a moment, and he seems ready to speak again. 

“I don’t want the… picket fence and porch,” you say, tracing raindrops with your fingers. There’s a wobble in your voice. “But it would be nice to just have someone, maybe.”

That ‘someone’ is Dean, obviously. But you can still dream of someday breaking free of these feelings - finding someone else. You won’t feel a fraction of this intensity for them but that would be ok, that would be alright. And they wouldn’t look at you the way Dean does and they wouldn’t be able to make you laugh like he can but you would learn to live with that, maybe even learn to numb your feelings for Dean from this fire into a dull ache.

Because what good is your love for Dean when you’ve had to debase it so many times? You’ve tried to bastardise it - to turn it platonic, to turn it familial, even to get rid of it altogether and none of it ever works. It returns to you, defiled and wounded but no weaker, every single time.

“You could have me.”

Even the tears in your eyes can’t stop you from looking over at Dean now. You’re searching for any sign that he might be making some sort of joke, but you can’t find it. His eyes are trained firmly on the road, a worried pinch between his brows. You almost feel like you imagined it.

“I… What?”

“If you wanted to have someone. You could have me.”

Your breath feels stuck in your lungs. Dean has no idea what he’s saying; how unintentional cruel he is being to you. You have no idea whether he means as a friend or as a warm body to satisfy some part of your longing. You don’t want to think too long about whether he means the latter - because you’re deathly afraid that you are weak enough to accept his offer and then the whole thing really will fall apart.

“I didn’t mean it in that way. I meant-”

“I know what you meant. I want to be that. For you.”

He is speaking so uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the same soft that he offers you when you’re scared or upset, the confident arm around your shoulder while he coos and comforts. This is another kind of soft. He always looks tired, but right now he looks exhausted. You’ve only seen him look this vulnerable a handful of times and you feel a strange discomfort when you realise each time has been when he was speaking about his dad.

You are soaking in his words as he puts the car in park outside the motel. Crickets croak to fill the silence between you. He is sneaking glances and you know him well enough to know that he is trying to get a read on you.

“Why?” you land on eventually.

He frowns. “The hell do you mean why?”

“Why are you offering to-? You don’t need to feel sorry for me, or whatever-”

Dean laughs, more angry than amused. “You really think I’d tell you I want to be with you because I feel sorry for you? I’m fuckin’…” Dean sighs, face twitching with discomfort and awkwardness. “I think if you just gave it a chance, I could maybe be the someone you’re talkin’ about. Maybe.”

Your face flushes with heat and your brain feels like the scrambled eggs you had for breakfast. Your mind is racing to make sense of what you’re hearing - he could ‘maybe be your someone’? “What…”

Dean shuts down, as if a sudden door slams over that vulnerability he had shown you just a minute ago. “Y’know what, forget it-”

“No!”

He pauses, his hand going still on the car door. Your thoughts aren’t making sense at this point but you’re desperate to say something - anything - that might stop him from leaving.

“I want to-” you stutter, clumsy as a baby goat. “I want you to be my maybe-someone too, but I want to know for sure that you… I don’t know how to talk about this, but please don’t leave.”

Dean is skittish when he looks back over to you. You see a flicker of something masked by a cloud of doubt. Slowly, he reaches his hand out for yours. You clutch it with urgency, holding it tight against your own. His hands feel big and rough against your skin. Your thumb glides along all the little ridges and bumps and callouses; the results of the dirty work he never lets you do. He looks as if he is almost afraid you’ll bite when he reaches the other hand out, hesitantly moving up to your face, and his throat bobs a little bit when you lean in to his touch. His pretty green eyes are watching you carefully while his thumb works its way slowly along your cheekbone and you wonder for the briefest of seconds if this is another one of your dreams.

But the next second he’s kissing you and you know it can’t be a dream. Because even in your dreams, you don’t allow yourself to imagine it would be like this to kiss Dean. In your dreams, his kisses are hot and rough, the same way you had seen him dole them out to an endless carousel of girls in dark corners of bars, while you and Sam play solitaire and try to ignore what’s happening in your eye-line.

Dean’s lips are warm and unsure, like he doesn’t know whether he is really allowed to do this. You melt into him slowly, because you had thought about this moment too often for you to freeze up when it is finally happening. He takes your bottom lip into his mouth, pulling you up against him, and chokes a broken sigh into your mouth, as if he was the one who had been waiting on this for years. As if he was the one who had to suffer all this longing, had to wield his love carefully so it wouldn’t pour out of him like water from a faucet.

You have gone astray in the feeling of his lips, of his large hands gripping your waist with such painstaking gentleness. Your heart is aching in your chest and you know it’s lost to him forever when he runs a careful hand through your hair, holding you with the same tenderness that he treats you with in all regards.

You’re not even thinking when you press yourself closer to him, clasping your hands around his shoulders and pushing your chest to his urgently. Your need for him - to just be close to him - is growing rapidly inside you like a fire. You shake a bit as Dean kisses you harder, mouth moving against yours, hot and messy.

Gone is the sweet gentleness from just a moment ago, but this is still not quite how you have seen Dean kiss strangers in bars. He’s holding you a bit tighter, kissing you with a bit more exigency. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but you’re sure you had never seen him kiss anyone like this. Heat is pooling low in your stomach and you’re squirming, legs twitching as you try to get closer to him. Eventually Dean grunts, the sound sending sparks in your stomach and between your thighs. He splays a hand over your thigh and shifts it over his own. In this position, you become aware of how hard he is. You can feel it even through the layer of jeans and it makes you gasp.

“Dean,” you breathe, struggling for air. He’s undeterred. One hand moves to gently caress the side of your neck as his mouth moves to kiss you there, soft but insistent.

“Hm?” he hums against your neck. You feel its vibration.

Your brain is failing you. The need for him is catapulting you off the edge of sanity and all your focus is garnered towards that bulge below you. You press down without even meaning to and Dean groans at the contact.

“Hey now, slow down, sweetheart,” he says, pulling away from your neck and looking up at you with half-lidded, blown-out eyes. You make a noise that you don’t even hear. You think it’s a protestation. 

“F’you think I’m gonna take you in the front seat of Baby out in some scabby parking lot for our first time, you’re crazy,” he says, thumb reaching up to pull at your bottom lip. 

Your heart soars. First time.

“What, you think that mangy motel room is better?”

Dean laughs. “Maybe not. But ‘least there I can lay you out all pretty. Take my time with you like I always pictured.”

His words go straight to your abdomen in a strange, pleasant mix of love and desire. You clamber off his lap in record speed.

You frown. “Are you sure?”

“Am I - fuck - what the hell are you talkin’ about right now?”

Dean is sitting up against the headboard of the bed. His gaze is dark and unfocused, sweat dripping down his brow and on to his naked chest.

“Are you sure that you want to be my maybe-someone?”

He gives you a strange look, eyes squinting and corners of his mouth poking up in that Dean-is-very-bewildered way. “Huh?”

“I just want to make sure that you’re sure, because I don’t think I’ll be able to- Oh…”

Your mind trails off the subject as Dean uses his grip on your waist to thrust his hips up just a bit, hitting that sweet spot you had just recently (tonight) discovered. His cock is deep inside you, stretching you out in a way that is almost enough to make you want to drop the subject. If you cared about him any less, you probably would.

“I don’t wanna be your maybe-someone, sweetheart. I wanna be your someone. I love you.”

That brings you back. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and you have the odd compulsion to cry. Your body is experiencing a lot right now. “You love me?” The barbed wire is tightening again, but this time in a good way. That steamy grin Dean had been wearing crumbles into something softer. He nods.

“But what about the girls?”

“What girls?”

You flush. “Y’know. The girls you… in all the bars…”

His hands palm your hips with a bruising grip, flexing there as he bounces you on him experimentally, like he’s trying to get you to forget that any girls ever existed. Your cunt clenches tight around him, entire body buzzing, and black spots dance behind your eyes, but you sit still because you have really fucking great self-control. 

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head rolling back. “I don’t wanna talk about any damn girl except you right now.”

“Dean.”

His face scrunches up in exasperation as he fights to keep his eyes on yours. They keep travelling down to your tits. “I wasn’t lying when I said they didn’t mean anything, sweetheart,” he says, dropping down to press kisses to your neck. Your eyes flutter shut and you unintentionally grind down at the wonderful tingly feeling it gives you. Dean grunts. 

“Tried to go on as normal for a while. Thought I could get over you, ‘cause I didn’t wanna burden you with my shit. Didn’t work. Just ended up with a loada pissed off girls who kicked me out after I said the wrong name. That’s it.”

You barely notice that you had begun to grind down on him again until Dean wraps his lips around one of your nipples and you let out a desperate moan. His right hand moves down, feather-light, to stroke up and down your thigh.

“How- how long?”

“Dunno. Kinda sleep-walked into it,” he says, gasping between sentences as you leisurely ride him. “Think I realised when we were at Bobby’s house that one time and I heard you bangin’ around in your room for at least twenty minutes. Walked in and saw you wrapped up in that bedsheet like a ghost ‘cause you couldn't get it on and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. ’S stupid but it made me laugh so damn hard.”

He laughs shakily as he remembers it. You try to recall, but the angle he’s hitting inside you is turning any thought into a tough feat. “I don’t remember that. Must have been years ago.”

He just nods and leans up to kiss you, pretty and desperate. You pull away, even if you would much rather not. 

“You’ve loved me for years?”

“Probably longer than that too, sweetheart. Everyone else seemed to figure it out before I did. Everyone except you.”

He’s trying to distract you again with his lips on your neck, but your brain is working too fast now.

“Everyone- Dean, does Sam know?”

He grunts and you can feel it rip through his chest under your fingertips. When he looks up at you, his pretty green eyes have gone a shade darker.

“Please don’t say another man’s name while I’m fuckin’ you ever again, sweetheart,” he damn-near growls. “ ‘Specially not my brother’s.”

You’re being flipped over then, your skull narrowly avoiding the headboard, until you’re under him, knees pressed up and he’s sliding into you at his pace this time.

“But yes. Everyone means everyone.”

He rolls his hips into yours and you can’t stop the breathy moan that escapes at how he feels inside you. He’s so deep and you’ve never been this full before, but there’s no pain to it because it’s Dean and he had made sure you were ready for him - of course he did. He had played with your pussy; rubbed it and fingered it and licked it in ways you didn’t even know were possible before sliding into you with a slow, loving reverence that made your legs tremble and your heart quake. He’d eased in slowly, despite you whining that you wanted to take him all the way. Dean has always taken care of you and he always will, especially now.

“And since you clearly can’t be trusted on top yet,” he says, punctuating his point with a brutal thrust that has you gasping and clenching around him. “I’m just gonna have to fuck all those thoughts outta your clever little head. Maybe then I’ll let you get back on top. When you can’t treat this like a job we’re workin’ on and all you can think about is me and how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

God, his voice is travelling right through your body and you still can’t quite believe that this is really happening. Your hips jerk up to meet his thrust as he turns you to ruins below him. You’re still fighting to hold on to your line of questioning, but he’s making it so hard.

“Dean, I- oh-”

His hand goes down to find your clit, gives it a rub with his thumb without losing any of his rhythm.Your eyes squeeze shut and your body moves against his as if your mind doesn’t have any say or involvement in the matter. 

“That’s it, let me fuck you stupid. Forget about everything else. I’ll sort you right out, baby.”

It shouldn’t be possible for him to fuck you like this. One hand still under your knee and the other playing with your clit, still maintaining a bruising rhythm that sends stars to your eyes. 

It’s not fair. 

Because for as many times as you had pictured being fucked by Dean, as much as you had known that nobody else could compare, you still had no concept of just how good the real thing could be. How thoroughly it would destroy you for anyone else.

“So pretty and dumb when I’m splitting you open like this,” he whispers, fucking himself so deep in that you can feel the tip pushing against your cervix. “Can’t believe you’re letting me have you like this. Knew you’d feel this good, sweetheart. Thought about you like this every goddamn day.”

You have already come twice. Once on his fingers, once on his tongue. And now he’s about to make you come with his cock. You love every woman he has ever been with for showing him exactly the ways to touch you in order to make pleasure flash in every nerve, and you hate them for ever having him like this before you did. But it doesn’t matter now, because Dean seems as far gone as you and his face makes you think that maybe he’s destroyed for anyone else too.

The noises you’re making are barely coherent - something about how good it feels, how deep he is inside you - but they make Dean smile at you, sly and patronising as his tip keeps hitting that spongy spot inside you.

“Yeah, baby?” he coos at you, and all you can do is nod, even if you’re not sure what exactly he’s asking you. “Doin’ so good. Tight pussy’s suckin’ me in.”

Your eyes flutter, fighting the instinct to close only because you want to keep watching Dean - you don’t want to miss a second of how sweet and wrecked he looks above you. He’s got the control now, but you can tell he’s close to losing it by the way his eyebrows furrow just a little and his face goes unfocused. His drooping eyes travel around your body quickly, shooting from your face to your tits to where you’re being split open by him, like he can’t decide where to look.

“Please, Dean. Need more,” you whine, just centimetres from coming. You’re not even sure you could take more at this point, but you want to see what he’ll do.

“Nuh-uh, sweetheart,” he says, even as he slams his hips into yours harder. Your eyes roll back. “Takin’ you nice and sweet right now. Gonna make you come apart real pretty for me. Enjoy it ‘cause next time I’m not gonna be this nice.”

Your brain stutters at the thought that this is him being nice. This feels utterly filthy to you.

There’s an overwhelming pit of pleasure in the bottom of your stomach and it seeps low into your pussy. You twitch once, clenching down on him, and with one more brutal thrust you’re falling over the edge, grinding right down on him. You’re spewing out words incoherently, babbling in tongues. One thing that is coherent, though - one thing that is entirely unmistakable - is how you gasp out; “I love you” in a broken moan.

You hadn’t really noticed that you hadn’t said it back when Dean first admitted it. It had felt obvious to you, like a fact of life. The sky is blue, the grass is green and you love Dean Winchester. You didn’t really think about the fact that he didn’t know.

But you think about it now. When Dean’s half-lidded eyes suddenly shoot open and he’s marvelling at you with such open awe that it makes you feel like maybe you’re something sacred to him too. His face crumbles and he seems to lose control while you’re still riding your high, spilling so deep inside you that you can feel his warmth in your tummy.

Once he’s spent, he slows his hips down and thrusts shallowly while you twitch and jerk around him, his body folding over your own in a way that makes you feel wholly and completely surrounded by him. You feel lax and satisfied as you had never been before.

“You mean it?” he asks against your neck, lips pressing a small kiss there. You know that that kiss means; it’s ok if you don’t.

You shudder out a breathless laugh and your chest moves against his because of how closely your warm bodies are pressed together. 

“You really don’t understand. I’m crazy in love with you, Dean.”

His head lifts up and he searches your eyes with the same expression he uses to investigate a haunted house or look for evidence in some abandoned warehouse. “Since when?”

“Since forever,” you say, heat flooding your face. “Even when I was just some dumb kid you didn’t want tagging along with you and Sammy.”

He goes soft. He melts to a puddle and wraps himself around you even tighter, hand going to your face while he presses a hot, gentle kiss to your lips. “My girl,” he murmurs against your lips.

“You girl?” you repeat, pulling back even though you still feel like you’re floating. “Are you sure? I know you don’t really-”

Dean groans. “Sweetheart. You gonna make me fuck all those doubts outta your head again?”

You smile. “Maybe later.”

“I swear I’m gonna throw up.”

“Come on, Dean. It’s not that bad.” You roll your eyes, softly kicking an angel Christmas ornament out of the way, being careful not to break it. 

“I’m choking, sweetheart.” Dean grasps his throat dramatically, clawing at his skin and making his voice thinner. “I can’t breathe. Oh no, there’s the light at the end of the tunnel. I leave everything to Baby.”

“You literally have nothing to leave. You don’t even have a will! You’ve been legally dead like—five times.”

Sam snorts somewhere behind you, still making his way through the giant pile of heart-shaped chocolate boxes by the door of the warehouse. 

Calling it a warehouse is a dishonor, though, considering all the walls are pure white marble and every corinthian column holding up the insanely tall ceiling is made of rose quartz. There’s no windows, lamps, or candles, and still the room glows in a golden-pink hue. The whole place buzzes with magic, like you’re walking into a giant ancient altar. You wonder what kind of cherub has enough money or power to build a place like this. 

You’d gotten a heads up from Castiel a few days ago about what Dean relayed as “a disturbance in the force” around Stockbridge, Massachusetts. You’d driven here last night, stopping a few towns over so Dean could get some sleep before making your way into town. 

You’d spat all kinds of speculations about what the disturbance could be—another horseman, Lucifer himself, maybe even God—just to find a glowing, castle-like building on a field just out of town instead. 

Deciding that walking in without any idea of what you’d be facing was a terrible idea, you decided to do some research first.

But somehow, none of the locals are able to see the warehouse even though the thing looms over the town, glinting bright pink under the sun, blinding and imposing even from the town square. 

You tried talking to some hipster girl outside an artsy cybercafé, the small hill where the shop was located giving you a perfect view of the building between all the valentine’s day decorations hanging from the light posts.

When she claimed to have never heard of such a place, you stood right next to her and pointed directly to the marble cathedral, forcing her gaze away from Dean and toward the horizon. Suddenly the owlish heart-eyes she was making disappeared, and fog settled over her irises. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, her whole body tensing. Then she blinked, like she was just waking up from a heavy nap, and turned back to Dean as if nothing happened. 

“Nah, the only church in town is down the street. Baptist, I think, but the nuns are pretty chill.” All three of you gaped as she twirled a strand of carrot-dyed hair with her finger, not even acknowledging you or Sam or the fucking magical castle right in front of her eyes. “Maybe I can show you the way? I know the perfect scenery route.”

You wanted to suffocate her with her woolen beanie, maybe scoop her eyes out with those stupid, huge non-prescription glasses. Instead, you gave her a polite goodbye and stomped your way down back to the town square, dodging inflatable cupids and heart balloons. Sam and Dean followed suit a few seconds after. 

You continued asking around, but every time you directed someone’s gaze to the warehouse, they got the same hazy look in their eyes. Some of them continued to talk after like Hipster Girl, some of them scurried away as soon as they snapped out of whatever spell they were under, one poor high school boy ended up throwing up into the pink rose bushes of the local park.

“So, are we thinking witch?” 

You were back in the Impala, officially declaring interviews useless around noon. Sam and Dean were in the front seat, munching on some hotdogs while you picked at your pink-dyed cheese fries in the backseat, chewing on heart-cut pieces of bacon as you thought back on Hipster Girl’s eyes, the opaque fog, the slight tremble of her lower lip. 

Her biting down on said lip when Dean used some cheap line, the twirl of her orange hair, the way Dean’s grin turned sharp at the sight of it—

You needed to focus. 

“Probs. There’s definitely some kind of incantation over the building, but I don’t know any witch powerful enough to cast magic over a whole town.”

Your voice was dragged, low and dull. Sam threw you a concerned look over his shoulder, you didn’t meet his eyes. “Deity, then?”

You shrugged without a word. The brothers shared one of their looks, and you knew it wouldn’t be too long until one of them—most likely Sam, because Dean is allergic to any kind of emotional talk—cornered you about what’s been going on. 

The truth is as embarrassing as it is hilarious, if you were anyone else and not the one living it.

Valentine’s day is tomorrow, and it’s been driving you insane.

All Dean seems to talk about is the festivity, and how eager he is to dive into the first bar he finds and “comfort all those poor, heartbroken, smokin’ girls.” You threatened him with your knife, “shut up or I’ll gut you open and feed you to some poor street dog.” He only got louder. 

Evading the man you’re in love with while he talks about fucking other women doesn’t work very well. Every tune in the radio is a love song, every movie in the staticky motel TVs is a rom-com, every diner you enter has a new Valentine’s milkshake. Everything is a reminder of the day of love, and while you’re usually indifferent to dumb capitalistic holidays, this year it feels like salt in an old, festered wound. 

Dean doesn’t love you, not like you love him. 

It’s the end of the fucking world, you’re hunting down the Devil, and still Dean can’t find it in himself to see you as anything other than the poor hunter girl they had to aid years ago and who they’re now stuck with. The man who’d sleep with anything that moves and has good tits, can’t fathom to look at you twice. 

Sam brought you back Valentine’s themed gummies when you stopped at a gas station this morning instead of your usual ones. You sneaked off to the restroom and flushed them down the toilet. 

You’re being petty. It’s Armageddon time, you’re entitled to some pettiness. 

You continued your research after lunch, but the whole town turned out to be incompetent. No records of the building or its construction, no local folklore or legends, no precedents of supernatural activity. 

Feeling restless and ready to break some skulls, you proposed to just walk in and see it for yourselves. Dean was all for it, but Sam forced all of you to grab some witch-killing bullets and a few extra guns first. By mid-afternoon, you were walking through the rose-tinted glass door of the place. 

You were expecting an evil lair, a palace of some kind, maybe an actual place of worship, but what you found instead was a storage room. 

“What the—” Sam cursed when he ran into the mountain of chocolate boxes he’s still trying to put back in place, sprawling them all over the ground. 

There were similar piles all around the shiny bronze flooring. Teddy bears, cheap costume angel wings, more Valentine’s decor. The place was flooded with pink, red, and white knick knacks. Some objects were propped up on pedestals—an expensive-looking vase, many marble statues of little angel babies and naked torsos, a half-eaten apple for some reason. Ballet music was playing from somewhere, there were romantic and erotic paintings everywhere but none were actually mounted on the walls, and the air was thick with the smell of rose petals and peaches. 

Which brings you back to the present, with Dean pretending to die from sweet, stuffy air while you all sort through the mess in search for something that gives away your cupid’s identity. After the fiftieth baby angel scented soap you’d accidentally stepped on, you’d just assumed it’s a cherub.

“Can’t wait to get out of this place. If any chick tomorrow smells like roses I might throw up all over her.”

The little glass swan you’re holding cracks under your fingers, you leave it on top of a velvet box before it breaks. 

“Have we ever heard of any angels that can bewitch a whole town?” You ask Sam, desperate to change the topic. 

You move to the back right corner of the warehouse, where a bunch of books are arranged in a neat pyramid. Maybe this cupid keeps a diary, who knows?

“I don’t think so, and cherubs are supposed to be pretty low-ranking. I’m not sure one of them would be able to manage something like this, but we should ask Cas.”

You nod, glancing up at Sam as he finishes with the heart boxes and moves to look through a stack of what looks like discarded love letters, judging by the glittery ink and tearstains on the old paper. 

Your eyes sweep the room and find Dean, who’s searching a honey-colored vanity in the far left corner. There’s a bunch of beauty products already laying carelessly on top, expensive blushes and mascaras and a million lipsticks. Dean keeps going through the cabinets, pulling out everything he finds. He picks up a perfume bottle and sniffles it, immediately grimacing. So much for feeling dizzy. 

He glares down at the bottle like it personally offended him, looking goddamned adorable under the pinkish glow, the golden flecks of his eyes sparkling. 

You focus back on the book pyramid and grab one at random, flipping it open with your chest heavy and your throat dry. Dean fits right in with the collection of beauty surrounding you, always the prettiest thing in the room. You, on the other hand, are more like a dark cloud in a perfect blue sky. 

The stupid flutter of your heart is immediately halted as it stops completely.

You picked up a porn book. Not a magazine, it has a hardcover and there’s text all down the right page, but the left page is pure porn. Three pictures, like a collage, all featuring the same couple. A girl on her knees, sucking some guy’s dick. The same dick now between her tits, a hint of a smile on her lips. The guy now with his head buried under her skirt, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

Regrettably but almost unconsciously, you flip to the next page. A guy, bright eyes hooded and pretty mouth parted, desperately humping a pillow. The book slips from your hands, landing wide open on the ground. You scramble to pick it up and snap it closed. 

Ignoring the brothers’ questioning looks, you leave the book back on the pile and grab another one. 

One by one, you open at least ten different erotic books. There’s one with a skinny blond guy being impaled in a dick way too big to feel good. There’s one with two girls making out in the mud. There’s one with a girl in a cowboy outfit riding a tied-up guy. Your cheeks flush at that one. 

You’re not a prude, nothing close. Inside you, there’s this thing. It writhes and snarls and wants. It makes you feel sick, it makes you feel high, it makes you want to explode. Sometimes, you let it out—muzzled and on a leash, but peaking its head through the bars of its cage. Most of the time, though, you keep it locked away. 

It feels too dangerous, perverse. It’s scary, just how feral it can be. 

It cannot be healthy. You’ve grown used to nothing in your life being healthy. 

You sort through the pile, no longer taking the risk of picking at random. Anything with the words “sexy,” “steamy,” or “adult” gets thrown away right away. Any slightly suggestive title gets turned around so you can inspect the information in the back cover. The books that look innocent enough get inspected further. Some of them are in other languages—some Italian and French, many of them in Greek. Anything you can’t read gets discarded.

Even then, most of the ones you open are explicit. Some are supposed to be clever little “hidden” books, some simply take whatever innocuous topic they name on the front page and turn it unnecessarily sexual. You read through half a cooking book before finding a recipe for cum cupcake frosting (ew), you find a porn version of The Wizard of Oz that makes you giggle, you find a mechanic’s guidebook that soon turns into a playboy mag.

You’ve started to open the books halfway through, just to skip any buildup bullshit, and quickly regret it. Because there, spread across both pages, is a black Chevy Impala. Not a ‘67, but a similar model. And on top, laying across the hood in a too-cliche pose, is a guy. He’s completely naked, lean muscles glinting in the sun of whatever arid place they shot this in, fucking up into a girl whose face has been cut out of frame.

The guy has dirty blond hair, a little too dark. His eyes are a shade closer to lime than forest, and his skin is paler than the gold that haunts your dreams. Still, there are freckles all over the bridge of his nose and shoulders. His nose is straight, his lips are full, and his jaw is sharp. It’s too fucking close. 

His eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth almost pouty as he grips the faceless girl’s thighs desperately. His feet are propped up on the front bumper, and he looks almost in pain as he thrusts inside the girl’s pussy. His chest is lined with scratches—deep, angry red that he sure seems to enjoy. It might be just you, but his lips seem to be holding the shape of a plea, his eyes teary and his whole body taut. 

His cheeks are red, the left one more than the right one. There’s bruises on his neck and down his chest. He looks hurt, he looks blissed, he looks so fucking horny. 

He looks like Dean. 

The beast wails, your thighs press together, you feel so violent that you could spontaneously combust. It terrifies you every time—how hot your blood burns, how feverish it makes you, how wrong it feels. 

Not pretty, not delicate, not sensual. Just ugly, destructive, all-consuming hunger.

“Hey,” Dean says your name, way too close. “Look!”

You shut the book closed so hard that the smack echoes through the warehouse, the blow making your bones shake. You turn around to face Dean like he caught you with your hands inside a corpse’s innards. You almost wish he had, you’d feel less dirty. 

“Hi.” Your voice is too high, your eyes too wide. Dean frowns. 

“You okay?” You nod, bobbleheaded, hiding the book behind your back. Dean’s eyes shift down to it, forest green that’d look beautiful all teary. You squirm. “You sure? What’s that thing?”

“Just a true crime book about ‘crimes of passion.’ It’s a little graphic, so I got a little shaken up. I’m fine now.” You wave your hand dismissively, Dean still looks suspicious. You clear your throat, kicking the beast until it whimpers and hides, and you smile. “You wanted to show me something?”

“Right.” Dean shakes his head, his mouth still twisted as he pulls something from the pocket of his jacket. “I found this, and I thought you’d like it.”

He extends his hand toward you, holding up some kind of bronze arm cuff. Three thin copper wires swirl in pretty spirals, braided carefully and embedded with pearls and crystal charms. Two flowers rest at the ends, rose quartz petals and iridescent centers. The whole thing sparkles like it’s covered in fairy dust. 

“It’s gorgeous, Dean.” You delicately pick it up from Dean’s hand, thumbing at the smooth pearls and cold metal. There's something engraved behind each petal, you can vaguely make out a few Greek letters. “Where did this angel get all this stuff?”

“Dunno, but I guess they won’t miss one thing.”

You blink up at Dean. He’s glowering down at his dirty biker boots, a hand scratching behind his ear. “You want me to keep it?”

Dean shrugs, and the question seems to grab Sam’s attention, the younger boy shuffling closer through the lovey mess. 

“We don’t come across beautiful things too often. You deserve beautiful.” The words seem sour in his own mouth, like they’re spilling out without his permission. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears. 

No, I don’t. Not really. 

You’re glad when Sam chimes in. 

“I don’t think it's a good idea to take stuff, guys. We’re still not sure it’s a cherub, and we don’t wanna upset anything.”

Dean glares at his brother, and you sigh dejectedly. Sam is right, and so is Dean. You don’t get many beautiful things. You don’t get quartz bracelets or Dean Winchester under you. That’s just your life. 

“There’s nothing in these books,” you murmur, none of this helping your already bad mood. “We should keep looking, find some kind of sigil or rune so we can confirm what we’re actually dealing with.”

With your shoulders hunched and your soul weary, you start to walk toward the vanity to put the arm cuff back. You’ve only taken three steps when Dean stops you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist firmly.

When you face him, his eyes are downturned and a little pleading. Too close, too fucking close. 

“At least try it on.” It takes you a second to figure out what he’s talking about, too lost in visions that make you want to take a dive into Hell.

“De—”

“Come on.” You don’t understand why he cares so much, but his grip on your wrist tightens. “When will I—any of us get enough money to buy something like that?”

You hold your breath, Dean’s fingertips, so callused from his pistol, gently tracing circles over your pulse. You deserve beautiful.

You nod, barely-there jerk of your head. Just this once. “Fine. But I’m taking it off before we leave.”

Dean seems satisfied enough, letting go of your arm before shoving his hands on his pockets, feigning nonchalance. You can see the mask slipping on, the armor he’s built from scar tissue and barbed wire through the years wrapping around him. You don’t understand how you were so fooled by his facade before, it’s so obvious now. 

Dean pretends to be cool, you pretend to be sane. Neither of you call the other out.

Slowly, you slide your right hand inside the cuff, being mindful not to break it or damage it somehow. It feels like something you’d break, too lovely for your reverse Midas touch. The bronze is cold against your skin, and the wires feel too loose all the way until they reach your mid arm. Like magic, the bracelet seems to resize itself, wrapping around you just tight enough not to fall, but not digging into your skin. Your whole body tingles.

“What do you think?” You extend your arm toward Dean, giving him a bright beam. 

He stays silent, something flashing on his face right before he grabs your shoulders, spinning you in place. 

You end up facing a giant mirror, gentle swoops and little doves engraved in the golden frame. Your eyes latch onto the jewelry on your arm, and it looks indeed beautiful. The flowers are delicate against your flesh, soft and too pretty to be yours. The sentiment appears to have extended to the rest of you.

Because when you find your own face in the reflection, you look… cute. Hard edges eroded by the soft lighting, fairy dust shimmering in your eyes and lips. It’s not a physical change, it’s still just you, but glowy. Every sweet feature enhanced, every detail you hate washed in a new light. 

It feels nice. It’s been too damn long since you felt anything other than contempt towards yourself.

Dean is behind you, looming over your shoulder, and he looks even more gorgeous than the arm cuff. He looks like an angel—not the real, douchy ones. Cartoon movie angel. He looks divine.

Almost instinctively, you lean back, craving the contact more than usual. Dean’s chest is there to hold you up, like it always is, and both of you exhale loudly. As if the same weight had been lifted off your shoulders. 

You can’t help but shiver when his breath brushes the side of your neck. You need to get a grip.

“Guys, I think I found something.”

Sam stands just behind the vanity, throwing you a double look over his shoulder when he finds you pressed together. Your cheeks flush harder than before, and you clear your throat at the exact same time Dean takes a step back. The distance hurts, but everything always seems to ache with Dean. You both walk over to Sam without looking at each other. 

There’s another pile of miscellaneous things at Sam’s feet, and for a moment you wonder if he only wanted to separate you from Dean in an attempt to save you from later heartache. But then you take a look closer. 

The first thing you see is a deck of tarot cards. Next to it is a baby blue crystal ball, a few boxes of incense, a bunch more candles. But then you see the sword, shadows swimming along the blade like lost souls. And the Book of Shadows, and the glowing bow, and the suitcase full of little vials. 

And the hexbags. 

“Shit, you think it’s actually a witch?”

“Not quite.” A voice comes from behind you, sweet like the summer breeze and pitchy like the song of birds. “But you’re getting warmer.”

All three of you turn around at the exact same time, Sam and Dean with their guns in hand. You tug your knife out from your belt, your fingers brushing your lower back. Your skin feels more sensitive than usual, you ignore it in favor of surveying your new companion. 

Your white-knuckled grip goes slack around the handle of your blade.

Sitting on top of a nearby pedestal, smooth as the statues around him and dazzling as everything else in the room, there’s a kid. 

He looks around eighteen or nineteen, his eyes big and angelic. His lips are pouty, bright pink and glossy. His whole body is glossy, that after-sex glow that makes people look holy. His hair is light blond and messy around his face, but in a deliberately sensual way, and he’s wearing an oversized white button up that barely covers his chest, hanging off a shoulder and showing his delicate collarbones. 

He’s blinking at the three of you naively, but the curl of his lips show a hint of provocativeness.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean steps forward, still pointing his gun at the boy, but even he sounds breathless. 

The boy laughs, low and velvety, and it really is a sight to behold. Perfect teeth, pink tongue peaking out, smooth bare thighs dangling from the black plinth. He’s not the kind of man you’re usually into, you like them pretty but a little damaged. Still, because your whole body is tender and your stomach feels weird, you can’t help but ogle a bit.

It’s only fair, you’re almost certain the brothers are doing the exact same thing.

“Put that down before you hurt yourself, big boy.” The kid lands on the bronze floor gracefully, giving Dean an up-and-down look that drags you out of your enchantment slightly. He bites his lower lip, picking up a little dove figurine from a nearby table, spinning it between his fingers.

You’re always highly suspicious that anyone who sees Dean wants him. This time there’s not an ounce of doubt. 

Suddenly he locks his eyes on yours, and a fuchsia glows on his irises. 

Of course, someone like that could not be human. 

His lips grow into a mocking sneer, and he takes an animated step toward you. 

“Don’t get any fucking closer.” Dean blocks his way to you, his broad shoulders shielding you. It’s always hot when he gets protective, today is a little overwhelming. “What the hell are you?”

You turn to Sam, and you find him already staring at you. Silently, the two of you try to put it together while Dean distracts your Adonis. 

Clearly not a cherub. You can almost hear Sam’s voice in your head, easily reading the subtle twitches of his face. 

That’s certain, I don’t think angels can look like—that. Sam looks like he wants to snort, but he keeps his face perfectly still. Not a witch, either. 

You gnaw on the inside of your cheek. Porn books, pagan artifacts, every romantic thing to ever exist. 

“No wonder you kids are famous, look at you!” At some point, the boy had glided closer. The barrel of Dean’s gun is pressed to his sternum, he doesn’t seem concerned. Dean looks agonizingly unable to pull the trigger. “Those pretty faces, those eyes!” He cups Dean’s cheek with his free hand, tilting his face down even as Dean flinches but finds himself unable to move away. “I’m surprised Zeus hasn’t given you the Ganymede treatment.”

Greek smut. Greek letters in the back of petals. Greek gods.

“Holy fuck.” You gasp, dragging the god’s glowing pink eyes away from Dean. Only then is he able to scamper backwards, stumbling against your side. Roses, Valentine’s day, erotic overload. “Lord Eros.”

The boy giggles, absolutely delighted. Shit. 

Sam slumps at your side, finally recognizing who you’re up against. This isn’t good. This can’t be good.

“I see you’re the smart one! Such beauty as well.” Eros purrs, licking his lips slowly. It makes you squirm, both uncomfortably and for a different reason that makes you want to vomit. You must be worked up from the books. Your whole body feels swollen and vulnerable. “If anyone was to find my little vault, I’m glad it’s you.”

“All of this is yours?” Sam asks, lowering his gun. 

“I’m bad at throwing things away.” The god shrugs, twirling a blond curl on his delicate finger. “What can I say, I’m sentimental. I like to keep mementos from every mortal I meet.”

He says the word with such lascivity that it sounds like a slur. 

“Eros. Which one is that again?” Dean seems to have shaken off the god’s enchantment, sharp eyes now squinted and focused. He’s given up on his gun, though. You tuck your knife into your waistband.

It’s not like any simple weapon will kill the ancient god of desire. 

“Cupid, for the Romans.” Eros groans loudly at Sam’s words.

“Romans, they were so fucking boring.” The boy huffs, lips setting on a deeper pout, looking more like a bratty twink than a god. “Had such a hard-on for bloodshed and war, ugh. The Greeks knew how to have fun, they had hard-ons for each other.” He sighs, looking off into space, reminiscing of better times. 

You hope he’s not getting a hard-on. 

“Okay, so you’re like—a supercharged cherub?” You send Dean a shut up look, but he ignores you.

“Don’t you ever compare me to those guys!” Eros’ voice is still saccharine and melodical, but now he sounds all whiney as he squeezes the little dove in his hand until his whole hand is white. Dean’s shoulders relax. Oh no. “They’re disgusting little things who can’t tell love from lust! Them and their Christian puritanism, ugh!”

You can see Dean choosing his retort carefully, you try to give him another warning. Your breath stutters at the way the corner of his mouth tilts up, and you end up choking on the words. The arm cuff feels warm against your skin. Every inch of your being feels hot.

“Careful there, princess, you’re gonna break a nail.”

Eros goes perfectly still, Sam and you close your eyes in defeat at the same time. 

“I would be really careful, Dean Winchester.” His voice has changed, now thick like melted candy. And poison, definitely poison. “I may like you, but you are still simply a mortal. Do not mess with forces you are too feeble-minded to comprehend.”

“Dean,” you finally whisper, your hand moving to grasp his wrist. A piercing chill washes down your spine. What the fuck is wrong with you? 

“Am I supposed to be afraid?” He continues to mock, even when Sam is throwing daggers at him over your head. “What, you’re gonna shoot me with your little heart arrows?”

“Dean.” This time it’s Sam who speaks. Your throat feels too dry to do so, goosebumps rising all over your skin. “He’s not just any god. His father is quite literally the god of war.” Eros scoffs, rolling his now magenta eyes. He moves closer, until he’s just a step away from the three of you. You can’t handle the smell of peaches and cream coming from him, overwhelming and dizzying from up close. 

“Yeah, Daddy always scares people. Him and his big spear.” The god smacks his lips, staring at Sam until he recoils in his place. “But it’s not him who you should fear. Daddy likes to play tough, but he’s simple-minded. Unambiguous, methodical, and so fucking boring. Now, Mommy… that’s who you should be afraid of.”

His eyes scan you one by one, staying on you for just a moment too long before moving to Dean. Then, he grins, leaning so close that his little button nose brushes Dean’s crooked one. 

“But you already are, aren’t you?”

You’re not sure Dean knows who Eros is talking about, but he still winces. 

“We're not here to antagonize you.” Sam intervenes. You’re still too busy fighting your own body to do anything. “We just wanted to make sure everything was in order.”

“And it’s not.” Dean raises his chin, his obstinacy and stupidity implacable. Eros takes a little hop back, his grin only growing. “You have all of those people in town under a spell. We can’t have that just because you wanna be a little bitch about souvenirs.”

Dean and his fucking bravado. It’ll get him killed one day. Maybe today, while you’re too damn defective to act. 

You try to talk to Eros, take back Dean’s words, but another weird lightning strike flashes in your gut, and all that comes out is a faraway babble. Eros’ eyes flare.

“You’re more incompetent than I expected, Dean Winchester. But you’re also more… complex.” He looks from Dean to you a few times before settling on you. More specifically, on your arm. “Nice bling you have there.”

Shit.

Panic claws at your throat. Of course, your luck can’t get any worse. 

Immediately, your hands fly to the scorching cuff, trying to rip it off. It doesn’t budge, only getting tighter and hotter around your flesh the harder you tug, charring your fingers.

“What did you do?” Dean snarls. 

When the sharp metal starts to dig on your skin deep enough to break it, you give up. The bronze wires go back to resting gently around your arm as soon as you let go, reverting to warm and delicate. 

“I didn’t do anything.” Eros’ sing-songs, you fight to keep your breath even. “You did. It’s not nice to take what’s not yours, you know?”

Dean and you stare at each other, terrified. Hot flashes, ache between your thighs, wet.

You double over, hands holding your lower stomach. Every cell in your body howls, your mouth waters, your legs tremble, and you can’t hear anything. For a moment, you’re sure you’re dying. 

“—me! I took it! Kill me!”

Dean’s voice sounds underwater. Sam is yelling your name. Eros’ cackle is piercing. It brings you back. 

“I’m not gonna kill her, silly! What a waste that’d be.” The air around you shifts. Suddenly, a finger is tapping on the quartz flowers. Your knees falter. “I’m the god of desire, baby. I’m here to make people feel good.”

“Wait, wait,” you cry, trying to straighten up. You only manage to take a step toward Eros before you fall to the floor, knees smashing against bronze. “Fuck!”

You remember when you were younger, around seven or eight, and you used to throw yourself to the floor. Letting your knees give up, at any given moment, giggling all the way through. The thud of bone against tile, the slight ache, the bruising. You did it, over and over again, until your skin turned all shades of purple. And then you’d run and proudly show your mother how pretty the marks bloomed. 

Disgusting, from the very start.

“Fuck!” You repeat, but this time it’s in the shape of a long, lewd moan. Sam and Dean freeze. You curl further into yourself, panting like a thirsty dog. “Stop, stop, please! It feels—” 

Your words are so breathy that you’re not sure anyone can understand you. Your eyes are glassy as you crawl back from the amused god, the world turning technicolor as the pressure builds. Your back hits something, a wall or pedestal or table, and you pull your knees up to your chest.

“I’m gonna—ah.” You bite down on your tongue to try and swallow any more humiliating noises, screwing your eyes shut. Your head drops back, slamming against whatever’s behind you. The dull, less sparkly pain is enough to return some clarity to you. “It hurts, please. Please, stop.”

“You think it hurts now?” Eros kneels by your side, and you’re able to half-open your eyes. Slowly, the wave retreats, like it’s melting back into the ocean. Not a release, but a promise. Your body ends up achy with the frustration of dropping so suddenly, boneless and exhausted. “The flashes only get stronger and more frequent, child. And you just wait until you’re in your fifth orgasm.”

“You son of a bitch!” Dean charges for Eros, but the god dodges him with the swiftness of a small and lean body against Dean’s broad shoulders and heavy feet. “Take that shit off of her, or I’ll cut your fucking dick off.”

Eros giggles, pinning Dean in place with glowing pink eyes. Once again, the god invades his personal space, and the sight of them so close—Dean’s muddy jacket against the pristine white of Eros’ shirt—makes you buzz all over. 

“That’ll just hurt you more than me, handsome.” The god winks, salacious. “Oh, in another life, in another life.”

It’s a furious, voyeuristic kind of prickle. Jealousy mixed with allure. 

The stupid cuff is making you horny for shit you’ve never found hot before. 

“How about I make you boys a deal?” Only then you notice Sam standing right beside you, teeth bared like a guard dog. You’ll have to buy him a new book as soon as this is all over, maybe one of those protein bars he likes so much. “You help her survive this, I move back to rural France and let your little town free. How does that sound?”

“Survive this? So it is gonna kill her.” You don’t think you’ve heard Sam this furious before. 

Did the cuff affect your perception of reality? Or does the fairy dust glow affect others? Because the Winchesters would never be this concerned about you otherwise. Why are they so angry? 

They probably don’t want to deal with this when the apocalypse is around the corner. Once again, you’re dead weight on their already sinking ship.

“No, but it’s gonna get… nasty.” Eros cracks up like he just made the most hilarious joke.

A pause, the tide starts to go out. And then, “How do we help?”

Another wicked giggle, a migraine lingers in the back of your skull. 

“You’ll figure it out, eventually. At least I hope so.” The god is still glued to Dean’s chest, and he runs a sharp nail down the slope of his jaw. “You’re either gonna stop fearing Mommy, or you’re gonna despise her. Either way, I’m in for a fabulous show.”

With that, he vanishes in a cloud of glitter and peaches. 

Sam and Dean start to talk, but your bones are lead and your head is pounding. Everything’s sore, like you just ran a marathon or got your guts rearranged, so it’s easy to let your eyes flutter close when the needles on your skin melt down to a faint gooseflesh. 

“...we gonna do?”

“...ake her back…somewhere safe, so she…”

“...don’t know w…”

“...research in the car. Come on.”

Reality fades in and out, your mind a sluggish mess of tangled bodies and gory memories. 

Aphrodite and Ares. Love and war. Beauty and violence—Eros’ whole deal. 

“I’m gonna pick you up, okay?” Sam’s voice has gotten closer. At your lack of response, he repeats your name. “We need to get to the car, and you can’t walk, so I’ll carry you. Okay?”

You hum absentmindedly, a small part of you still present enough to feel hurt over the fact that Dean won’t carry you. 

It makes sense, you wouldn’t want to touch something as gross as you either.

Before your mind can slip again, arms slide under your knees and back. A second later, you’re airborne.

You gasp, holding onto Sam’s shoulders tightly. The sudden movement wakes you up completely, and you’re able to take in the brothers’ impassive expressions as they stomp out of the warehouse, leaving behind perfect marble and immaculate crystal. It’s a relief to see it all get smaller the farther you get. 

Dean’s shoulders are taut, his face hidden by the way he walks slightly ahead of you and Sam, but you’ve learned to recognize when he’s upset like a sixth sense. You must make a noise of some kind, because Sam is shushing you under his breath and murmuring gentle reassurances just for you. 

“We’re gonna find out how to get the cuff off. You’re fine, we won’t let anyone hurt you. You’re safe with us.”

“I know.” Sam relaxes a little at that, his touch on you growing more confident and less vacillating. And maybe—just maybe—you were wrong, and he actually cares. It would be nice to have a friend, you hang onto the idea. “I trust you.”

He gives you one of those beams that bring out his dimples, fringe falling onto his eyes as a gust of fresh air hits your face. The smell of soil and grass is comforting, no more roses or cream. You’re safe. 

For now, that evil part of your brain reminds you.

Shut the fuck up.

Of course, peace doesn’t last long. The path down the field to the road out of town is long, cobblestone surrounded by yellow grass, and it all starts again soon enough.

The bronze heats up, your skin grows sensitive, a weight on your chest grows. Your tongue feels too slick against your teeth, your thighs are pressed too close together, the necklace around your throat is pushing deliciously against your windpipe. The ocean roars, preparing.

“Sam.” 

Your voice is low and whiny. You’ve never sounded like that before. You squirm and Sam’s arms around you tighten, probably to stop you from moving so he doesn’t drop you. But his fingernails dig into the meat of your legs, and his chest is lean and warm against your side, and you can’t do this right now. 

Sam has never been more than a possible friend, a little brother that you love wholeheartedly. But your body is on fire and the pain feels good and he smells too much like Dean—

“Sammy,” you repeat. The nickname makes both brothers stop marching. “Sammy, I need—I need you to stop touching me. Right now.”

“What?” Sam sounds confused, but you can’t make out anything aside from the white fog clouding the edges of your vision. Sam’s hands spam, your back arches involuntarily, biting down on your cheek so hard you taste iron. It’s building. Up, up, up.

“Stop touching her.” Dean’s somber voice is faint through the rush of blood in your ears and the scream of your brain. “Sam, fucking let her go!”

“But—” 

Dean makes a guttural noise, it doesn’t help. “Stop touching her or I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Just like that, you’re plummeting. 

The world spins, air roars all around you, there’s more screaming. Then, pain. 

Hard concrete under your hands and knees, stinging on your skin, warm crimson dripping. It should be awful, it should stop the heat between your thighs and uncoil your gut, but it only makes it worse.

Someone yells your name and you make a little agonizing noise, curling onto yourself on the dirty ground, arms wrapping around your middle like you can contain the blazing bomb ticking inside of you. The cuff rasps against the pavement, you want to cut off your arm.

“You told me to let her go!”

“I didn’t mean drop her, you fucking brute!”

The drag of tiny rocks against your flesh, the rush of adrenaline from falling, the metallic smell of blood—you gasp desperately. 

You’re sick. You’re so fucking sick, and now Sam and Dean can see it. The beast has been unleashed and you’re left begging it to please, don’t do it. You’re a monster that wants too much, that wants wrong. Perverted and broken and wrong.

You knew it. Apparently the gods did as well. 

Divinely, intrinsically sick.

Breath by breath, second by second, you claw your way back from the edge. The heat gets more bearable, the fuzz goes back under your skin, the fog dissipates. The space between your legs is still throbbing, dripping and scorching, but now you can shift your knees without feeling like you’re gonna fly off your body. 

Someone calls your name again, and you finally notice that you’re still lying on the pavement, rolled into a little ball. Slowly, you force yourself to seat up, heaving for air. 

The wave has passed. 

“I don’t think—” Your voice is hoarse, you hope you weren’t being too loud. “I don’t think you should touch me anymore.”

You feel like a kid again, tiny and weak on the floor while the two men stare down at you. You keep your eyes on your bloody hands, ashamed, just like you had when your mother had caught you looking at a Heath Ledger magazine cutout for too long. You can feel the judgement in her eyes, her ugly words of immorality, the shame. Shame, shame, shame. 

“Son of a—” Dean cuts himself off with a bark, your eyes gloss over, shrinking further into the curb. “Come on, sweetheart, get off the ground. Baby’s right there, you can do it.”

Your eyes flicker up to find the Impala, parked just a few feet to your right. You almost, almost made it. It only makes you feel worse. 

Taking a deep breath that makes the fabric of your sweater brush against your breasts—your stiff, oversensitive nipples feeling it even through the lace of your bra, fuck—you rise to your feet. The first step you take is shaky, and you stumble forward a little. 

Both brothers extend a hand, instinctively wanting to hold you up, but they stop themselves before they can graze your skin. It’s humiliating, being this fucking helpless. The spite helps you straighten up and make your way to the car. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re okay.” Dean murmurs before closing your door, once you’re already laying down across the backseat. “You’re gonna be okay.”

You’re not sure if he’s trying to convince you or himself. Either way, you cling to the words and close your eyes. 

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

The car ride is hellish.

You’d decided to rent a small house instead of a hotel, expecting to work this case for a couple of days. It has two rooms and a small kitchen, secluded enough that no one would catch you working spells or burning bones. 

It’s a blessing. You can’t imagine having to deal with this in a motel room. At least here you can scream your head off if you want to and no one will call the police. 

But it’s also a curse, because it meant you were trapped in the Impala for a while, with the roaring of the engine making your bones vibrate and everything smelling like earth and gunpowder and DeanDeanDean.

“I can’t find anything on, uhm, aphrodisiacal jewelry.” Sam’d said about ten minutes into the drive, already having gone through at least five articles in his laptop with miraculous wifi. “I’ll have to take a closer look at the cuff later, okay?”

You gave him a noncommittal grunt, an attempt at agreement. 

You hadn’t talked since the last wave. Either from exhaustion or shame, not even you were sure. But all you’d been able to do was hug yourself like a baby, eyebrows drawn with the effort of fighting the beast, who’s slowly waking up again. 

Still, you felt Sam’s gaze on you, firm and unyielding. Without another choice, you blinked your eyes open.

How’re you doing? He asked you with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

How do you think? You glared, Sam chuckled. Fucking fantastic.

I don’t know who’s gonna suffer more: you, Dean, or me having to witness it all.

The heat all over your body was momentarily replaced by confusion. Dean?

“I fucking hate when you two do that.” Dean grumbled, hitting the breaks at a red light a little too hard. You almost fell down into the footwell. “Fucking demonic, like the creepy twins from The Shining.”

Dean. Sam rolled his eyes before retorting something to his brother out loud, his eyes leaving yours.

Dean.

Your stomach flipped. You closed your eyes and didn’t open them again until you reached the house.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You find it in yourself to be grateful that the tide only starts rising once you’re already out of the car. In the old colonial house everything smells like cockroaches and old lady, and Dean is far away from sight somewhere in the kitchen. It at least makes it easier to waddle into your room without collapsing.

Eros was right, it slowly starts getting worse. Your skin feels completely raw, like someone plucked all your feathers and left you to roast over a bonfire. You don’t understand how it is supposed to feel good. It’s just torture.

Your legs tremble as you crawl into bed, breath choppy and muscles on fire. Your clothes feel too coarse against your tender flesh, scratchy and heavy and wrong, so you rip them off with frenzied hands. 

It’s only once you slide your panties down your legs that you notice how ruined they are. The thin fabric completely soaked through, translucent and sticky with it, some even trickling down your thighs. 

The cold air of the room against your naked pussy feels like both a punishment and a relief. You break down in goosebumps, legs giving up as you fall face first on the mattress, completely bare except for Eros’ cuff and overpowered by the terrible ache seizing your body.

Suddenly, musk, coffee and motor oil hit your nose. With a strangled moan, you tilt back your head and find one of Dean’s shirts lying over your pillow, wrinkled and dirty and oh. 

He’d been late this morning, scrambling all over the house while you and Sam waited outside. This is his sleeping shirt, some old band merch that he barely washes. He probably just threw it over his shoulder when he came to check the salt lines in your window.

When you’re questioned in purgatory, once this stupid curse kills you, you’ll claim that you tried. You tried really, really hard to ignore the shirt. But the smell of Dean is so strong, the fabric so smooth unlike your clothes—and it might just be your overheated body, but it still feels warm and worn against your cheek.

The beast takes over once more, and you bury your face against the frayed neckline. 

Finally, you have your first orgasm. 

There’s barely any buildup, no warning or omen. One second you’re drowning in Dean’s shirt, the next one you’re drowning in pleasure. And oh, there it is. Pleasure at last.

All the pain transforms, shifts, blooms. Your hips jerk against the blankets, the fabric bunching up between your thighs and brushing over the puffy lips of your cunt, making you hiss at the overwhelming friction. Your hands fist the shirt, pulling it closer to your face, until you can taste it on your tongue and down your throat.

The wave becomes a tsunami, washing all over you and dragging away any resemblance of suffering. It’s all white-hot delight, long and infinite. You keep humping the mattress until your clit pangs with oversensitivity, and even then you can’t help but rut your hips in gentle circles as you make your way back from elysium. 

This time the fall isn’t as awful. The ocean settles, the wave retreats, and you’re left drained but blissed. The shirt is soaked with your spit and the blankets soaked with your arousal. The room smells like sweat and sex and madness. The beast is roaming free, your mind is empty of any shame, you’ve never felt more alive. 

Why have you been denying this to yourself for so long?

Someone calls your name from outside the door. You almost fly off the bed. “Can we come in?”

“No!” You yell before clearing your throat. “Wait—wait a second.”

“...We can come back later.”

“No, No.” 

You quickly bundle Dean’s shirt and the blankets up in a little ball, throwing them inside the closet before pulling on clean underwear and a big sweater, long enough to hit mid thigh. You chuck one of the extra comforters Dean had brought you last night “just in case you get cold,” onto the bed, being mindful to open a window before sliding under it.

“Come in, it’s okay.”

You brush your sweaty hair off your forehead as the door opens, finding some drool on your chin. You wipe it off before either Sam or Dean can see, still a little too high on the afterglow to care all that much.

The Winchesters stand very still by the door, an old book in Sam’s hands and some water bottles in Dean’s, both looking around the room like they're expecting to encounter a murder scene. They’re not too far off. 

“Hey, so—” Sam takes some steps closer to bed before he halts, finally glancing at you. Dean is still immobile on the doorway. “Oh. Oh, wow. Uhm—”

You frown, lucidity returning, worried that you’d missed some crucial evidence in the rush of it all. “What?”

Sam is speechless, gaping like the townies after you’d forced them to look at Eros’ warehouse. He blinks a few times before his eyes return to his book, rubbing a hand over his face. Dean makes a little noise in the back of his throat, like a gutted stag. 

The bliss starts to turn into tar.

“Nothing, just—wow.” Sam’s voice is high, because the kid is a great liar when it comes to the big stuff, but he can’t handle a white lie to save his life.

“What?” You repeat, harsher, squirming self-consciously. 

“Are you feeling better?” Dean interrupts roghly, pushing his brother aside to make his way toward the window. He looks mad, you can’t judge him. 

“Yeah. I mean, it’s still working.” You point to the arm cuff, scarlet prickling on your cheeks. “But the wave’s passed.”

“Another one?” You nod at Sam’s question. He scribbles something in the margin of his book. “That’s around five minutes earlier than the last one.”

“Great.” You huff, drawing your knees up to your chest under the thick comforter. “So Eros wasn’t bullshitting. They get more frequent and more intense the longer I wear it.”

“It was more intense?” Sam questions as if he’s conducting an experiment, you feel like you’re under his microscope. “How come?”

You splutter, the red of your cheeks worsening as you feel both brothers’ eyes on you. “I’m–I mean–I don’t–ugh.” You hide your face against your knees, your voice muffled. You wish you could just perish right now, but you also know that if you want Sam to find a cure, you need to tell him as much as you can. “It…toppled over. Like, all the way.”

“Huh?” One second, two more, and then: “Oh.”

Dean curses under his breath, sharp and angry. You lift your head just in time to watch him storm out of the room, your heart shattering all over the carpet as he slams the door behind him. 

Sam gives you his classic puppy-eyed look, it doesn’t make it better. You hate his pity, you hate that everyone knows how pathetically in love you are with Dean, you hate that they all feel sorry for you. You hate that Dean will never feel the same.

Sam whispers your name, you shake your head. 

“Just do whatever you need to do,” you murmur, sinking further into the bed. “Before I get sick again.” Because no matter how good it can feel, how high it can take you if you give into it, it doesn’t change the fact that it’s sick. 

Now you remember why you don’t let yourself have this, not in this way. Because it’s degenerate, nauseating and depraved. You shouldn’t desire like this,  for this. Blood shouldn’t taste good and sweat shouldn’t smell good and Dean shouldn’t feel good. 

He doesn’t deserve to be the victim of your obsession, not when it’s so clear it repulses him.

You allow Sam to take a closer look at the bracelet, answering all his questions with an emotionless tone and letting your mind wander far away, where neither pleasure nor pain exist and you’re free of this carnal torment.

By the time Sam shuffles out the door, you’re half asleep already. He doesn’t dare to touch you again, but you can feel him giving you one last comforting look before locking you up in your room, like the monster you were always destined to be.

Falling onto the waiting arms of Morpheus is easy when every bit of you is spent and fuzzy. The breeze comes through the window, soothing whispers of leaves and sunlight. But in the distance, you can faintly hear Eros’ cackles, haunting you.

༘ 𓏲ּ𝄢⋆｡˚

You haven’t seen Dean in a day. 

The rest of yesterday was spent drifting in and out of sleep, your body so unaccustomed to this amount of exertion that it could barely handle being awake for more than a few hours. 

Hours that were spent with you rolling around bed, riding wave after wave. At first you only dared to hump your pillows, ignoring the call of Dean’s shirt from the closet, a siren song begging you to falter. 

It was enough, for a while. It felt safe, instinctual, less depraved.

But then, when your thighs were sore and trembling, threatening to give up under you, you started to use your fingers. Rubbing small circles over your clit, sliding lower until your folds parted, dipping into the warmth of your entrance. You’d scarcely ever done this, always so afraid that someone was watching, that someone would condemn you for it—you forgot how good it could be.

You had to bite down on the sheets as your digits rammed inside of you, curving up to press against that gummy spot just as your thumb found your clit. Your other hand fondled with your breasts, pulling on the perks of your nipples and making you throw your head back. 

Still not quite what the curse wanted, but it got the job done.

Not too soon after that, the fantasies started. 

Dean, always Dean. Over you and under you and next to you. Between your legs or draped over your back or shoving you to the floor. Burying his face in your pussy or pushing your head down on his cock. Calling you pretty as he kissed all over you, calling you dirty as his hand wrapped around your neck, calling you both as he came so deep inside of you, you could feel him in your throat. 

You’ve wondered if you started hallucinating at some point, because his voice in your ear was so clear and real. His name was always on your tongue, whispered or stifled or bloody, canines biting down on your arm deep enough to draw blood just to keep it down. 

Baths were hard to get through, especially when you had to take so many. Around every three hours, you were disgusting enough that you couldn’t stand not jumping in the shower, sticky with sweat and spit and arousal. But your skin was too raw for the decent water pressure of the house, the tiles were too cold, the water too hot, and you couldn’t stand looking at yourself in the mirror.

But then you’d discovered the handheld shower head. 

It’d been a miracle. Your cunt was starting to get too sore from the direct friction, your fingers were cramping and your insides were bruised—every orgasm brought tears to your eyes, and not the good kind. 

But the water was perfect, gentle enough not to hurt, intense enough to satiate the beast. 

After a two hour “shower,” you were able to sleep through the night.

Sam had checked on you periodically, always knocking loudly on the door before coming in, leaving water and food on your bedside table before updating you on his research. Sadly, he hasn’t found much. 

He still looks shocked every time he sees you, having to take a second before walking into the room. You don’t ask, he doesn’t explain. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding mirrors—you don’t want to see what your disease has done to your body. 

You must look like an obscene mess. Or maybe Sam is just being a little Victorian-Man about it.

You’d ask Dean, but Dean hadn’t shown his face at all. Not to say goodnight, not to nag you about salt lines and devil’s traps, not to make sure you’re not dead.

You knew that once he saw just how rotten you are, you’d lose him. It still hurts like a rusty nail to the brain.

Sleep wasn’t perfect, still plagued with dreams of debauchery and perversion, but it was replenishing. 

After your first orgasm of the morning, you were able to take an actual shower, brush your teeth, and get dressed up in something other than oversized cotton shirts, ready to be reintroduced into society. 

You’d learned a lot more in your confinement other than how many ways you can make yourself cum. You’d learned that the period between waves only gets shorter after a set of three or four, and that you have about five minutes after it starts before it gets unbearable. You learned that ignoring it only makes it more painful and more abrasive, and that trying to stop it is useless.

You also learned that you weren’t made to stay in one place only.

You’re already going stir-crazy, after one day of being locked up. If the curse is going to kill you, you want to see the sunlight at least one last time.

“I’m going out.” You announce to Sam, rushing into the kitchen and grabbing the first piece of food you can find. “I’ll be back in exactly—” You glance down at your watch, where you’re timing your next wave. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“You’re what?”

You almost spit out the piece of bread you’d jammed into your mouth, not expecting Dean to still be here. His voice brings back memories of phantom praises and degradation and naughty orders. You have to physically shake them off before the tide rises early.

You turn around, finding Sam sitting on the dinner table, eyebags under his eyes and a million books surrounding him. Next to him, Dean is sipping on a cup of coffee, looking tired and upset, still in his pajamas and looking like he hasn’t left the house at all. 

They both flinch a little when you face them. Your cheeks redden with embarrassment, you don’t let it deter your initiative.

“There’s a corner store less than a mile down the road,” you explain, munching on the rest of the bread before moving to grab your jacket. “I’m just gonna go buy some ice cream and I’ll be back.”

“The fuck you are!”

That makes you pause, just a few feet away from the door. Dean gets mad at you, sometimes. He gets irritated or grumpy or annoyed, but he never talks like that to you. With that much fury, with that much scorn.

“Excuse me?”

Dean is by your side in a second, arms crossed, wearing a scowl so deep that his face might just be stuck that way forever. “Go back to your room.”

You raise an eyebrow, and Sam winces somewhere behind you. 

“Is that an order?” Dean only shrugs, because he never knows when to back down. You’re seething. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Because how dare he. Talking about fucking other girls and abandoning you when you’re like this and not wanting you. How dare he, break your heart into pieces so small, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to put it back together. How dare he, fusing your souls together in an everlasting way, just to take them both with him. 

How fucking dare he.

“I’m the guy who has to deal with your mess while you’re in there—whatever.” If you were less furious, you’d notice the flush creeping down his neck. “So go back to your room, and let us work.”

“You have to deal with my mess?!” you shout. Dean recoils, it sobers you up. Your voice lowers to a still livid but collected tone. “You were the one who insisted on me wearing it in the first place!”

Something akin to guilt crosses his face before it goes back to disdain, and he grumbles something unintelligible that you don’t care to dissect. Time is running out, and you need to go.

“Why are you even here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be out getting passed around like a blunt?”

It’s depressing, the way your own words make you ache. And Dean has the audacity to look offended.

“That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“It does if you’re getting in my way!” Your clock beeps. Twenty minutes. “So why don’t you go find a bar or some glory hole, and leave me alone.”

“Because I’m stuck here, reading about fucking hellistic magic shit, for you.”

“Hellenistic.” Sam corrects unhelpfully, both of you ignore him.

“No one’s asking you to!” You run a hand through your hair, tugging on the roots harshly. Because you’re just so, so tired. You close your eyes, taking a few slow breaths. “Go! You’re free, Winchester. Leave! I’m not getting in the way of your fun, so don’t get in the way of mine.”

The kitchen is completely silent as you stay still, eyes screwed shut and lips trembling, and for a second you’re almost sure that the brothers left. But then, “Is that what this is about?”

You’ve never heard Dean like this, voice bitter and broken. Your eyes flutter open, meeting his, and he looks like you just shot his puppy. At your attention, his mask hardens like concrete. 

But his facade is faltering, and so is yours.

“You want to go find someone? Have some fun?”

Oh. 

You’ve thought about it—someone else’s hands on your burning flesh, their fingers and tongue and cock, helping you ride the tide until you’re all placid sweet water. You could find some poor bastard too desperate or too foolish to notice the rabid foam in the corner of your lips, someone willing to take mercy on you, someone who can give you what you need.

Nonono. That’s all your mind could chant. Wrong. Thisiswrongsowrong. 

You feel nauseous, ready to vomit all of your insides. No.

“Maybe,” you answer instead, because you’re half delirious from Eros’ magic and the cuff is warming up again. Dean grimaces, gaze dropping to the floor, and the bomb that explodes inside of you is pure wrath. “What, Winchester? Is it so fucking impossible to imagine anyone could want me? Do I disgust you so much that you can’t handle the idea of someone fucking me?”

Now Dean looks like he’s about to hurl. 

“Guys—”

“That’s not—ugh, you can be so…” Dean covers his mouth with a hand, like he’s physically trying to swallow back his words.

“No, no. Say it.” You step closer, even when the proximity is like sulfuric acid in your brain. He still won’t look at you, so you shove him back, craving a fight almost as much as you crave his love. He stumbles, just a few inches, because he just has to be built like a freaking wall of bricks. “Say it, Dean.”

To his credit, Dean holds himself together way more than you expected. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t throw shit around, doesn’t even try to push you back. He simply exhales, loud and forced, and lifts his face with calculated resolve. 

“You’re going back to your room, and we’re gonna keep researching. That’s the end of it.”

Dean’s tone is demanding, your watch beeps, your pussy throbs. 

It doesn’t help how infuriated you are. 

“You’re not my dad, Dean, you can't just tell me what to do!” You shove him again, harder, and the way his muscles don’t budge under your palm does nothing for the twist of your gut. 

“I’m not letting you go outside right now,” he spits out your name, his faux tranquility shattering. His next words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Not when—when you look like that.”

A gunshot. Right to the right of your heart, blood oozing and lungs punctured. Fatal. 

It’s not a surprise that Dean isn’t attracted to you. Being faced with the excruciating reality of it is still cataclysmic.

“Fuck you, Dean.” It comes out in a half-choked sob. You attempt to push him again but your touch is weak, a barely-there brush of your hand before you take a few clumsy steps back, tears burning on your eyes and needles prickling your skin. “Fuck you! I fucking hate you, I—”

You spin on your heels, ready to lurch for the door. It’s too late for the store, and there’s nowhere else to go in this deserted little town. The next wave is too soon and it’ll last too long and it’s too cold outside to take a walk—

Dean calls your name, a desperate plea you’ve heard so many times before in midnight fantasies, and then his hand wraps around your wrist, yanking you back from the doorway.

But you’re burnt-out and woozy, so the firm tug makes you lose your balance. Once again, Dean’s chest is there to catch you, huge arms around your body and immovable frame holding you up. His breath is on your neck, and he’s so warm and firm behind you and you can’t—

White. For a long moment, everything goes white. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve, as if you’re made of pure lighting. It’s better than Dean’s shirt, It’s better than the showerhead. 

It’s Dean, finally.

You enter another dimension, where everything is syrupy and glorious. There’s the faraway but familiar sound of knees against tile, the faint crawl of sickness, someone shouting your name. But it’s all filtered by the colossal ecstasy that Dean’s touch brought you.

It feels like it lasts hours, maybe days. An infinite spiral of gut-wrenching climax, a rollercoaster speeding up until you touch the sky, clouds on your fingertips and dew between your legs. 

When you come back to yourself, you’re once again on the ground. Your knees are sore, your throat is dry, your underwear is soaked. Spasms still travel through your body as you try to catch your breath, gasping violently and pawing at the legs in front of you for support. 

Worn fabric against your palms, scratchy and warm like the hand that just catapulted you out of the stratosphere. 

“Dean.” This time you say it outloud. Dean makes a wounded noise, you can’t help but cling to his legs. Begging, praying for forgiveness. Like a sinner bleeding on an altar, like a sacrifice watching the executioner sharpen his knife. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m—”

Tears, streaming down your face like a broken dam. Your words melt into a bundle of sobs and wails, your whole body shaking with the force of them. If Dean didn’t hate you before, he for sure hates you now. 

Now that you’ve dragged him into the mud with you, imposed your disease on him, forced him to be part of your depravity.

“Sweetheart…” Dean whispers, kneeling down and trying to reach for you. 

You slither back, kicking your legs and shaking your head so hard it makes you all dizzy. “No, No. Don’t touch me! I’m sick! I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sick and I’m sorry.”

With a click of his tongue, Dean fists your ankle, dragging you across the floor and right into his body with just a yank of his arm. A loud moan escapes your lips. 

His arms are like iron around you, caging you against his chest and not letting go, no matter how hard you trash around. 

“Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart. I got you, you need to calm down. I got you.”

You want to keep fighting, to kick him in the gut and punch him in the eye and protect him from yourself. But you’ve been locked inside your room for a whole day, dealing with the rabid beast inside you all by yourself, yearning for the tiniest bit of comfort.

Comfort like Dean’s bare arms against yours, like his voice—his real voice—murmuring sweet nothings in your ear, like the vivid smell of him instead of the washed off remains on old fabric. It’s impossible not to take. 

Because you’re selfish and ugly and starved.

“I’m sorry,” you repeat. I’m sorry for clinging to you like this. I’m sorry for cumming just from your body pressed against mine. I’m sorry for wanting you. “I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” He sounds sad. Why does he sound fucking sad? “It’s the cuff, I know. I—I’m sorry.”

You can’t help but tug him closer, fingers gripping his shirt and digging onto his ribs, your nose buried on his sternum. Your legs are intertwined, his hands are rubbing up and down your back, he’s everywhere. 

“Why? I’m the one who’s fucked up.” You’re not even sure Dean can hear you, your voice so tiny and broken. A chair scraps against the floor somewhere behind you, you hide your face further into Dean’s chest. “Hell, you didn’t consent to that at all, I’m so sorry.”

A moment of silence. Sam, who you’d forgotten about entirely, clears his throat. “I’ll take the Impala and go get that ice cream. Text me when I can come back.”

Dean nods silently. You tilt your head back until you can see Sam over your shoulder, hazel eyes already searching for yours.

You’ll be okay?

Probably not. 

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. 

I’d beg to differ. A little sparkle in his irises tells you. Good luck.

With that, he leaves. You’re left staring at the door, wondering how this all would’ve gone if you had just left for good. This morning, yesterday, months ago. Maybe you should’ve never been here.

“You didn’t either.” You turn back to Dean, confused. He watches your face for a second before dropping his gaze to your hands on his shirt, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “You didn’t consent to this, either.”

“What?”

“Sweetheart, I—goddamn it.” He huffs, one of his hands leaving your body to rub over his face, rough and angry. Without thinking, you pull it away from where his pretty skin was already turning red under the punishing touch. You hold his palm in yours, cradling it against your chest. “You’re cursed and in pain, and I’m just a selfish bastard taking advantage of it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You blink a few times, tears still wet on your cheeks and slick still sticky on your thighs, wondering if the last orgasm left you with severe brain damage. Because what the fuck is he talking about?

“Dean…” you murmur slowly, trying to search for his eyes. He avoids you like the plague. For some reason, it doesn’t hurt as much anymore. “All I’ve done is drag you and Sam into my—problem, over and over again. I’m the one infecting you with this, the one staining you. How on earth are you taking advantage of it?”

So many things flash on Dean’s face at the same time. Shame, loathing, mortification, resignation.

“You really have no idea what you do to me.” For the first time in ages, you feel cold. Frozen in time, only Dean’s words keeping you grounded. “I’ve got a handle on it most days, but when you’re right here, moaning so sweetly and writhing so prettily… shit, baby, even the strongest man would falter. And you have the audacity to look like that.”

It hits completely different now. 

“What are you saying, Dean?” You squeeze his hand, tight enough for his fingers to turn white. 

He utters your name, low and husky—an imprecation, a psalm. 

“You know damn well.”

“No,” you whisper, leaning closer to those beautiful green irises that’ve haunted you for so long. “I have no idea.”

“I want you, sweetheart.” He whispers back, almost inaudible. The beast starts to roar, maniacal. “I’ve been wanting you for years. I’m the one who’s truly sick.”

A million things pass through your mind. Why, how, when. If it wasn’t for the constant throbbing of your body, you’d pinch yourself to make sure it’s not just another vivid dream. 

“But you never look at me?”

“What?”

“You never look at me, Dean.” Your cheeks are stiff with dried tears, Dean’s hand cups one of them gently. You melt against the touch, shivering all over. “I’m always there, but you just see right through me.”

“Oh, baby.” Everything goes fuzzier every time he says it. Something in your face must show it, because Dean drops his hand and tries to pull back. You whimper, tugging harder on his shirt, practically crawling onto his lap. He groans. “You think I could look at you and still hold back? I had to look away. I ruin everything I touch, and I couldn’t risk—I couldn’t risk losing you. Not you.” He hesitates for a second before resting his forehead on yours. Your lips part at the contact. “Still, you are all I can see.”

With a desperate little whine, you dive down for Dean’s lips. 

But all your mouth finds is the stubbled skin of his cheek, his head jerked to the side and scrunched in agony. 

“Dean.” You mutter, because that’s all that's in your mind. “Dean, Dean, Dean.”

“Stop,” he pleads, but his hands latch onto your waist. You moan again, the prickling on your skin now a lot gentler, a lot less disgusting. Almost beautiful. “I can’t. It’s the cuff, baby. You don’t really want this.”

“I do. I want you, more than anything else.”

“Stop it. Now.”

You can’t.

“I’ve wanted you ever since I’ve known you, Dean.”

Your name, again, imploring.

“It’s not the stupid arm cuff, it’s not Eros’ magic, it’s not anything else. It’s just me. Me, wanting you so bad I can’t breathe when you’re not with me.” After so long holding back, it all spills out like a hurricane. “I’ve wanted you long before this, when Sammy lets me ride shotgun down the interstate and when I’m patching up your reckless wounds and when you put on that stupid little winning smile whenever things go your way.”

Dean tries to look away again, but you won’t let him anymore. You grab his face, nails digging into his jaw, pinning him under your gaze just like Eros did. 

“Look at me, Dean. Finally, really look at me.”

You’re not sure who leans in first, with the heat rising and clouding your mind, but suddenly Dean’s mouth is on you. 

It’s violent, teeth clashing and lips bruising. Dean’s tongue is so far down your throat it makes you gag a little. He tries to apologize, but you shut him up by grinding down against his crotch, a hard bulge already there to welcome you under thin fabric.

You’re basically eating each other, hands groping all they can find and hips rutting incessantly. Dean’s fingers tangle on your hair, pulling gently. You bite down on his tongue, sucking it into your mouth right after, and he tugs harder. 

“Fuck. Fuck, baby. I’m goin’ insane.” He grunts when you break the kiss, licking and nibbling down his throat, leaving angry red bruises everywhere you can. “You have no idea—lookin’ so gorgeous, like fuckin’ sex reincarnated. I’ve been losin’ my mind.”

He sounds deranged, it’s only gasoline to the wildfire inside of you. You snarl against his collarbone, scratching at his shirt like it personally offended you, lips collapsing with the high neckline. Dean chuckles, endeared.

“Calm down, baby girl.” He uses the hand on your hair to guide you away from where your teeth were abusing the space between his neck and shoulder. You pout at the loss, Dean licks it away. “You’re so desperate, darling.”

He yanks his shirt over his head, and you immediately get to work. Pushing him back until he’s lying down on the tiles, climbing over him until the outline of his cock is pressed right against your ass, gnawing on the hills of his pecs and down the ridges of his ribs.

“You have no idea, Winchester.” You make your way down his body, running your tongue through the faint trail of hair under his navel and chewing on his hip bone. Dean’s hips jerk up, your teeth sink into the flesh of his waist in reprimand. “I’ve been locked in that room for ages. I’m more than desperate.”

“It was less than a day.” Dean’s laughter is interrupted when you pull his pajama pants and underwear down his thighs with one swift movement. 

His cock springs up proudly against his stomach, flushed and shiny with precum already. He hisses as the cold air hits him, and your mouth waters so bad you have to swallow down a mouthful of it. 

“How are you pretty all over?” You whine, fisting the base of it furiously. He’s big, thick and veiny. Delicious. Dean cries out, but you ignore him. You want him to hurt a little. “Fucking unfair. Pretty eyes and pretty face and pretty cock. Maybe I do hate you.”

You pounce on him, taking him all the way down your throat in one go. Your gag reflex is completely gone, it has to be the arm cuff. The bronze burns against your skin, almost satisfied, and you hope Eros isn’t watching from somewhere.

But deep down, you don’t really care. He can enjoy the show.

All that matters is the veins of Dean’s dick pulsing on your tongue, his hand fisting your hair and his back arching off the floor. He keens, so loud you’re glad there aren’t any neighbors nearby, as you start bopping your head. Your throat contracts around his length, and the strain of his fingers on your locks have you humping his leg, dying for a little friction. 

“Shit, darlin’, warn a guy.” He pants, starting to thrust up into your mouth. You pin his hips down to the floor, letting the edge of your teeth brush right under the engorged head. Dean cries out the sweetest noise you’ve ever heard. “Yeah, fuck, taking me so deep. Sweet fuckin’ mouth, so warm and wet for me. You’re heaven, baby girl. Swallowing me down like an angel.”

You feel anything but angelical right now, sweat beading on your forehead as you pull back until just the tip is on your tongue, using your hand to stroke the rest of his shaft. Your tongue dips into his slit, savoring the bitter and musky taste of precum, the beast howling for more. 

“Shit, shit. Wait.” Dean tries to drag you up by the hair, but you claw at his hips and stay right where you belong, suckling on his cock while your other hand fondles his balls. “Stop, I’m gonna—Gonna cum, sweetheart. You need—”

You part your lips, letting him slide out your mouth but keeping him pressing against your face. You gaze up at him—green irises consumed by blown pupils, lips shiny and parted, hair mussed and wild. It’s better than the guy in Eros’ book, better than your wettest dreams. He’s perfect.

“I want you to cum.” You nuzzle your cheek against the sticky length of him, making him twitch, more precum spurting out. “I want to taste it, De.”

Dean whines, and it shoots through your bloodstream like heroin. You need more, now and tomorrow and forever.

“I’m not cursed like you, you little vixen. I can’t—” He shudders as you start to leave little kitten licks all over him, lowering your head until you can suck one of his balls into your mouth. “Motherfu—I can’t come twice so quickly, baby. And I wanna fuck you.”

A long, dragged moan vibrates in your chest at that, your hips rutting harder against his leg. You return to the head of his cock, leaving a saccharine open-mouthed kiss there. 

“It’s okay, I can wait.” You blink up at him in what you hope is an irresistible pout. It seems to work, because Dean’s fingers on your hair relent. You lick your teeth slowly. “Besides, I can think of about a million things to do in the meantime.”

“When did you—Ah!” The back of your throat must be bruised, aching as Dean bumps into it again, tender flesh holding the memory of his cock. The thought brings you closer to orgasm than you’d like to admit. “When did you get so filthy?”

Always. You want to say. I’ve always been like this. I’ve always been this perverse. 

Instead, you squeeze his balls in one hand and hollow your cheeks, tongue twirling around him before pushing against the pulsing vein on the underside. He growls hoarsely before going really still, spilling all over your mouth, head falling back on the floor with a thundering bang. 

The overly-familiar feeling of climax reaches you, wrapping around you like a soft blanket, no longer tearing you apart from the inside out. Your hips stutter against Dean’s thigh, moaning around his still quivering dick, swallowing down every bit of his sweet release. 

He’s coating your mouth and your throat and your insides. He’s all over you, on your lips and esophagus and guts. All yours. Only yours.

You straighten up, leaving one last smooch on Dean’s softening cock before climbing back on top of him. 

He looks almost dead. Breath ragged, eyes closed, skin glistening—absolutely drained. His hand slips from your hair, falling onto your thigh clumsily, neck and chest blooming with teeth marks and hickeys. You puff up with pride. 

“Come on.” You shake him slightly, hips already rutting in little circles against his stomach. The wave isn’t gone, but it’s not wrecking you either. You’re hot all over, still itchy and bothered, but you’re not hurting. Not anymore. You’re just eager. “Let’s get you hard again, I need you inside me. Now.”

Dean groans, curling into himself a little. “You’re a psycho, I should’ve known. You murdered me, you insatiable little thing.”

“You can thank Eros for that.” Anguish flashes on Dean’s face. You kiss him slowly, letting him taste himself on your tongue, licking behind his teeth until he’s a puddle under you. “Stop thinking so hard, we need all that blood downstairs."

“Jesus Christ.” His hands return to your body, kneading the fat of your ass and your upper thighs, making you roll your hips faster. Still, when his eyelashes flutter open, something troubled dances in his eyes. “You’re batshit crazy. I adore you.”

That makes you giggle, pecking his lips chastly as your body erupts in little satisfied goosebumps, heart swelling against your will. It’s just dirty talk, shit that he must say to every girl. It still makes you all soft inside. 

“Come on, big boy.” You smack his pec, watching it jiggle with glittering eyes. You lean down, taking a mouthful of it between your teeth. “Unless you don’t wanna fuck me?”

With an exasperated huff, Dean collects you in his arms and jumps to his feet. You yelp, legs wrapping around his waist, hands clutching his shoulders. 

“Dean! What are you—”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’ll fuck you for the first time on the fucking floor.”

It’s not special, you have to remind yourself. You’re not special.

You end up in your room, your sheets crumpled and still holding the shape of you, the open window barely helping the smell of sweat and sex. 

“You really made a mess in here, huh?” Dean drops you on the mattress, draping himself over you immediately. “Left all alone, so fucking needy.”

“Yes,” you croak as Dean rips your clothes off, leaving you only in your underwear. “It was Hell, De. It hurt, so bad, and nothing I did was enough.”

“But you tried, hm?” He hovers over you, observing you carefully. Admiring, almost devoted. You repress the urge to hide. “Tried to take care of it? Give your body what it needs?”

You nod, a little fevered under Dean’s gaze. His hands start to roam all over, brushing your legs and squeezing your waist and cupping your tits over your bra. You arch against the touch, impatient. “Off. Dean, take it off.”

“Not until you tell me what you did,” he whispers in your ear, sucking the lobe between his lips. Your breath hitches, wondering if you could cum from his voice alone. Probably. Stupid Cupid magic. “Tell me, baby. How did you survive that awful day locked away.”

He’s being a condescending asshole. You want to kick him, you kiss him instead. 

All the shame suddenly vanishes, the beast gone missing inside of you, replaced by an irresistible hankering. Tomorrow you’ll vomit, and scrub your skin raw, and beg to be put down like a rabid animal. Today, you’re allowed to indulge. 

“I—I touched myself,” you mutter against his lips. Dean breaks the kiss and bites down on your neck, leaving little marks of his own. “I rode my pillow and fucked myself with my fingers, made myself cum over and over again until my legs stopped working. I played with my tits, like this.” You grab Dean's hands, guiding them under the cups of your bra. He squeezes, sucking harder on your jugular. “And I imagined it was—”

You cut yourself off, scared that such a confession will ruin everything, but Dean keeps making his way down your body. Kissing the valley of your breasts, finally taking off your bra, sucking each nipple into his mouth until they’re stiff and flushed, and then moving even lower, dipping his tongue on your navel. When he speaks, he sounds wrecked.

“What did you think about, baby girl? Come on, don’t get shy on me now.”

“You. I thought of you.” His spent dick makes a brave attempt at hardening again, twitching against your calf now that Dean’s head is between your legs. He licks a long strip up your slit over the translucent cotton of your panties, a reward. You keen, thighs hooking over his shoulders. “Ngh, Dean! I thought of your fingers inside me, of your tongue—” He laps at your cunt again, more profusely. You’re gushing, drenched panties and inner thighs. “Of your cock. Fuck, I wanted your cock so bad, De. C-came the hardest when I thought of you fucking me.”

“You’re so wet.” He sounds awed. Scarlet blooms across your cheeks, you try to push his head away. It's futile.

“It-it’s the cuff. I’m sorry—”

“You’re fuckin’ soaked, darling.” He doesn’t even seem to hear you, his voice dreamy like a kid in a candy store. “Drippin’ for me, such a good girl.” And then, shredding. Fabric tearing, cold air and hot breath. Dean just ripped your panties off. “Shit. Prettiest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever seen.”

That’s enough for the curse, apparently. Fireworks burst inside your ribcage, your thighs squash Dean’s head—who doesn’t complain in the slightliest—and you’re cumming again.

“Son of a bitch.” You’d laugh at Dean’s astonishment if you weren’t so busy fighting the tears that burn in the back of your eyes. “Another one, just from that? How many times can you come, baby girl?”

“I’m not—” Dean starts to mouth at the mess on your thighs, lapping up your slick and sweat, humming contently. “I’m not sure. I think I counted ten, last night. But I–I kinda passed out, so.”

“Mhm.” Dean grins up at you, foxy and glistening with your arousal. You want to devour him whole. “Well, let’s find out.”

“Huh?” You’re a little dumb with it already. Three orgasms at the hands of the man you love more than life isn’t for the weak. But then Dean blows air over your pussy lips, leaving a sweet little kiss on your clit. “More?”

“Oh, darling.” His grin turns dangerous, you find it in yourself to be a little afraid. “I’m not anywhere near done with you.”

With that, he plunges face first into your cunt, fully making out with it. And as he promises, he doesn’t stop for a while.

He makes you come on his tongue two more times before he lets you rest, pressing kisses all down your legs and over your bruised knees, leaving matching ones on your hips and up your sternum. He peppers little pecks across your shoulders, dips down until he can suck on your tits again, his fingers circling your entrance before entering you.

Another orgasm finds you with three of his digits massaging your insides and his mouth suckling on your breasts. It feels oddly romantic. Dean’s a little ditzy after, licking his fingers and babbling about how good you taste, slumping against you like a giant teddy bear, impossibly broad shoulders and tiny waist bearing down on you. 

His dick is already hard, weeping and still pretty, somehow looking even more inviting after a million climaxes. 

“Dean.” He only mumbles against your skin, cock snugly pressed between your asscheeks, your legs encircling his waist. You try to tug him back by the hair, make him face you, but he refuses. He sounds sulky, almost spoiled. Pussydrunk. “Baby, c’mon. Let me see you.”

When you finally get a glimpse of his face, it leaves you breathless. Puffy lips, drool on his chin, blush making his freckles pop up. His eyes are glassy, his pupils so huge that almost no green is visible, his hair spiky and all over his forehead.

You brush it back with a gentle hand, revering. Your pretty boy, who isn’t yours at all.

“Look at you.” Deciding that you’re going to hell anyway, so might as well, you lick a long strip up his face. From chin to temple, collecting sweet spit and salty sweat on your tongue. Dean honest to god whimpers, so you repeat the action on the other side. “Such a pretty thing.”

“Not pretty.” He goes for macho, it comes out huffy. 

“No? You’re a big bad hunter?” He nods, scowling, the haze behind his eyes slowly fading. “Well, I think you’re pretty.” You lick into his mouth, the taste of both of you long mixed between your tongues. “The prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up.” He sounds more present as he pushes you down onto the sheets, but the bridge of his nose flushes crimson and his eyes don’t quite meet yours. “You’re pretty.”

“Real mature, lover boy.” You poke his side, giggling against his teeth. “What’s next, you’re gonna accuse me with your mommy—?”

Suddenly, your legs are being pushed against your chest, bending you in half as Dean’s cock slides between the folds of your abused cunt, tip brushing your swollen clit, succulently painful. 

“I’m gonna cum inside you. That’s what’s next.” For a beat, everything is funeral-silent. Dean looks as shocked by the words as you, whatever daze had overcome him before completely gone. “I–I didn’t mean that. I’ll go get a condom, don’t worry—”

“No!” You claw at his shoulders when he tries to get up, yanking him down and making his dick catch on your entrance. You both moan, your legs already trembling. “I wanna feel you. Please, I need to feel you.”

“You sure?” His voice is tight, like he’s holding onto his last bit of resolution. You want him to let go.

“Yes, yes,” you say desperately, hips jerking under the unrelenting weight of Dean’s. “Please, I want you to mark me, inside and out. I want you to fill me up, baby, please.”

Dean lets out a broken noise, grabs your hips, and rams into you in one thrust. 

You’re so full, you feel like you’ll tear at the seams. It’s been years since you’ve had something other than fingers enter you, and Dean fits so right that you can’t fathom how you’ve lived this long without it.

“There you go, good girl.” His hands move to rest on each side of your head, bracing himself as he starts rolling his hips. His face is tucked against the side of your neck, and he almost sounds as destroyed as you. “Look at you, baby, taking my cock so well. Opening up for me, soaking wet, perfect sweet cunt. Just for me.”

Oh, he has no idea.

His whispers in your ear are so much better than anything your mind could’ve come up with. Dirty fucking mouth and sharp tongue, leaving you shaking in his arms. You tangle your body with his, arms around his shoulders and ankles crossed on his lower back, suddenly afraid that the gods will get jealous and try to take him from you.

They’ll have to rip him from your cold dead hands.

“Dean—” You gasp when he shifts, changing the angle and hitting depths you weren’t even aware existed. It’s like your body molds around him, making space for his huge cock, and you know you’ll hold the shape of him long after he’s gone. Maybe forever. “You’re–God—”

He pulls back until you can see his face, his hands circling your waist and pulling you down on his dick, the headboard banging against the wall with each rock of your bodies. He sucks on your upper lip, his voice a deep growl that rumbles through your whole body. 

“You like it, baby girl? Like it when I wreck your pretty pussy? Want me to fucking ruin it?”

“Yesyesyes.” You chant, going a little cross-eyed when he finally finds that gooey, needy spot inside of you. It’s so different from Eros’ magic, less glittery and more real. Carnal and brutal and real. “Feels so good, De. You’re so–you’re so fucking good. Need you to ruin me.”

Dean moans, guttural and a little demented.

“You’re gonna be the end of me.” His pace picks up, rabid. You clench around him, nails digging into his shoulders and tugging him down until his chest is glued to yours, needing every inch of him pressed against every inch of you. “So fucking tight, baby. Better than any other pussy I’ve ever fucked, fitting me like a glove, made for me.”

You throw your head back, tongue lolling out as Dean starts to gently pet at your clit, the bundle of nerves too sensitive for anything else. Still, it feels like you’re being engulfed by nectar. 

“I wanted to kill them.” You babble, your mind sluggish with Dean’s touch, the heat of him, the way you can feel precum leaking inside of you already. “All those other girls, all those ‘smokin’ singles.’ I wanted to murder them. I needed them dead, I needed you all to myself.”

Part of you knows you’ll regret all of that later, that evil side that never lets you have anything. But the way Dean’s cock twitches as he starts pounding harder against that sweet spot drives you to utterly ignore it.

“Fuck, why is that so hot.” He groans, hiking your legs higher up his body and enclosing you in his arms, his body covering yours completely. You can’t move an inch, absolutely at the mercy of his frantic thrusts and ponderous frame. “It’s only you now, baby. Just you.”

You know it’s not true. Not a single cell in your body even attempts to believe it—that you could be Dean’s best, Dean’s only one. It’s as delusional as the earth being flat or God being a mediocre fantasy author.

It doesn’t stop it from turning you all dopey. The room is filled with your obscene moans and the slap of skin against skin, your mouth parted wide open and eyes rolled back as Dean continues to murmur lewd nothings against your cheek.

“‘M gonna make you mine, pretty girl. Hell, look at that angel face, all fucked out, just for me.” He mirrors your previous actions, licking up the drool dribbling down your chin. “Stupid cuff, making you look like a fuckin’ goddess, all glowy and shit. And you don’t even know it. Goddamn doll face and dream body, even without the curse. Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, mark that perfect cunt all mine.”

It’s almost too good. Too much. The soft circles against your clit, the head of Dean’s cock slamming against your cervix, his warm mouth on your jaw, sucking more bruises that you’ll press down on later.

The cuff starts to smoke. You’d almost forgotten about it, until now. It feels like it’s charring your skin, burning so hot it almost goes back to cold. Dean gives you a specially deep thrust, your whole body seizing with it, and it all melts together in a rush of unbearable pleasure. 

You turn your head to the side, writhing under Dean’s unrelenting weight, but there’s nowhere to go. Your face ends up smushed against his bicep, flexed and chunky muscle against your lips, almost as big as your face. 

You bite down on it, hard. 

Metallic explodes in your mouth, thick and holy. Dean cries out, his hips stuttering. 

“You’re bleeding,” you mumble through a mouthful of flesh, deliriously. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”

You think you scream his name, you’re not really sure. Pleasure numbs your every other sense as your final orgasm hits, making all of the others seem like tiny ponds in comparison. This is a cyclone, and you’re in the eye of the storm. 

The next few moments are utter oblivion. Everything blurs together until you can’t tell them apart—Dean still grinding into you and the cuff on your arm and the mess of emotions buried so deep in your ribcage. 

For a second, they’re all one and the same.

You come back down like you’re resurfacing from a shipwreck, gasping as your vision clears, your mouth wrapping around words you can’t really make out. When the rush of blood and exhilaration start to fade, your own loopy voice reaches you.

“...love you, love you, love you, love you.” 

You’re repeating it over and over again, like a prayer. Through blood-stained lips and tar-coated teeth, like a violent wolf offering its neck to the hunter.

“What?” Dean’s stopped moving completely, his limbs rigid all around you. You whine at the interruption, grinding up against his—thankfully still hard—cock. Dean holds you down, both his hands cupping your face a little more forcefully than he intended, squeezing your cheeks until your lips are pursed and you have no choice but to look into his eyes. “What did you say?”

There’s no point in lying. You’ve shown all your cards, revealed every rotten and ugly bit of you, there was never a way back from here. 

“I love you, Dean. I really fucking lov—ah!”

He slams into you with refound vigor, dragging you up and down the bed until you're lightheaded, the whole world spinning as he whines like a puppy, cock twitching against your walls. 

“I love you too.” You’re sure you imagined it at first. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, crashing his lips with yours hard enough to break them, spit and blood and desperation all mixing on your mouths. “I love you so much, holy shit. I’ve loved you forever, baby girl, I can’t believe—fuck.”

He’s feral, snaring and grunting and fucking crazy. 

It still takes you a bit to process the words, the way he’s moving like a madman, the pure devotion in his tone. He loves you. Dean Winchester freaking loves you.

It’s world-shattering, it’s epoch-making, it’s eye-opening.

You grab Dean by the shoulders and push him off of you, taking advantage of his wooziness to leave him flat on his back on the mattress. In less than a second you’re straddling his hips, staring down at his terrified wide eyes and holding his flushed, now almost purple dick in your fist.

“Repeat it.” 

Dean only blinks up at you, jaw dropped and hands hovering over your body like he doesn’t know what to do with them, astonished. You suck on your teeth slowly, savoring the ambrosia of his blood before a smirk takes over your face.

Slowly, your other hand makes its way up Dean’s chest, until it rests neatly against the base of his neck. With a shiver of raw excitement washing down your spine, you squeeze, hard enough to make him wheeze. 

“Repeat it, De. Say it again.”

His cock weeps, his eyes gloss over, his blush travels down to his freckled chest. 

“I love you, sweetheart.” 

You impale yourself all the way down his shaft. Dean keens shamelessly when he bottoms out, hips jerking up as his hands clench on your hips. You hope they leave even more marks, little half-moons and rouge fingerprints. 

You continue to hold his throat as you ride him, bouncing on his dick as your fingers spam just under his Adam’s apple—sometimes barely-there pressure, sometimes leaving him completely breathless. 

It’s like all the pain has transformed into empowerment, all the rot into gold and all the poison into amrita. You’re untouchable. You’re celestial. You’re Dean’s. 

“Again,” you order, a little too pleading to be demanding. But Dean only whimpers, erratically humping up into you as he worships you, tears clinging to his long eyelashes and hands trembling. “Look at you, just a little choking and you go all stupid with it. My pretty boy, big bad wolf melted into a dumb puppy.”

“What the fuck?” Dean rasps. You tsks softly, tightening your grip around his windpipe. 

“Say it again, baby. Be good for me, and you’ll get a reward.”

Dean stammers before croaking out: “I love you, more than you could ever imagine.”

Your chest heaves, something breaking and mending at the same time. Your free hand moves to Dean’s face, fingers slipping into his lax mouth, hooking over his lower teeth and tugging it open. 

“Good boy,” you whisper before spitting right into his tongue. Your digits slip out, pushing his jaw closed before slapping his cheek lightly. “Now swallow.”

With a wild moan, Dean obeys, his hips pistoning up into your throbbing cunt as he’s pushed over the edge. Warmth coats your pussy, painting your walls white and running down your legs, washing you clean and tainting you dirtier. It’s immaculate. 

You’re trying to catch your breath when you’re abruptly dragged down, tumbling against Dean’s chest as his dick softens inside of you and his arms hold you down, clinging to you like a comfort stuffed animal. 

You stay there for a couple of minutes, maybe years, maybe centuries. Your skin sticks together as you cool down, your mouth still tasting like his cum and blood, your fingers still loosely holding his neck. It’s truly out of your wildest dreams.

“What the fuck was that?” Dean eventually chokes out.

You giggle, nuzzling against his pecs. “That was me off the leash.”

“Holy shit.” His arms tighten around you, dick twitching against your swollen walls. “I might need to smite that leash, fuck that shit. That was—” He makes a little explosion sound. You laugh harder, languidly rising to peck his full lips.

“I love you, you fucking dork.”

Dean smiles, toothy and silly, kissing your forehead with so much adoration it makes you blush. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

You sigh, already expecting the post-wave exhaustion to come, but the tide is calm. Not retreating, not threatening. Just peaceful sweet water.

You slide off Dean, ignoring his little grumbling complaint. You hiss as he slips out, sore in the best way possible. Dean pounces on you, rolling onto his side so his gaze can rake down your body. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, you were perfect.” 

You look down on your own body—purple and maroon clouds all over, scraped knees and palms, tacky inner thighs. For the first time in your life, you think you’re perfect as well. 

Your eyes drift to the sheets under you, finding them wet, wetter than they should be. Clear and splashy and yours. 

“Did I—?”

“Yes. When you said you loved me, the first time.” Dean drapes an arm across your waist, the distance between you apparently hurting him as much as it does you. “It was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

“More than the singles you were going to comfort today?”

Dean huffs, leaning down to pepper kisses all over your face. “There’s no one else, darling, not anymore. Just you and me.”

You try to play grumpy, but it’s impossible with Dean’s soft lips all over your cheeks and nose and forehead. You end up giggling softly, pretending to fight him but basking in the attention.

“Besides, none of them compare to you.” He buries his face on your hair, breathing you in. You happily let him. “The spell, it gave you this—after-sex glow, all the time. You were freaking glittery, baby, like a goddamn pornstar.”

You chuckle, your fingers finding the mark of your teeth on his arm, tracing the little indents. You hope it scars, so everyone who ever looks at Dean knows he’s yours. Only yours. 

“So it was the cuff? What made you want this?”

“Nah, I’ve wanted you ever since I saw you that first day in Montana. I started loving you not too long after.” You can feel his grin against the top of your head. “Besides, you always look like a pornstar to me, no need for any damn magic bracelet.”

You snort, bumping his chin softly. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

But then, it dawns on you. 

“The cuff!”

You swiftly sit up, ignoring Dean’s little wounded whine. You stare down at your arm, the cuff still resting snuggly against your flesh. But the metal is freezing, and the fairy dust is faded and dull. 

With trembling fingers, you tug the thing down, just once. It slides right off, landing on the mattress with a little bounce. Relief floods you, strong enough to annihilate any hint of frustration. There’s no value in crying about it now, not when Dean presses up against your bare back and whispers against your neck. 

“See, I told you, you’d be okay. We survived another day.”

This time, when you lean back on him, there’s not an ounce of guilt or fear or disgust in you. The beast is gone, running free and wild, one with your soul. You might be sick, the punishing eyes of your mother forever engraved in your brain, but you’re not ashamed anymore. 

Not when Dean Winchester is just as sick as you.

You try to look for the cuff again, but it’s gone. In its place rests a French countryside postcard, a peach-scented pink mist evanescing around it. You pick it up, holding it so both Dean and you can read the sparkly gel pen scribbles.

“I know you might not believe me, but I’m truly glad that you two figured it out. Either outcome would’ve been entertaining, but you two gave me a real showdown. In repayment, I’ll make sure to leave you out of the way of my arrows for the rest of your mortal lives. I can’t promise anything for those pesky cherubs, though. Not my jurisdiction. 

As promised, your little old town has been freed. The villa where I am right now is at least four miles away from any civilization, so please don’t come bother me, or I might have to get mean again.

Unless you wanna play around, in which case my doors are always open. 

Enjoy the rest of the most important day of the year, and don’t forget to thank me in your prayers!”

“Fucking asshole.” Dean plucks out the postcard from your hands, ripping it in half. “Might have to go find him, blast his face off.”

“But then you’d have to get on a plane, pretty boy.”

Dean glares at you, and you just laugh softly before surging forward to hug him, both of you falling back onto the soiled blankets.

“Maybe if you’re with me, I can do it.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I could do anything with you by my side.”

Someone knocks on the door, loudly. 

“Guys!” Sam yells through the thick wood. “I’m back! It was getting late and this town is practically dead, so I couldn’t wait at the gas station any longer. Hope you—fixed things! I guess. I’ll go put my earbuds on, so don’t worry about me, just thought I’d let you know I’m here!”

Shuffling, prolonged and awkward. 

“There’s ice cream in the fridge, by the way. Anyway, Have fun! Or—whatever.”

Sam’s heavy steps disappear down the hallway. All it takes is one shared look for you and Dean to dissolve into laughter, limbs tangled together and souls comfortably merged into one, no longer teared apart. 

“Shower?” Dean hikes you up his body, sitting up on the edge of the bed. You give him a slow up-and-down look, licking your lips obscenely. “Don’t even think about it, Jesus Christ. What did I get myself into?”

You grin, because he doesn’t know half of it. The world is gonna wish you never lost your shame.

“Happy Valentine’s day, my love.”

“Happy Valentine’s, sweetheart.”

NOTES: okay, so. this is actually kind of special to me because tomorrow, feb 15, it'll be a year since i first started posting on this blog. And the first fic I posted was valentine's inspired (pls don't go look for it my writing was terrible) so i thought it was fitting to post a little tribute to the story that started it all.

it's been amazing to share my writing in here, and i couldn't be happier that i decided to take a chance after giving up on fanfiction so long ago. it's so heartwarming to see how much you've showered me and my silly stories with love, and i'll be forever grateful to all of you.

anyway, i don't wanna bore you out with my emo sobbing. happy valentine's day, i adore you, and see you again soon!

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