#deanwinchesterxreader

“And?”

“And it’s gonna break. And then I’m gonna have to hear you whine about how that was your favorite.”

You straightened, a slow smile spreading across your face. “You broke it, you owe me a new one.”

“It hasn’t broken yet!”

“Because I have excellent placement skills!”

“Placement skills?” he echoed, laughing under his breath. “What are you, some kind of mug whisperer?”

You smirked, backing away from the dishwasher like you were defending a fortress. “Don’t be jealous because I’ve evolved beyond caveman dish stacking.”

Dean took a step closer, eyes glinting. “Caveman, huh?”

Your smirk widened. “You’re just mad I do it better than you.”

“I’m mad,” he said, cracking his neck, “that you clearly want a grappling match and are using dishes as a warm-up.”

You raised a brow, hands on your hips. “What, you think I can’t take you?”

Dean grinned, slow and dangerous. “I know you can’t.”

That was it.

Challenge accepted.

You lunged before he could finish the thought, catching him off guard and grabbing the collar of his flannel shirt. He laughed, twisting with you as the two of you stumbled into the center of the room. You knew you couldn’t take him down with strength, but leverage? Leverage and pure spite? That was your wheelhouse.

Dean managed to flip you once, half a second where you were suspended in air before he caught you and set you down with a smug, “Need a nap, sweetheart?”

You responded with a growl and swept his leg. It didn’t take him down, but it threw him off balance enough that he stumbled into the couch, and you used the opening to pounce again.

It devolved quickly into full-blown wrestling.

Hands slipping, limbs tangling, breath coming short with adrenaline and poorly disguised laughter.

You rolled across the rug, flipping him onto his back and straddling his hips. He smirked, grabbing your wrist and twisting with just enough force to flip you again.

“Oh, that’s how it is,” you muttered, breathless.

“That’s exactly how it is.”

The grin on his face was pure smugness and so stupidly pretty that for one second, you almost forgot what you were doing.

He went for your wrist again. You dodged, shoved, and turned, too fast, too sharp. His elbow came up at the exact wrong angle as you twisted to gain leverage.

You heard the thud before you felt it.

Deans elbow connected with your face.

His elbow didn’t give.

Your face did.

You cried out, stumbling back and clutching your eye, pain flaring behind your eyelid like a camera flash gone nuclear.

Dean’s whole body stilled.

“Oh, shit. Shit. Y/N…”

You waved him off with one hand while the other clutched your face. “I’m fine. I’m—ow. No. I lied. That hurts.”

“Let me see,” he said immediately, reaching for your hand.

You swatted him away. “Give me a second. I think I just saw God for a minute.”

Dean hovered, helpless and wide-eyed, hands twitching at his sides. “You’re bleeding.”

You groaned. “Wonderful. How bad is it?”

Before he could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Hey, did someone—”

Sam stopped in the doorway.

The scene in front of him must have been a lot to take in. You, on the floor, half-laughing and half-crying, holding your face. Dean kneeling beside you, shirt rumpled, looking guilty as sin and slightly terrified.

Sam blinked.

Dean opened his mouth.

“It’s not what it looks like!” you and Dean both blurted at the same time.

Sam raised a brow. “Okay, well it looks like Dean punched you in the face during foreplay.”

You barked out a laugh despite the pain. “You’re not completely wrong.”

“I didn’t punch her,” Dean said, horrified. “She ran into my elbow like a damn linebacker.”

Sam crossed his arms, trying not to smile. “So just a romantic injury, then.”

Dean shot him a glare. “She tackled me over a mug.”

“I was winning,” you added helpfully from the floor.

Dean looked down at you, eyes narrowing. “You were not winning.”

“I was on top, jackass.”

“You were distracted.”

You grinned through the swelling pain, and he caught it. Something in his expression flickered. Concern still hung in the air, but it softened with that twist of affection he had never been able to hide when it came to you.

Sam moved toward you, tilting your chin gently so he could get a look at the forming bruise.

“Gonna swell,” he muttered. “You’ll look like you lost a bar fight.”

“I’ll just say it was a demon,” you replied.

Dean groaned. “Do not tell people that.”

“I’ll say it looked like a demon. Talks like one. Smells like beer and leather.

“Alright,” Dean huffed, standing. “That’s it. I’m making you an ice pack before you start composing ballads.”

He stomped off to the kitchen.

Sam handed you a dish towel and lowered himself beside you. “You okay?”

You nodded, gently pressing the towel to your eye. “Yeah. I think I just forgot how to duck.”

Sam smirked. “Or maybe you forgot that Dean never knows when to quit.”

You let out a tired laugh. “That part, I remember.”

Dean returned with a lumpy bag of frozen peas wrapped in another towel and handed it to you with exaggerated care.

“For the record,” he muttered, “you fight dirty.”

“You had it coming,” you said, settling the ice against your face and sighing.

Dean crouched in front of you again, eyes flicking over your face like he was counting all the damage.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said quietly.

You softened, just a little. “I know.”

You chuckled, winced, and leaned your head back against the couch. Dean hesitated, then reached out and brushed his thumb just under your good eye. His gentle touch, more of an apology than words ever could express.

DAY 12: Tit-fucking

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Dean had seen Hell, but no torture could match this moment for him.

You went out as usual to celebrate yet another hunt that saw you return home victorious to some seedy bar nearby. None of you, Dean, and Sam had dressed up for the occasion, indeed looking like an ordinary Friday night, but for certain the elder Winchester knew he was going to have quite a bit of trouble when he saw you leave the room a few hours earlier. You were wearing a simple tank top under the usual shirt that is now in common use among hunters, almost in recognition of each other, but that 'outfit so unreasoned was capable of making poor Dean take trips far beyond the pure and chaste thoughts a friend should have about you.

Sam is sitting at the bar sipping his beer while talking to a very pretty girl; you, on the other hand, probably caught up in the alcohol a bit, are having a good time, dancing along with a couple of girls you met earlier while getting drinks, and Dean can't help but stand there watching you ecstatically. Hunter watches you move your body to the music, as your form brushes against the bodies of the other girls, and he can't help but think if it wasn't his body that yours is moving next to.

He dreamed of being able to touch your breasts, caress them and love them, before starting to bite and suck them so as to leave obvious marks, and let everyone see that they were only his, that you were only his; he dreamed of seeing your tits jump at the same rhythm with which he would fuck you, hard and mercilessly; he dreamed of falling asleep on your chest, listening to your heartbeat, and of finding you there when he would wake up because of yet another nightmare.

Too lost in the far corners of his mind, imagining you under him while he tortures your nipples with his mouth, he does not notice that you are approaching him quickly and with fear in your eyes.

As soon as you touch his arm, with a gentle touch, he awakens from that daydream and stares at you, not understanding this sudden change of emotions on your part.

"Hold your ground." She whispers in his ear, before changing expression again and smiling at him with a sweetness that Dean feels melt over the chair in that provincial bar as if he were standing before the goddess of beauty herself.

"Love I finally found you! I couldn't see you anymore and I got worried, luckily this gentleman accompanied me." You say in a squeaky voice, as you point to the man just behind you, who looks at you as if you were nothing more than a piece of meat, who lays his gaze on the hunter once you tighten around his arm with a look mixed between anger and resignation, ready to move on to the next victim.

Dean immediately understands the situation and feels a sudden rage invade his body, in the need to protect you and affirm to the other man that you are not merely a doll good for satisfying his desires, but that you are his to preserve and love, even if the contact of your chest with his arm is enough to short-circuit his brain for a few seconds.

He feels your breasts against his elbow, your skins touching, and for a moment he is sure he would have come in his pants if it were not for the threat in front of you.

"Good thing he was there baby, I was starting to worry." Dean says as he gets up from where he's sitting and moves his arm that you're holding tightly, behind you, to hold you against his chest, to make you feel safer even though selfishly he can't complain about feeling your chest pressed against his. He knows perfectly well that if he looked into your eyes, he would see everything he wants from your cleavage, but after all, he is still a gentleman and this is not the time.

"Well buddy, since I'm so nice to bring your lady back to you, you might thank me by letting me take a ride with her, don't be-" The man begins to say with a grin on his face, before being interrupted by Dean's fist making contact with your face. You look shocked at the hunter, who in response holds you even tighter to him, while gesturing to his brother that he would take you out, or rather to the motel, since Sam was more than busy minding his own business anyway.

Once outside you find yourself in the parking lot, get into the car and start driving. You stand silently beside the man watching him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. At some point without explanation Dean pulls over and gets out of the car, walking over to the first tree and starts punching it. You immediately get out and stand between him and the poor unfortunate object on whom the hunter has decided to unload his anger by grabbing his wrists.

"Hey, it's okay, you can relax now." You whisper, trying to reassure Dean, who shakes his head.

"You don't know how much willpower I'm using right now not to drive the car back and hit that son of a bitch so hard that I would send him straight to Crowley with a one-way ticket." He comments, as he closes his eyes and prays to any listening deity to give him the strength not to kiss you right now, and ruin your whole friendship.

"Hey I know, but we're here now, he's not our problem anymore." You retort, wrapping your arms around his waist, trying to appease his ire with a hug, but he jumps back at feeling your chest make contact with his again, knowing you would surely feel his erection pressing against your belly.

"I can't even touch you now? What is it with you that that man touched me?" You ask shocked, as you see him shaking his head vehemently.

"No, it's not that. It's just that if you touch me-" He pauses for a moment, to swallow and look you in the eye, and then within a second blow all plans not to ruin your friendship and pounce on your lips like a hungry man. You let him take full control of the kiss, letting you press against the tree as his lips from yours move down your neck, to your shoulder. "-I don't know if I can control myself." He finishes, returning to look into your eyes.

"Who said I want you to control yourself?" You counter, only to kiss him in turn, then kneel before him, unfastening his pants.

"Baby, we can't here, someone might see us." He comments, as he watches you lower his boxers and take his member, already stiff, in your hands before leaving a couple of kisses on the tip.

"Then we'd better hurry up." You retort, winking at him as you begin to move your hand back and forth on his cock, eliciting moans of pleasure from him. You continue this for a few minutes, until you are satisfied with your work, and you lower your tank top slightly so that your breasts come out.

Dean's eyes widen as he sees you rest his member between your breasts and for a moment that this is yet another beautiful dream from which he will wake up as usual with the most painful erection of his life. Instead he feels the soft skin of your chest in contact with that of his member and realizes that it is all real, in fact for a moment it feels like he is going to orgasm right away as he tries to hold back. You squeeze his member between your breasts and he begins to move back and forth creating a friction that Dean would not know whether to describe as hellish or angelic.

After a few minutes managing to find some sort of inner balance to avoid coming right away, Dean finally opens his eyes, to see you looking at him with a satisfied smirk as your hands resting on your breasts squeeze them, causing him to curse.

"Baby, you're going to kill me like this. How did you know my greatest weakness?" He comments, gritting his teeth as he hears you giggle.

"You were never very good at hiding that you were looking at my tits Dean, and this seems to me the best way to thank you for always being my hero in shining armor." You respond as you feel him coming closer and closer to orgasm, so you squeeze his cock even tighter between your tits and increase the speed until he comes releasing all his seed onto your breasts. You stay still for a moment, until you bring a finger to catch some of the cum that was on your chest, and bring it to your mouth, to taste it. Dean that sight almost picks you up, leading you back to the car, opening, however, not the driver's door, but the back seat.

"But how, I thought someone would see us here?" You tease him as he throws you on the seat, and he lies on top of you, kissing you fiercely.

"Let them watch, what is certain is that I will not spend another second of my life without knowing how you groan my name as I fuck you so hard that you forget yours as well."

What can I say, this night certainly promises to be fun.

TAGLIST

Knowing that when the hunters show up at your door, it’s never for a social visit.By the time the elevator doors opened, you were waiting in the hallway with your arms crossed along your chest. Your eyes meeting the once familiar green ones. His usual cocky smirk faltering for just a second before he recovered. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our runaway hunter turned superhero.” Dean taunted. He stuffed his hands into his pockets “Miss us?”

Sam shot him a look of annoyance before turning to face you. “We need your help. Something big. And Weird. Even for us.”

You motioned for them to follow, leading them to the compounds living room. The moment you stepped into the common area, you felt Bucky’s presence behind you, before you even saw him. He had a way of knowing when you were in a situation he might need to back you up on.

Dean’s jaw tightened at the sight of Bucky towering behind you. He glared at Bucky’s hands on your waist. His vibranium arm slightly catching the glint of light. Bucky’s blue eyes filled with sharp curiousity.

“Winchesters,” Bucky greets in a gruff tone.

Dean’s gaze continued to stay on Bucky’s hands. You saw the muscled in his jaw tick.

“Barnes.” Dean greeted, his voice tight. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” He let out a humorless chuckle. “You always did have a thing or the brooding types.”

Bucky let out a warning growl as he clenched his teeth together, glaring at Dean.

You sighed rolling your eyes, while lifting your hands to rub your temples. “Not now, Dean.” Your tone sharp and precise.

Sam cleared his throat, visably uncomfortable with the lingering tension in the air. “We’re dealing with something we’ve never seen before. Something that’s taking out hunters, and fast. And, well…. We figured if anyone would have experience with weird, it’d be the Avengers.”

You exchanged a knowing glance with Bucky, who gave a small nod.

“Alright,” You say while crossing your arms along your chest. “Let’s hear it.”

As Sam began explaining, you could feel the weight of Dean’s gaze lingering on you. It went unsaid that he was jealous of the life you had built with Bucky without him.

The unspoken truth hung between you. The hunt came first. It always did.

Dean strides in, carrying a steaming mug in one hand and a bottle of cold medicine in the other. His green eyes scan you critically, but there’s no mocking smirk, no sarcastic comment. He’s wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a faded black T-shirt, but his hair is a little mussed, and there’s a subtle droop in his posture, like he’s been pacing or running errands you don’t remember asking for.

“Well, you’re alive,” he says, his voice a blend of dry humor and something softer. “Barely. Look like crap, though.”

“Feel worse,” you croak, voice barely above a whisper. It’s hard to say more; even talking feels like a monumental effort.

Dean chuckles low, shaking his head as he places the mug on the nightstand and sets the cold medicine beside it. “Yeah, figured. Got your meds, some soup—don’t ask what’s in it; just eat it—and, uh, entertainment.” He gestures vaguely toward the TV on the dresser. You glance over to see a cheesy Christmas movie already queued up. Twinkling lights, fake snow, and actors way too cheerful for your current state fill the screen.

“Is that Holiday in Handcuffs?” you ask, voice barely audible.

Dean shrugs nonchalantly, but you can see the faint flush creeping up his neck. “I remember you said once it was your favorite holiday movie. Figured it couldn’t hurt. Not like you’re watching Die Hard in this condition.”

You let out a weak laugh that quickly dissolves into a coughing fit. Dean’s immediately at your side, placing a steadying hand on your back as you double over. His palm is broad and warm, the pressure grounding you until the coughing subsides.

“Jesus, take it easy,” he mutters, his tone gruff but not unkind. He pulls a box of tissues closer and thrusts them into your hand. “You hack up a lung, and I’m not cleaning it up.”

You wipe your nose and sink back into the pillows, utterly spent. Dean unscrews the cap on the cold medicine, his expression twisting in irritation as it resists. “Stupid thing,” he grumbles, shaking it like the lid might magically pop off. Finally, with a satisfying click, he hands it over, careful not to spill.

“Bottoms up,” he says, watching you like a hawk. You grimace as the thick, syrupy liquid slides down your throat, and Dean snorts. “What, too fancy for cherry flavor?”

“It’s awful,” you manage, wincing.

“You’ll live,” he retorts, grabbing the mug of soup and placing it in your hands. The steam rises in delicate swirls, but when you take a sip, the taste is... underwhelming. It’s warm, sure, but there’s no seasoning, no flavor beyond the faint hint of chicken broth.

Dean notices your hesitation and narrows his eyes. “Don’t even start. I followed the recipe. Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you rasp.

“Okay, so I skipped the part with the spices. Sue me,” he says, crossing his arms defensively. “Not like I keep a spice rack in Baby’s trunk.”

Despite everything, you smile. The soup isn’t great, but it’s warm, and it’s Dean. He could’ve left you to fend for yourself, but instead, he’s here, fumbling his way through what has to be his least favorite role—caretaker.

As the afternoon drags on, Dean refuses to leave your side for long. He keeps himself busy, fussing with blankets, refilling your mug with tea, and grumbling every time you so much as sniffle. When you return from the bathroom, you find Dean, perched on the edge of the bed, stabs at his phone with one finger, muttering something about "Christmas movies" and "Sam's stupid suggestions."

“What are you doing?” you croak, your voice rougher than gravel.

He barely glances up. “Finding something less... sparkly. Seriously, how does anyone enjoy this crap?” he mutters, flipping through the options. “Where’s the explosions? The car chases? It’s all snowflakes and—oh, look, another goddamn mistletoe scene.”

He makes a dramatic gagging noise as another cheesy romantic gesture plays out on the screen. “This is a no-chick-flick zone, remember? Rule number one.”

You muster a weak smile, though it quickly turns into a cough. Dean tosses the phone aside and hands you a tissue like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hand brushes yours for a moment, warm and steady, and you catch a flicker of something in his eyes. Maybe concern, maybe embarrassment—hard to tell with Dean.

“Is that why you’re still here?” you rasp, dabbing at your nose. “Cause this feels suspiciously chick-flicky to me.”

Dean snorts, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s defending himself from the accusation. “Look, you’re sick. Can’t have you wandering around half-dead infecting everybody else—especially me. This is survival, not sentiment.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, raising an eyebrow. “So it’s not because you secretly enjoy the sappy holiday romance?”

His jaw tightens, and he glares at the screen as if it personally insulted him. “Okay, first of all, no. Second, I’m not staying here ‘cause of the movie. I’m staying ‘cause someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die from lack of fluids.”

You laugh weakly, though it fades into another cough. Dean sighs, running a hand down his face. “Fine,” he mutters, leaning back against the headboard. “Maybe I’m breaking my own rule. But don’t get used to it, okay? This is a one-time deal. You’re sick. That’s the only reason I’m letting this slide.”

Your smile softens as you glance at him, his arms crossed, boots propped on the bed frame, a grumble on his lips but undeniable warmth in his eyes. “Thanks, Dean,” you whisper.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just don’t tell Sam. He’ll never let me live it down.” 

Hours later, as the sky outside darkens, Dean’s still there. He’s stretched out in the chair beside your bed, his legs sprawled out and boots resting against the edge of the mattress. The TV flickers in the dim light, a cheesy Christmas movie filling the room with soft chatter, though it’s clear his focus isn’t on the screen. His gaze keeps drifting toward you every time you shift or let out a quiet cough, his features softening just slightly in that way he’d never admit to.

“You’re not half bad at this,” you murmur, your voice raspier than usual, the words barely audible over the sound of the TV.

Dean’s head snaps toward you, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He snorts, leaning forward and planting his elbows on his knees. “Don’t get used to it,” he says, the usual edge in his tone softened by something warmer. “I’m not about to start knitting you sweaters or reading bedtime stories.”

“Shame,” you manage, offering him a faint smile. “You rock the whole ‘caretaker’ vibe.”

He rolls his eyes, shifting in the chair like he’s trying to get comfortable but failing miserably. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, Chuckles,” he mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying the grin he’s trying to suppress. “Next time you get sick, I’m calling Cas. Let him deal with the mucus and misery.”

Your weak laugh quickly morphs into a cough, and Dean is on his feet before you’ve even finished, hovering with an uneasy blend of concern and awkwardness. He rubs the back of his neck, muttering something about getting you more water, but instead, he pulls the chair closer to the bed, then changes his mind again and sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

“You’re gonna break that damn chair if you keep flopping around in it,” you tease weakly, watching as he settles beside you. His presence feels grounding, steady, even if he pretends not to notice the way you relax as he leans back against the headboard.

“Flopping? You’re delirious,” he shoots back, though he doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles and resting one arm along the back of the bed frame like he belongs there. “This doesn’t mean I’m staying,” he adds after a beat. “I’m just... making sure you don’t roll over and die in your sleep or something.”

You don’t call him out on the obvious lie. Instead, you let your hand rest on the edge of the blanket, and after a long moment of silence, you feel the weight of his hand brush against yours. It’s tentative, uncharacteristically soft, and when he doesn’t pull away, neither do you.

The bunker grows quieter as the night stretches on, the low hum of the TV blending with the sound of your slowed breathing. You drift off, comforted not just by the warmth of his hand but by the steady, undeniable presence of Dean Winchester at your side. And as sleep claims you, you know that badass reputation or not, Dean is more than capable of caring for the people he loves. Right now, that person is you.