#dom!dean

Once Bobby lets go of him he glances behind him and looks at you, a smirk forming on his face. You break out of your trance of shock and awe and run right towards him, your arms wrapping around his neck, almost choking him in your hug. His large hands find their way to the small of your back, pressing you into him like he's scared that you're not really here. 

He wears a face of shock as well, not expecting to see you here after everything. You've been staying with Bobby the last couple of months, burnt out from hunting by yourself after Sam went MIA. Dean doesn't need to know all of that now, he might already have a feeling Sam's missing either way.

The two of you are frozen in the doorway, your thoughts running a mile a minute. Neither one of you speaks, his thumb rubbing small circles along your back as his chin rests on top of your head. You can hear his very real heart beating in his chest beneath your ear. 

He's real. He's home. He's safe.

Does he remember the last thing he said to you?

It was supposed to be a normal hunt, typical salt and burn. He said he wanted to have one last hurrah with just you before he bit the big one.

Ghost case. Over in fucking no where Wyoming. But the case garnered enough attention that it caught the media's eye.

Almost the whole family was taken out in one night. Left the kid for some reason. The little boy would only mumble about ghosts and ghouls when authorities finally got ‘em.

Same thing happened in that house ten years ago. And ten years before that. And it just kept on going ‘til you got to the case that started it all.

Little boy killed his whole family. Dad was abusing him, Mom did nothing, siblings looked the other way ‘cause it wasn't them he was after.

These were the cases that hurt the most. You wanted to wrap those kids up in your arms and protect them like no one else did. They don't deserve that kind of pain, no one does.

You were driving home in silence afterwards, the case heavier than either one of you would've liked when Dean started asking you questions.

“Would you have had kids? If we weren’t hunters and all that.” Dean broke through the silence between you guys.

You had to take a moment to think.

“Yeah. I think I would've. Still would if the opportunity was right.” That last part slipped out before you could stop it. You didn't want to settle down with just anyone. You wanted it to be with him.

“I think I would've wanted kids. Maybe just two. Or three. Can't just have one you know? They'll get lonely and get that fuckin' only child complex and be spoiled.” He's rambling, his eyes trained on the road.

Silence falls between both of you again as Dean taps nervously on the steering wheel. His driving slows, something he only does when he usually wants to confront Sam about something mid case.

“I like you, you know.” He said it so casually it took you a second to process exactly what he said.

“I like you too Winchester.” You took your eyes off of the trees blurring past to look at him and he refused to meet your gaze.

“Nah sweetheart. I like you a lot. Would take you on a date if it weren't for…”

If it weren't for him dying.

“Don't wanna die with regrets. Would've asked you out a whole lot sooner but Bobby looks at you like you're his kid and he would literally kill me if I hurt you.” 

It hurt anyway.

He's the one who breaks the embrace and sits down at the kitchen table to talk to Bobby. You go back to your nest of blankets on the couch in a daze. Bobby breaks it to him that Sam has been missing but they wanna go find him and give him the good news. You're barely listening to them speak, all you can do is stare at him and hope he can't feel your eyes burning a hole into the side of his pretty

stupid pretty face.

He's definitely seen better days. His signature green jacket is layered with dirt and debris. There's a ring of mud outlined around his face where he tried to scrub it off. There's no visible wounds, whatever broke him out of Hell must've healed him as well.

You tune back in to hear Bobby say how you guys have been looking for Sam since he disappeared. Last you heard he was somewhere in the Midwest but he hasn't kept in touch. Just vanished after it all happened. Bobby tells Dean he has a few leads and wants to go check them out. 

Dean tries to join him but Bobby insists that he stays the night here. That he needs to rest and we don't even have a clue where Sam is. Bobby's going to go follow the trail and he'll be back when he has a lead.

“I'll take good care of him! I'll make sure he eats and gets a good night's rest.” You tried not to sound so excited but it's the first words out of your mouth since he walked through the doors. Bobby and Dean bring their attention to you now.

Dean pipes up, “We'll be okay here Bobby, I just need to shower and get a drink. Be safe and let us know as soon as you find anything at all.”

Bobby nods and starts to gather up supplies to take on his road trip. He disappears into his room and you feel Dean's eyes trained right back onto you. You shift uncomfortably on the couch when Bobby comes back into the room. 

“Better be on your best behavior.” Bobby mutters as he reaches the front door. Dean scoffs when the door slams shut leaving you guys finally alone.

He naturally starts to raid the fridge. You hear him sigh, finding nothing of substance- and by substance you mean no burgers or pie. He turns to you and asks if you want to go for a drink. There's a dive bar near here with the best burgers so you offer to drive both of you over there. It's your car anyways, Sam has Baby with him wherever he is.

“You think I'm going to let you drive sweetheart? No fucking way. Been in the ground too fuckin’ long. Give me your keys.” He grunts as you hand over the keys. Asshole.

We drive in silence. The tension in the air is thick, we've barely said anything to each other since he stepped into the house. You try to look out the window but you keep sneaking peaks over to him. Your heart has been racing ever since he walked through that door earlier today.

All you wanna know is what he's thinking. How is he doing? It's not like he's going to outright tell you. Dean was never good with feelings. You look over again and his jaw is clenched, eyes staring straight ahead. We're almost there.

It's still pretty early in the night so it should be quiet there right now. Maybe he'll talk to you. Maybe he'll tell you about the last four months. You doubt it but at least you can try to talk to him about it. 

The bar smells like stale cigarettes and whiskey. God, you could use a double shot of whiskey. The silence has been deafening but not awkward. You just don't know where to even start.

We sat in a booth in the corner. Dean grabs a whole bottle of top shelf whiskey for us from the bar and two glasses and brings it back to the table. Not like either one of us is really paying for it. He slides one of the glasses over to me, half full of amber liquid. It's gonna be a long night.

“So” He takes a big sip from his glass, “You miss me?” He said with a smirk.

 “Of course I did you jackass. I thought I was never going to see you again.” You hit him playfully on the shoulder and he winces a bit and leans away. You pretend not to notice and he moves the conversation forward.

“So say something. You usually never shut the fuck up but now you wanna go mute?” He slams down his first drink, grabbing the bottle and pouring another.

All you can think is that you're not letting him drive your baby home if he keeps going like this. You're sipping your drink, staring at him. His eyes narrow, daring you to ask him what everyone else is thinking. He's being a dick anyway, might as well ask. 

“So, how was Hell?” You smirk knowing you're the only one with the balls to ask the question.

“Fan-fucking-tastic! How the fuck do you think Hell was?” He throws his hands up in annoyance. “I don't even know how I got back from that God forsaken place. All I know is I woke up in a fucking coffin, some astronomically weird shit happened and I hauled ass to Bobbys.” He finishes his second drink in one long gulp.

Yeah this is gonna be a long night.

“Do you want me to distract you or do you wanna talk about it?” You say, trying to figure out a way to comfort him without being sappy. You're still ticked off he's being an ass but you guess he's allowed to be right now.

You don't know if he remembers what he told you before he died. You don't even know if he still feels that same way. You don't wanna push all of that onto him at once. He just got back from literal Hell. You just wanna keep things as easy as you can.

“Distract me. Tell me about the last four months. Anything fun?” he says, onto his third drink. The way he's drinking you're going to be dragging him back home.

“Oh you know the usual. I was hunting for a bit in the beginning after you… you- left. Few vamp nests in New York. That was fun. Demons, shifters, the usual. I just needed a release.” You watch his expression carefully.  “I tried to stay close to here in case Bobby needed anything. He's been worried about Sam. We all have been. Bobby's taken me in pretty much full time now and I guess it's been good for both of us. I keep the house clean and keep him in line. He's been teaching me a lot more about different lore.” You're rambling. He's watching you closely though and you just wish you were a damn mind reader.

What is going on inside that beautiful head? 

It’s starting to fill up in here as the night goes on. Dean drank almost the whole bottle of whiskey while we've been shooting the shit. We talk about everything but the tension between the two of us. His green eyes are tinted red and you suggest that it's time to go back home to relax. Neither one of you wants to be around other people right now.

He lets you drive home, but he makes you stop at the gas station so he can grab beer and snacks. He jumps back into the car, throwing you a Twix, your favorite. You're just happy he remembered.

We get back to Bobby's and he finally goes to take a shower. You were teasing him at the bar that his empty stomach made him lose track of how rough he looks right now. As you sit on the couch you notice a weird scar on his shoulder as he heads to the bathroom.

It looks like a handprint? What the fuck is up with that?

You wander outside, it's such a nice night. The skies are clear and you get lost in thought looking up at the stars. The one good thing about being in the middle of nowhere are the stars. Bobby texted earlier saying he had a possible trail, so he may be home as early as tomorrow.

You're lost in thought when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You jump back, ready to fight whoever is there when you realize it's just Dean.

“Woah there sweetheart. You really think I'd let anything get you out here? Not a chance. What were you thinking about?” His index finger taps on the glass bottle in his hand, waiting impatiently for an answer. 

Oh what were you thinking about? Your mind was racing with thoughts of him. What's with the handprint? How is he really? How can you tell him you haven't stopped thinking about him since he told you he liked you? How you grieved the love that could've been. How you burnt yourself out fighting monsters because you were so pissed at the world for letting him die. How all you want to do is kiss him right now.

“Oh nothing. Just looking at the stars. They're beautiful tonight.” You sighed. Why are you so scared to just talk to him?

“Bullshit. What are you really thinking about? I can tell when you're lying. I haven't seen you in four months but that doesn't negate the last 10 years we've known each other.” His words have you taken aback. He's drinking his beer, leaning on the railing and just staring at you now. Fuck it. You'll tell him what's on your mind.

“Dean, do you remember what you told me before you died? On our last hunt together?” You tread carefully. 

He nods

“I haven't stopped thinking about it. I haven't stopped thinking about you. What we could've been, what I wanted us to be. I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember Dean.” Your voice is shaky and doesn't sound like you at all but it all starts to pour out.

“Fuck! All I've wanted to do all night is comfort you. To hold you. To tell you everything I was thinking. But I didn't wanna overwhelm you. You just got home. Who knows how you feel about me? If that changed during your time away. I don't even wanna know if you don't feel that way about me anymore. I've already grieved for you and then you walk back into my life and it's like I'm hit with every single fucking feeling at once.” You must look wild right now but your nerves are on fire.

He drinks the rest of his beer. Setting it down next to him. He hasn't said anything yet. You hate this. You just want him to say something.

Instead he leans in, holds you by the back of your head and kisses you. You've never had a kiss like this that took the air from your lungs and all the thoughts from your head.

He tastes like whiskey. It's all teeth and tongue as he holds you tight against him, his hand moving from the back of your head down to the small of your back. You press yourself against him as close as you possibly can. You're not letting go again.

He pulls away and you're still clinging to him, desperate to keep going. He's holding you and you can see hunger in his eyes as you look up at him. His usual green irises are dark, his pupils blown out with lust.

“I thought about you all the time. Being in Hell, I- I was there for forty years. Forty years of thinking about you. What I would do if I saw you again. I shouldn't have even said anything when I knew I was going to die.” He brushes a loose hair away from your face. “You were the last person I thought I was going to see when I came here. I know, stupid of me to think that when I know how close you are to Bobby. I've been wanting to tell you all night. But instead I drowned myself in whiskey because out of everything in Hell that scared the shit out of me, you not feeling the same way scared me even more.”

His grip on you relaxes so he can look you in the eye. He's waiting for you to make the next move. You don't even know what to say. You're dumb founded. Your heart is racing, faster than you thought was possible.

You can still see the hunger in his eyes. You want him. You can feel the whiskey that you drank about to make decisions for you instead. 

“Dean, I need you.” You whisper, the tears you didn't realize you were holding back threaten to fall.

That's all he needed to hear. He scoops you up with one hand, peppering your neck with unbalanced sloppy kisses as you stumble into the guest bedroom. You can't believe this is happening. This is all you've wanted for ten years and here we are. About to be fucked by Dean Winchester. 

“I'm not going easy on you. If you want me to stop then we need a safe word.” he's growling in your ear.

“I don't want a safe word. Do whatever you want with me Dean. I'm all yours.” You replied breathlessly.

He's on top of you in bed. Clawing at your clothes, they can't seem to come off fast enough for him. You lay there in your underwear, wet as fuck, and he hasn't even taken his clothes off yet. A whine escapes your lips. That's not fair. 

You rip his shirt off, trying to be delicate about the handprint. You'll ask him about that later. It doesn't even matter right now. Nothing matters that's going to get in the way of you getting what you want right now and what you want is him.

He helps you take off his jeans, you could already see how fucking hard he is without you even trying. He's kneeling in front of you on the bed. Taking you in. His eyes trace every part of your body, the hunger in him deepening.

“Let the fun start then baby girl.” He grabs your face so that you're looking directly at him.

“Y-yes sir.” You choke out. His fingers find their way into your mouth and you're drooling around the taste of him. Salty with a hint of whiskey still lingering on his skin.

“Good girl. Now I want you to do everything I tell you to. If you do not comply then you will be punished. Do you understand?” His voice is so rough and gravely, it sends a shiver up your spine.

You nod, the calloused pad of his fingers are still in your mouth as you start to suck on them. You're trying to show him what you can do if you could only get your mouth on his cock. 

He takes his fingers out of your mouth, moving them down to wrap around your throat and tests you with a light squeeze. You moan as his grip gets tighter. Fuck- are you going to explode from just this? You are way too fucking wet right now. You need to get it together, you're being pathetic.

He kisses you, your mouths practically melting into one. His tongue takes the lead and explores. You feel him lick the back of your teeth before he bites down on your lower lip.

You try to grab for his cock, he's so fucking hard and you can see how big he is from the outline on his boxers but he slaps your hand away.

“You do not get this cock until I say so.” A sharp sting snaps you to attention as he slaps your cheek. You notice his cock twitch as he does so. “Next time you fuck up, you're getting punished.” 

He holds your hands above your head, tight. He moves his lips lower to your neck now, biting and sucking hard. Marking his territory with deep maroon bruises. You are his now and he knows it. He just needs the rest of the world to know it as well. 

He lets go of your hands as he travels lower to your breasts. You leave your hands up there for good measure, even though you're kind of curious what the punishment may bring.

Suddenly he has one nipple in his mouth, rolling it around with his teeth while his hand plays with the other. You let a moan escape you so he switches sides. He really wants to mark you up. Leaving patches of deep purple bruises across your torso as he makes his way downwards. The anticipation is killing you. Then he sits up, the sudden lack of him on top of you causes you to let out a needy whine.

He leans over the bed to find something. What's he looking for? He brings out a knife from the pocket of his jeans and you cock your eyebrow up, questioning what the hell he thinks he's doing.

“Since you're all mine now, we need to make sure everybody knows. Always.” He taps the knife on your hip bone, his eyes are somehow even darker. Is he going to cut you? Fuck it, you've been cut by worse things.

He carves his initials into your hip and you didn't think you'd be so turned on by this but you were so so wrong. His other hand is holding your other hip down so you don't ruin his handiwork. He's careful and delicate as he brands you with “DW”. Each cut sends something electric to your core.

You watch as his face is so close to your pussy. You wonder if he can feel how fucking wet you are. Your black underwear is hiding the ever growing wet patch on the fabric. As he finishes, he looks so proud of himself and you let a moan escape as he licks the wound. A drop of your blood drips off his tongue and onto the bed below you. Fuck.

“Dean… I need you… now…” you can barely speak. The build up inside of you wants to come out and instinctively you grab for his cock again.

“Does a little slut like you deserve it? I told you, I'm running the show. You grabbed for my cock again you pathetic desperate whore. Time to be punished.” His voice is low and gruff in your ear.

He flips you over onto your stomach and into his lap so quick you don't even realize what's happening. Suddenly there's a sharp slap across your ass. And another. And another. They're coming so quickly you can't catch your breath.

“Fuck Dean, that fucking hurts!” You try to reach around and grab his arm and he stops, his hand rubbing the sting on your ass instead.

“Do you need a safeword sweetheart? You need me to stop?” His words are softer, a juxtaposition of himself a few moments earlier.

You squirm on his lap, the warmth of his palm soothing your raw skin underneath.

“I- I don't think I want you to stop. But the safe word is pineapple.” You breathe out.

He kisses the back of your head before flipping the switch once again.

“I don't want you to be able to sit without thinking of me. I don't want you to be able to look at yourself in the mirror without thinking of me. You're going to be a good girl, Daddy's almost done punishing you.” 

He starts to kiss you where the slaps sting the most. Your ass is definitely bruised. The kissing stops when suddenly he bites your ass. Fuck. You need him to touch you immediately. 

You think he read your mind because the next thing you know he's got you back on your back, tossing you around the bed with ease. He rips off your underwear and his eyes trail down in-between your wide open legs.

“I've never seen a pussy as pretty as yours” He runs his finger down your slit, feeling how wet you already are for him. As he lifts his finger to his mouth, you can see a trail of wet coming from your pussy to his finger. He sucks on his finger to taste you and you clench around nothing.

His fingers trail up your thigh until he's right where you want him. He slips his finger inside of you and you feel like you're going to explode. They curl up in a come hither motion, squeezing against the spongy spot in your core. You're moaning loud but who fucking cares, no one's around to hear it besides Dean and he's fucking living for it. 

He brings his mouth down to your clit, slowly teasing you. You feel his warm breath hovering over you. His tongue moves through your folds with expert precision. You can feel it, you're going to cum soon if he keeps this shit up. His fingers move faster pumping in and out of you. You can hear how wet you are as he scissors two of his fingers inside of you  His tongue stays slow and steady on your throbbing clit, he hums as your thighs tighten around his head.

“I- Fuck- Dean- Gonna fuckin-” You scream as you unfold under his touch. The coil in your stomach snaps with more force than you've ever felt. You soak his face with squirt. You didn't even think you could do that, you've never cum so hard in your fucking life.

You're starting to see stars but he doesn't let up. Fingers still pushing up on that sweet spot and fuck- you're getting overstimulated but you don't even give a shit when the love of your fucking life is lapping up your squirt like it's the last drink on Earth. 

He looks pussy drunk as he finally lifts his face away from your mound. Blood, sweat and cum covering his body and you just want more. You wanna show him what you can do. 

You climb on top of him and he lets you, curious about what you're going to do next. It's your turn to be in charge and he laughs, “Do your worst baby girl.”

You straddle his lap and you can feel his cock twitch with each kiss you leave on his neck. You try to mark him but he slaps you on the ass, a warning.

You move lower and lower kissing a trail down his body until you're finally face to face with his cock. He helps you peel his boxers off and you take a moment to stare in awe as his perfect dick is right in front of you. Thick and hard and throbbing, You slowly take him into your mouth, drool escaping past your lips.

You start at the head. Licking around the rim as you watch him squirm. Stroking his cock with both hands as you suck on just the tip. You move your mouth down, taking him in little by little. His hips buck the deeper his cock disappears into your mouth. You try to get all the way to the base and he laughs at you, knowing his cock is too big for your throat to handle.

He grabs you by the hair, slowly fucking up into your mouth. Drool is pooling at the base of his cock as he picks up the pace, chasing his own release. You feel his head bump the back of your throat and he pulses above your tongue. He's gonna come soon, you can feel it in the way his hips stutter.

“Oh fuck-” He barely is able to get the words out as hot ropes of his cum shoot right down your throat. You swallow with pride, smirking at him. You know whatever he throws your way you can match him.

His dick is still at full attention and it's finally time to truly feel him inside of you.

You lay back and spread your legs, your thighs still dripping with your own cum from earlier. His tip teases you, rubbing himself up and down your slit between your folds. Suddenly you feel him push his way inside you. Stretching you out, filling you up like you never thought was possible.

He goes slowly at first, looking directly at you, studying the faces that you make when you're pleasured. But his speed quickly picks up.

He lifts both your legs over his shoulders so he can drive himself as deep inside of you as possible. You can't help but scream as you feel another orgasm coming. He can feel you clench around him and he does not hold back. He drills into the perfect spot causing you to see stars again.

He pulls his cock out as you scream in pleasure. Slapping it against your clit as you soak him and the sheets.

“I'm not done with you yet. Not done until my cock stops working.” He growls.

He flips you over, grabbing your ass into the air, putting you in the perfect arch and getting right back to it. You can hardly stand the feeling of his balls tapping your clit. Overstimulation takes over all of your senses but it doesn't stop me from continuing to babble with so much fucking pleasure.

“Fuck- Dean- So good. So fuckin’ good” You're singing praises to him so he doesn’t stop. 

Keeping his rhythm he slaps your ass in between pumps. Your skin is still tender from the punishment before but the guttural sounds that Dean's making after each slap is like music to your ears. You turn your neck to look up at him, your hair falls in your face, stuck to the drool on your cheek.

He looks like a literal demon right now. His green eyes dark with lust, he can't get enough of your pussy right now and he can't hide the feeling. 

“Tell me how much you want me baby, tell me how bad you've been waiting for this.” He grunts in between pumps.

You gasp as he goes even faster, deeper into your pussy. “I've… I've wanted this… for so fucking long… I'm your… your.. little slut… I'm all yours…” The words only escape your lips with each snap of his hips.

That's all he needed to shoot another load into you, this time deep into your pussy. You can feel the warmth fill you up, spreading ecstacy throughout the rest of your body. His pumps become slower and slower until he stops and slaps your ass. His cum slowly drips from your pussy onto the bed as he pulls himself out of you. The emptiness makes you let out a pathetic needy whine.

“Come lay with me for a second.” He beckons you to lie down with him. You collapse into the space next to him and he wraps his arms around you, his face resting on the crook of your neck.

“You feeling okay?” He can barely get the words out. He's out of breath from all the fun you just had. You have a feeling it's not over yet though as you can feel him rocking his still hard cock into your back.

“I'm okay Dean” You mumble, burying your face into his forearm. You're so happy you didn't even notice how disgusting both of us are right now. Cum, blood and sweat covering us and the bed. You're gonna have to strip this before Bobby sees it. Oops.

He starts kissing your neck again, gentle this time. You can't help but melt under the soft kisses, a total switch from earlier.

“You did such a good job for me baby, you deserve this now.” He whispers between kisses. “I don't know what it is about you but I can't stop. I'm intoxicated, and not just from the whiskey, I can't get enough of you.”

You nod as he slides his dick back into you with ease. Moaning together as he lazily slides in and out while holding you. His hand travels downwards so he gently rubs small, tight circles around your swollen clit. He knows exactly what to do to make you cum again.

Rocking together, kissing your neck and rubbing your clit you both manage to cum at the same time. Your throat is raw as you moan through it. You're fucking exhausted at this point but you don't know if you want him to stop. Luckily he chooses for you.

He slides out, the bed is soaking wet after everything you both just did. He doesn't move though, you roll over to lay on his chest. He's perfect. Tonight was perfect. Your mind races to so many different places that you don't even notice him staring down at you.

“What are you thinking now? Scared of me?” He's barely whispering.

You prop yourself up so you can look at him. “Why would I be scared of you?”

“I don't know- I- I've spent what feels like an eternity in Hell. All I've wanted was to come back and be with you. All I've wanted is you.” He sounds so sad but sincere.

“You have me Dean.” You tap on your hip, wincing a bit. “You really think I'd let you carve your name into me if you didn't have all of me?” You let out a small laugh and it makes him smile as well. 

“So that's settled then. You're mine.” He smiles again as he says this. His eyes lighting up as you nod your head on his chest.

“Hey,” Dean spoke low, peering at you through his dark lashes as his big hand cupped your waist, “Stop looking at Sam like you want to devour him.”

You could feel your cheeks heating, the implications of being called out by Dean was clearly reflecting on your facial expression. For a moment you contemplated acting dumb, but then your vision blurred and you clenched your jaw in a flash of anger. Now he wanted to detect the desire written across your face? When it was directed at Sam? Not at him?

“And what if I do want to devour Sam?” You challenged, setting your glass of water on the bartop. Dean’s thumb slipped under your cotton t-shirt, his calloused fingers pressing against your flesh as he gently ushered you in the direction of the bar stool next to him.

“We both know what you want.” Dean clicked his tongue, looking down at his nearly empty glass of whiskey. He lifted his hand, using his forefinger to circle the rim of the glass. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I was trying to be a gentleman about it. You’re young, you know? Older men are trouble. Especially terminal bachelors like me.”

You scowled at him, digging your fingernails into the linoleum countertop. The bartender was looking in your direction, eyeing Dean’s glass, but decided he would wait for the flames to simmer in your eyes before interrupting the conversation that could quickly turn explosive.

“I don’t need you to protect me from myself,” You spit. Suddenly, the irritation of being ignored by Dean for months on end was boiling over, and the sexual frustration was the icing on top of the cake.

“No,” Dean agreed, nodding once. “But I need to protect my brother from you. You’re looking at him like a mountain lion scouting out a deer.”

Teeth clenched together and an eye roll later, you knew he was right. After months of Dean playing it cool, you decided he wasn’t worth the fight anymore. You were trying to get laid, and if it was going to be anyone, it was going to be with a Winchester.

“I just want…” You trailed off, unsure if this was information you wanted to offer Dean. “I just want someone a little older.”

Dean’s jaw dropped, his eyebrows shooting up as the straightforwardness in your words cut through him. As soon as he registered the shyness on your expression at his reaction to your admittance, he quickly recollected himself and cleared his throat. “Not me and not Sam, babe. We’ve got a policy on not dipping your pen in company ink.”

The rejection was palpable, an acidic bile caught in your throat when you looked away from Dean. He was trying to say they didn’t mess around with other hunters, but you knew that wasn’t true. Maybe there was just something wrong with you.

You could still feel that shame, even now. A month later. 

That conversation happened a month ago, and you spent the past thirty days trying to forget it even happened. Dean didn’t mention it again and you had felt too exposed to even attempt to pursue something with Sammy. 

The motel room you were in with Sam and Dean smelled of cigarette smoke and bleach. The curtains, flooring, and bedding was reminiscent of decor from the early 2000s.

Dean looked at the laptop in front of him, offering a sigh pulled from deep within his chest as he nursed a cold beer he pulled from the motel fridge. “I’m no good at this research stuff. When Sammy gets back, he’s gotta take over.”

“When does he get back?” you asked curiously, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Ever since that conversation with Dean, Sam had acted as a good buffer for the two of you. Your eyes refrained from fluttering over to him, careful to not drink in the way his shirt fit over his muscles or how his jeans were clinging to his hips.

Dean swallows the beer he was holding in his mouth, and from your peripheral vision, you see the outline of his shoulder shrugging up and down. “Not for a couple more hours, he’s still a couple towns away. Hey—” Dean started, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You ever gonna look at me again?”

With warm cheeks, you offer a brief glance in his direction. Now it’s your turn to shrug your shoulders. Digging your fingers into the quilt lining the bed, you shift yourself so you’re sitting with your legs crossed on the edge of the bed. 

Dean stands from the table, taking slow slides in your direction. His knees dip on the bed and he brings his hand to gently rest against your chin, using his forefinger and thumb to stabilize your face and maintain eye contact with him. “You’ve been pouting for the last month.”

“Rejection stings,” you explained vulnerably. In all honesty, you hadn’t even meant for the words to come out, but your tongue worked faster than your brain did.

Dean dropped his hand, chewing on the inside of his lip. He took in a deep breath, clearly unsure how to navigate the current predicament. “It’s not like that. I think you’re beautiful. I want you, trust me. It’s just… Like I said, don’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Please,” the word comes out as a whine, nearly begging to be with Dean.

He stills, his jaw clenching slightly. There was a definite reaction to the way your tone carried out the word.

“Please, Dean,” you tried again, the same tone, the same whine, this time tacking his name on at the end.

Dean doesn’t need you to beg again. He dips down, his face mere inches away from yours before jutting his tongue out and swiping it across your bottom lip. He has his hand positioned behind your head to stabilize you as his mouth works against yours. The stubble on his chin is rugged against the smooth nature of your skin, and when he bites down on your lip, tugging at it softly, he uses the yelp you let out to slide his tongue into your mouth.

You’re unsure how it happens. Everything is moving so fast, but suddenly Dean’s back is pressed against the bed, and you’re on top of him, mouths connected and moving in a rhythmic sync. His hand skims your lower back, inching your shirt up just enough to feel the softness of your skin. With your core pressed against him, even through the clothes, you can feel him hardening beneath you.

Dean tugs at your chin, moving your mouth off of him before gripping your hips and gently moving your clothed core against his length. Moans spill from your lips while your head tips back to expose the base of your throat.

“There you go,” Dean mutters, watching your face contort into pure pleasure.

“Feels good,” you gasp, finding your own rhythm for the rocking motion Dean was guiding.

Flipping you over, Dean positions himself in between your thighs. He’s quick about pulling his shirt off, peeling his jeans and boxers off like he’s a professional at taking his clothes off in front of women. You’re still clothed beneath him, and your eyes widen at his length hanging between his thighs. When he realizes your look of concern, he furrows his brows before clearing his throat. “I don’t want to wreck you,” Dean muttered softly, an inkling of concern tipped off in his tone. “I’ll take it nice and slow for you.”

He’s careful to peel your clothes off. Paying attention to all the details to make you the most comfortable as possible. When his hand slips in between your thighs and fingers slide against your core, he offers a groan at the feel of your slickness against his digits. Your face heats, the feeling of Dean actually touching you was exactly how you had fantasized about it. “Thank you,” you breathe.

“You’re thanking me?” Dean chuckled softly, inserting his fingers coated in your arousal into his mouth. His eyes roll back at the taste of you, pure ecstasy rolling through him at the feeling of your wetness glazing his taste buds. “You’re such a sweetheart, you know that?”

Your hips buck in response to his praise, and he offers a quirk of his brow before the dots connect in his head. He tests it again, “Yeah? You’re so good, huh?”

The whine that formulates in your throat comes out as a wanton moan. With shut eyes, you buck your hips against him again, and Dean is more than aware of what you’re needing. “You ready, sweetheart?”

Your nod and verbal confirmation comes out more excited than you intended it to be, but you truly don’t care at the moment. His hips align with yours, the tip of him teasing your entrance as he preps you to take his length. 

“More,” you beg, “please, Dean.”

And that is all he needs to hear before sliding the full length into you at a tantalizing speed. He doesn’t bottom out during the first gentle thrust. Instead he lets you get used to the feeling of him inside. Snaking his hand in between your bodies, he moves his fingers against your clit until you’re breathless beneath him. He’s intrigued by the way you react, almost like you can’t control the impulsive movements because it feels too damn good.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Dean instructs as he bottoms out for the first time, “tell me how you’re feeling.”

You gasp at the feeling, your walls clenching around him as his tip kisses your cervix. “Feels too good, it’s too much.”

His fingers continue to circle your clit, focusing on your pleasure before he can register his own. It’s when you clench around him again, your warm walls tightening around his cock that he seizes the movements of his fingers around your clit. “Not yet, baby. Don’t you wanna enjoy it a little longer?”

“No,” you shake your head, big eyes peering up at him as you writhe beneath him. “Please, I wanna cum.”

“You’re so polite,” Dean pulls himself *almost* all the way out before thrusting himself back into the depths of your core in a gentle manner. “I know what I’m doing, baby.”

This cycle continues multiple times before you lose count. He almost gets you to the finish line, your pleasure dancing on the edge of completion, before stripping the stimulation from you to stunt your orgasm before it has the chance to follow through. 

The last time he does it to you, you grunt in frustration and he offers a sympathetic look. He pulls his hand toward your face to tug on your lips that have formed a pout before giving you a melting smile. “‘Kay, baby, don’t worry. I got you.”

He pushes in and out of you, directing your attention downward so you can watch as he enters in and out, the speed consistent enough to bring you to the brink of your orgasm. Throwing your head back, you’re unsure if he is actually going to let you finish this time, or if this is just a mean ploy to get you worked up and frustrated. 

Dean is an expert at your body, in just under an hour of communicating with it. He feels the way you tighten around him, and knows that he needs to follow through with this orgasm by the way you clench around his cock. With a gentle, “Let it out, baby,” his lower abdomen is sprayed with liquid that has been pent up in you for… Well, who knows how long.

“Oh,” you mutter shyly, the aftermath of the intense orgasm bringing you back to reality. Embarrassment washes through you as you realize you’ve squired, coating the bedding and Dean with the fluids. 

“Hey,” Dean pecks at your lips, eyes gentle as he gauges how you’re feeling by a simple sweep of your expression, “that was so good– look at me.”

He points down, the evidence of his own climax coating his chest.

Your shyness eases at the realization that Dean was edging himself too, but he was more focused on you receiving the benefits of it.

“Oh,” you say, covering your eyes with your hands. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Always so polite, baby,” Dean mutters, grabbing his t-shirt to wipe you down. “Now let’s get you cleaned up. A hot shower is calling your name. I’ll even shampoo your hair for you.”

Headlights blind him as his foot falls heavier onto the gas pedal. Head pounding, ears ringing, shoulder aching - a wet and deep type of ache he knows means it’s more serious than he’s willing to admit. However, part of him already knew that the blood oozing down his arm and onto Baby’s leather seats was his first clue. But when he’s still an hour out from your place on a night he promised he’d be home, he can’t bring himself to care about the mess. 

So he keeps driving. He should slow down; he knows he should, the roads are slick with the steam that rises from the steady rain beating down onto the hot pavement, but he just can’t. His gaze remains fixed, grip all but crushing the steering wheel like he's just as possessed as the demons that did this to him. 

The echoes of the night's events still linger within despite his efforts to only think of you. In the storm of his mind, the senses and memories intertwine. The feeling of being thrown into the wall so hard it cracked, mixed with the feeling of your soft skin under his calloused hands- the smell of blood draining from his nose, mixing with the smell of your perfume. The image of the demon’s souls leaving their bodies, mixing with the image of your body in his bed. Every bad, nasty, scary memory always slowly consumed and over taken by the soft, warm memories of you. 

When he finally reaches your street, he parks outfront. Your windows glowing a soft yellow light through the curtains into the darkness of the night, meaning that somewhere inside, you’re still awake, just as he knew you’d be, waiting for him even at this ungodly hour. 

He doesn’t bother grabbing his duffel; he steps out of the car, his body aching with every move. Pausing, he takes a deep breath, eyes closed, and then once it’s over, he begins dragging himself to the front door. Walking feels like moving through wet cement, and when he reaches his destination, he leans forward, resting his sticky forehead against the grain, trying to catch his breath. Sweat rolls down his face and runs into his mouth, the taste making him cringe- right now, even his sweat tastes like blood. 

Dean raises his fist to knock on the door. He has a key, but the thought alone of trying to dig it out of his back pocket makes his shoulder throb even more.

Inside the house, you jump at the noise in slight alarm. You had been drifting in and out of sleep, waiting for him to come home to you, patience waning. But now adrenaline pumps through your veins, suddenly very awake as you make it to your feet and head towards the door. 

You know it's Dean, but just to be safe, just as Dean would have told you to, you check through the peephole first. And when you see him, the air feels like it's been knocked from your lungs, your fingers all but scrambling to undo the locks and open the door. 

Dean stands there, barely holding himself up, bloody and broken. Your panicked eyes rake over his form immediately as you begin taking inventory of every injury you can find;  A large gash to the forehead above his right eye, left eye bruised, bottom lip busted, upper lip and chin stained with blood that at some point had been coming from his nose, his is shirt is ripped along the torso and at the right shoulder which somewhere underneath the fabric is the source of all that blood covering his arm and clothing, and now your front step as well. He looks halfway to death, but somehow in this light, he's still as beautiful as ever, all tan skin with little freckles, green shining eyes, and waiting there just for you- the sight is almost holy.

“Dean-” You finally speak, snapping out of your haze and instinctively reaching out for him. But before you get to him, he stops you, putting up his hands just enough for you to see, reluctantly begging you not to touch him. It’s not that he doesn’t want your touch because - Jesus Christ - that's all he wants, but because he knows the moment he feels you, he’ll be gone. 

“I’m okay…” He murmurs with a quiet roughness as he focuses on moving one foot in front of the other, crossing the threshold of your home. When he passes you, you can feel the warmth radiating off of him, despite his denying your touch. It makes your hands ache to reach out for him even more. 

“What the hell happened to you?” You question, not accusatory, but serious enough to let him know not to give you a sarcastic response.

He blinks at you for a moment. He looks pale, like he needs to sit before he passes out. “Demons…” He answers breathlessly, trying to pull himself together. 

You don’t really hear the answer because, after seeing that look on his face, you begin ushering him to the kitchen, quickly pulling out a chair from the table for him to sit. He involuntarily slumps down with a soft groan, the wood hard and unforgiving. His eyes squeeze shut, and his teeth clench from the impact.  

And as soon as you're sure he’s seated, you turn and head for the cupboards, beginning to rummage through them almost frantically. He doesn’t have the energy to question what you're doing, or to even look, but the second you try to walk past him in an attempt to leave the room, searching for something else, he grabs you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks. His hold isn’t rough, it’s pure longing, the need to touch you, even if it’s just for a moment, even if it’s just like this. 

He looks up at you now, noticing how heavy your breathing is, how worried your eyes look, how it's borderline scared. But you need to get the first aid supplies, and you need to stop the bleeding.

“Dean, I need towels, bandages, please-” You tell him, your tone not frustrated but urgent nonetheless, pulling away from him despite how badly the look on his face makes you want to stay. He moves almost indiscernibly, nodding in understanding.

When you return, you haphazardly dump all the supplies onto the kitchen table. This wouldn’t be the first time you’ve patched up Dean’s battle wound, mostly minor, some a little more intense, but this is different, this is unlike anything you've ever seen. 

Pulling out another chair, positioning it directly in front of him, you sit down and begin taking some deep breaths, trying to keep your emotions in check. If you want to do this properly, you can’t be a shaking mess. 

A beat passes, and then, once you’re ready, you make your first move. You reach out to remove his shirt, needing to assess the real damage under the blood-soaked cotton, but as you do, he stops you, his hands coming up again, palms facing out in objection. 

“I‘m fine.” He rasps unconvincingly. “Can do it myself….” 

You pause again. You know what this is, you know what he’s doing. “No, you’re not.” You say short and firm but not unkindly. 

Dean ignores you, reaching for a towel on the table anyway, hands visibly shaking. He’s lying to you, and you both know it, but that gnawing voice in the back of his head tells him to fight.

The voice is his father’s. It’s the rough, harsh sound of the man who taught him to never show weakness. The man who raised him to hide the blood and pain, to deny all comforts for the sake of serving others. John may have never taught Dean how to ride a bike or shave his face, but he sure as hell taught him how to be a soldier. But for as many physical scars that mentality has left him, there are twice as many emotional. 

But you're not letting him play that game tonight, not like this.

Your voice breaks through his stream of clouded thoughts like soft light. “Dean…” You urge gentle but insistent, “Let me take care of you… please.”  

Another pause- The room completely silent except for his labored breaths. But he closes his eyes, and all the cracks you’ve made in his armor begin breaking him open. He gives a small nod, finally allowing you in because the truth is that with you, it never feels like breaking at all. 

And so, without hesitation, you move, cutting off his shirt and exposing the wound on his shoulder. He grits his teeth in pain while you carefully tend to the source, trying to stop the bleeding enough to clean out the wound, but even with the gentlest of touches, Dean hisses at the pain.

When you wash out the wound, the liquid stings like fire, and his eyes gloss over. He tries to hold it in, both not wanting to show weakness and not wanting to scare you, but the pain’s too much. His fist smacks down onto the table in a tight grip, the sound making you jump. He gives you a guilty look, wanting to say he's sorry for scaring you, but he doesn’t trust his own voice. Deep down, he knows he doesn’t even have to say it; you already know. 

You work methodically, going from the deep wounds to the tiny cuts. He tenses and sucks in breath as you work, trying desperately to hold it together. 

Dean tries to focus on you, cataloguing every detail he can find, as if he hasn't already memorized every inch of you a thousand times before. He pushes himself to get lost in all that is you: the way you furrow your eyebrows in concentration, the steady movements of your hands. He still clenches his fist and teeth at the prodding of his injuries, but it helps him remain more still, always trying so desperately to be better- to be good.  

Once you’ve finished, you lean back, wiping the sweat from your forehead, inadvertently staining it with some of his blood. Every one of his wounds now cleaned, closed, and dressed. The bleeding has finally stopped. 

“How do you feel?” You ask softly. 

His body language matches yours, leaning back in the chair, exhausted. “Like shit…” He breathes out, voice somewhat garbled. 

You give him a second to breathe before you stand, “Let’s get you to the bathroom and finish cleaning you up.” 

He nods back, and this time, when you go to help him, he doesn’t resist. Dean allows you to support some of his weight, never all of it, as you direct him to the bathroom.  

Entering the bathroom, you turn on the lights, making sure to keep them dim and inoffensive, before sitting him down on the closed toilet seat. He wouldn’t be able to stand long enough to shower, and you just spent all that time dressing his wounds, so instead, you turn on the tap at the sink, letting the water heat up and slowly fill up the basin. While you wait, you turn on the aromatherapy machine sitting on the counter, allowing the sweet, relaxing smell to mix in with the steam forming by the sink. Usually, the small act would have Dean rolling his eyes or making a playfully snarky comment, pretending to think it’s silly, just like he does with your fancy coffee maker, collection of cozy blankets, and all other things his instincts would deem unnecessary. But what he would never admit is that when he’s back on the road, he finds himself secretly longing for the warmth and comfort of those cozy little things alongside the comfort of you. 

Turning back to him, you sit down in front of him on your knees. You begin unlacing his old, heavy, and beat-up hunting boots to take them off his tired feet, along with his socks. Next, you reach for his belt. There’s nothing sexual about it, but it’s intimate in a way that still makes Dean’s heart flutter in his chest. All of your movements are so careful, like he’s fragile, not some 6-foot-something grown man that has killed both humans and monsters alike with his bare hands. 

You strip him down to his underwear, an old pair of plaid boxers that need replacing, before returning to the sink, now filled. Taking the softest washcloth you can find in the cabinet, you submerge it into the steaming water. You then wring the excess back out, being sure not to cause a mess, and you then bring the cloth to Dean’s face. 

Gently, you wash away the remnants of blood and earth on his skin, the cloth picking up shades of rust and soil. You have to wash out and re-wet the cloth multiple times. You know he’ll need a real shower in the morning, but this is the best you can do for now, unwilling to let him go to bed covered in all that muck. 

Now clean, you wrap a towel around him. He would never tell you he’s cold; the air on his now damp skin causes goosebumps to form that betray him. You then help him to stand, guiding him to the bedroom where you sit him on the edge of the bed before helping him change into a fresh pair of boxers. 

After that, you help him shift his weight so he can sit in the bed properly. He stifles a groan as he moves, but eventually he gets himself to the head of the bed, back resting against the headboard, so he can sit up. He looks uncomfortable still, but he’d be unable to lie down fully right now with the way his back and shoulder ache. 

So once he’s as comfortable as he’s going to be, you crawl into the bed as well. The kitchen and the bathroom are both a mess, but you decide to leave them until the morning. You missed Dean like crazy, and even if he hadn’t come home to you beaten to a pulp, you still wouldn’t have been able to keep yourself away from him. 

He feels you cautiously positioning yourself on the side of his good shoulder, snuggling into him, careful not to ruin your hard work of bandages and gauze, your body warm and soft against his still tense and aching. You don’t say anything, wanting him to know it's okay if he doesn’t want to talk. But he does. 

Slowly looking down at you, his lips part, and a whisper comes out low and strained, “Thank you…” 

The words hit you harder than you’d expect, his tone almost pleading, saying more than his actual words ever could. “Dean, you don’t have to thank me-” 

Before you’re even finished, his words overlap yours. "Yes,” He states, like it's painfully obvious, “I do…” 

Tenderly, he brings a hand up to rest on your cheek. He studies you again for a moment, thoughtfully, but without something else behind his eyes that you can't quite identify yet. 

And then softly he speaks again, “Come here,” He whispers, not in command but in yearning. 

You nod softly, now understand what he wants, what that flicker in his eyes meant, letting him guide your face to his before he kisses you. 

The kiss is hesitant, a timid sort of cautious, all the things Dean pretends not to be. 

But the caution passes, as it always does, and Dean sinks into the kiss, now claiming you. After days apart, the first kiss is always more intense, but this is a softer sort of starved. 

His body and mind have been through the wringer, and he should be resting. He really shouldn’t be kissing you, not like this, not this hungry, but you let him anyway. Not selfishly, but because when he’s there looking at you like that- kissing you like that, you know you aren’t able to deny him anything. 

He pulls away reluctantly and leans his forehead against yours. His breathing is heavier now, and his eyes are becoming heavy. “Baby…” He pleads softly, lips brushing against yours with each syllable. 

You know what he really wants, and you want it too, but you can’t shake the image of all that blood, all those bandages and wounds, the way he fought back tears he desperately didn’t want you to see, as you cared for him. 

“You’re hurt.” You whisper breathlessly, as if he needed a reminder, before he kisses you again, his movements growing in hunger. And despite your weak protest, your hand finds its way up to the side of his stubbly face, holding it there, holding him. 

He pulls away again, holding back the pathetic urge to whimper. He needs you, he needs all of you, now more than ever. “Baby…” He repeats his plea, voice strained and trembling, before adding, “Please.” 

His words break what little resolve you had left. How could you ever say no to that? 

Nodding, you let his hand on the back of your neck guide you to meet his lips again. And now, with your permission, he pours everything he has into kissing you, from how much he missed you, to how grateful he is for you, his love and need for you, not just in this way but in all ways. It makes your heart ache to give him everything back, continuing to kiss him wantingly. 

Intimacy with Dean is always passionate, always loving, but this time is different. Dean is always in control, dominant, disciplined in his love for you, but right now, he’s none of those things, and that realization does something to the pit of your stomach that you can’t explain. You let that feeling guide you, moving carefully to straddle his lap. 

When your core, covered by the soft material of your pajama shorts, just barely brushes against him, one of the whimpers he’s been so desperately trying to hold back escapes into your mouth. 

His cheeks flush and turn a reddish pink you rarely ever see as he feels his heart sink. “Fuck, I-...” He swears as he pulls back, suddenly embarrassed, a sense of shame washing over him. But you don’t let him get far, not now, not when he’s already let down so many of his walls tonight. 

You pull him back in, shaking your head, and cutting him off with a kiss before mumbling the same words you spoke earlier, “Let me take care of you… please,” And just like before, it breaks him, and he gives in, nodding helplessly, connecting his lips to yours. 

When your kisses move away from his lips to his jaw, trailing down towards his neck, the hand he has on the back of your neck moves up into your hair, gripping it just hard enough for you to feel the pull. He’s resisting the urge to take over, to dominate the moment like usual; you can feel it in his grasp and hear it in his trembled breath, but you both know he needs this. So you keep going, placing kisses over his soft, exposed neck. 

It’s when he whimpers again that a moment of boldness strikes you, and you softly rock your hips, slotting yourself over his already stiffening length. He lets out a gasp that fades into a growl as you repeat the movement slowly. 

He clenches his jaw tighter. He doesn’t want to whine, but he feels it there in his chest, as if you had been torturing him for hours. His words come out strained, still resisting the urge to let go “Baby, don’t-... don’t tease.” 

But the desperation hiding under the resistance in his voice makes your cheeks heat up in pride. A smile quirking onto your lips inadvertently. “Not so fun when the roles are reversed, huh?” You whisper, knowing you have barely teased him, while on the other hand, Dean has spent hours holding you down and teasing you. And you grind against him again, just to hear him whimper some more, before you assure him with a surprisingly devilish remark, “Don’t worry, baby, I won’t be too hard on you, I know you're hurting…”  

He barely registered what you said, lost in his neediness, but he nods anyway, his rough but warm hands moving to grab at your hips in an attempt to pull you closer so he can kiss you again, hanging onto the only shred of dominance he can maintain right now. 

You smile against his lips and take the opportunity of him being distracted to reach down between your bodies, gently pull his length out of his boxers, fingers softly wrapping around him. 

Surprised, he sucks in a breath. “Oh, fuck-” He moans into your mouth before his head tips backwards against the headboard as you start lightly stroking him. 

“That’s it…” You whisper encouragingly as you go back to kissing his neck, now adding little bites and licks, just like he does, copying all of his tactics that he likes to use on you. And he moans again, louder this time, becoming less reserved, the hands on your hips tightening their grip. 

He’s fighting every urge to take over, trying to let you take care of him, and it’s all making him into a pathetic moaning and whimpering mess, already rutting up into your hand. “Please, baby, I need you, please,” He begs suddenly. 

You remove your lips from his neck and admire the sight of him as you pull away. He’s almost panting, cheeks flushed, sweat forming on his forehead. It’s beautiful - he’s beautiful - and you finally realize why he likes seeing you like this so much. 

Thankfully for him, though, you’re not as mean, and you kiss his lips again. Carefully, you lift your lips to remove your shorts and panties. Your heart is beating a thousand miles a minute as you position yourself over him. You’re not used to this role, but the way it’s making you feel right now is almost addictive. 

But Dean is too needy to wait for you to revel in the moment, his hands coming back to your hips like he's trying to pull you down onto him. “Please, baby,” He begs, and he just sounds way too pretty for you to say no. 

You finally sink down onto his length, moaning out as you do- feeling it stretch you out in all the right ways for the first time since he left over 10 days ago.

“Oh god-” He whines loudly, his grip becoming bruising. You don’t move yet, you savor the feeling of him back inside you, the position making him feel even deeper than usual. He feels it too, the extra depth, the head of his cock nestling snugly against your cervix. “Baby- move, god please love-” 

His begging makes you grin, and you do as he asks, starting slow, lifting up and down in a rocking motion against him. 

Dean groans and bites his lower lip at the sensation, still trying and failing to keep his whimpers at bay. It makes you feel proud to watch him come undone like this, and it sure as hell turns you on. That addictive feeling rising up in you, making you want to absolutely wreck him. 

“You like that, D?” You whisper all breathy and sultry, using his little nickname as you continue to ride him. He nods, groaning out again, using his hands on your hips to try to make you go faster. He’s stronger than you by far and could easily take whatever he wanted, but you try your best not to let him change your pace. “Uh- uh- just relax, baby…” You whisper.

His head dramatically falls back against the headboard again as he whines. “You’re killing me, sweetheart, please- god please more baby-” 

You take the opportunity to kiss and suck at his neck, now exposed to you, and give in a little to his pleas, going a little faster now. 

“Fuck, honey- thank you-” He lets out unexpectedly, but you eat it up; it only fuels you more. Pulling back, you watch his face scrunch up desperately, and he lets out a strangled groan, sucking in a deep breath. “God, please, please don’t stop.” 

“I won’t, baby, I’ve got you.” You whisper equally breathy, getting worked up as well as you move faster, even, beginning to chase after both his and your own orgasm.   

Between your words and your movements, Dean is a mess. Completely wrecked, sweating, blushing, whimpering, and moaning, and he feels that familiar pressure building deep inside him, but this time there is something different about it, something even more overwhelming. 

He opens his eyes to look at you again, and when your eyes lock, that's when he feels it, that overwhelming sensation growing, that something different. Looking at you now, it’s like he’s falling in love all over again; he sees every part of you inside and out, and it’s sending him over the edge. “I’m not gonna last, baby- shit, god I fucking love you so much.” 

Looking into his eyes, you see it, the sudden glossiness, the slight tremble. He’s tearing up. And as he moans out his love for you, the first tear falls. 

You smash your lips against his, riding him faster, truly testing your topping abilities, making sure you get him to his climax. 

He cums inside you, whimpering pathetically into your mouth, pushing you closer to your own orgasm. His tears only multiply as they transfer onto your skin as you continue to kiss him, allowing you to taste the salt on your tongue. And you can’t help the loud moan that leaves you at the knowledge that Dean Winchester is crying during sex. 

“Cum for me, angel, give it to me- please, baby, please.” He begs, overstimulated at the feeling of you still riding him through his post orgasm bliss, but still desperate to see you finish.

You nod, gasping into his mouth, and your eyes flutter closed as you reach your high. Dean can feel you squeezing around him, cuming for him, and he moans loudly again at the sensation. 

“Oh my god- fuck.” You moan, hips slowing to a stop as your thighs tremble on either side of him and your chest heaves. You feel his lips on your neck this time, warm and swollen from your kisses and his tears. He kisses all over your skin like he’s trying to get every inch, like he’s worshipping you.

“I love you so fucking much.” He murmurs with his long, damp eyelashes fluttering against your skin. 

You bring your hands up to hold his stubbly face between them, making him look at you, wiping the tears off his blushing cheeks. “I love you too- so, so much.” 

He kisses you again and then pulls your body flush against him, one hand resting on the back of your head, keeping you in place securely. “I’m sorry I was late,” He whispers, “I’m sorry I came home bloody and dirty, I’m sorry I’m such a stubborn ass sometimes. But goddamnit it…. Thank you for taking care of me, baby girl. Thank you for loving me.” 

Your heart breaks at his words, wobbly as he fights more tears. “I’ll always take care of you, Dean, I’ll always love you, even late, even bloody, even stubborn, I promise.” 

“I’ll always love you, honey, and I promise I’ll always let you love me too.” And for Dean, that means everything.  

The stale motel air crackled with tension thicker than the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon sunlight. You’d been arguing for twenty minutes straight, circling the same damn point about a vengeful spirit case in Des Moines like vultures over carrion. Dean paced the worn carpet, boots scuffing aggressively, his shoulders a rigid line beneath his worn Henley. Every frustrated sweep of his hand through his hair sent a fresh wave of irritation through you.

"No, Dean! That's not how we handle it!" You threw your hands up, exasperation boiling over. "Charging in guns blazing? Again? After what happened in Toledo?"

He whirled on you, eyes dark as storm clouds, jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. "And what?" His voice was a low, dangerous growl, vibrating with barely leashed fury. It shouldn’t have made your stomach flip, shouldn’t have sent a treacherous heat pooling low in your belly. But it did. "You think I don't know that? Think I forgot Toledo? I know what I'm doing!" The sharpness of his tone was a physical thing, scraping against your nerves.

"Well, maybe you should listen for once!" You stepped forward, invading his space, your own anger trembling in your voice, fueled by the unwanted flutter his proximity caused. "Instead of just doing whatever reckless, stupid thing pops into your head! We're supposed to be a team, Dean! Partners!"

"I am listening!" He roared back, fists clenched white-knuckled at his sides. He took a step closer, forcing you to tilt your head back to meet his furious gaze. The air between you crackled, thick with ozone and unresolved everything. "But you're overthinking everything! Paralysis by analysis! Like always!" He punctuated the last word with a sharp kick to the leg of the rickety motel table, sending a half-empty bottle of whiskey wobbling precariously.

The accusation stung, sharp and unfair. "Overthinking?" You spat, grabbing the nearest harmless object – a packet of rock salt – and hurling it at his chest. It bounced off harmlessly. "I'm trying to keep us alive, you idiot! Unlike you, who seems determined to get himself killed!"

His eyes flashed, something primal igniting in their depths. Before you could draw breath for another retort, before your brain could fully register the shift, Dean lunged.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't hesitant. It was pure, pent-up fury and frustration channeled into a single, devastating action. His hands shot out, one tangling roughly in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, and his lips crashed down onto yours.

The impact stole your breath. You staggered back a step, but he was relentless, an immovable force. His kiss was hot, heavy, urgent – a desperate attempt to shut you up. A groan ripped from your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth. Your hands flew up, not to push him away, but to clutch desperately at his shoulders, fingers digging into the solid muscle beneath the worn cotton.

"Dean—" you gasped against his lips, but he wasn't stopping. His hands slid down your sides, strong and demanding, lifting you effortlessly until your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking you flush against him. Every hard plane of his body pressed against yours – the buckle of his belt digging into your stomach, the heat radiating from his chest, the undeniable hardness straining against his jeans, pressed intimately against your core. The friction was electric, sending jolts of pure, molten need straight through you.

The anger was still there, a tangled knot in your chest, but it was rapidly being consumed, overwritten by a tidal wave of desire. Every frantic kiss, every possessive slide of his tongue against yours, every desperate shove of his hips against yours only fanned the flames higher, blurring the lines between fury and lust until they were indistinguishable.

"You think I don't feel it too, baby?" he hissed against your lips, his voice a low, guttural rasp that vibrated through your entire body. His teeth nipped sharply at your bottom lip, sending a shockwave of pleasure-pain down your spine. "You think this constant fighting, this goddamn arguing… you think it isn't killing me?"

He kissed you again, deep and consuming, one hand sliding under your shirt, his rough palm scraping against your bare skin, sending shivers cascading over you.

"Knowing… knowing I want you like this." He punctuated the word with another hard grind of his hips, drawing a choked whimper from you.

You couldn't speak. Words were impossible. Your mind was white noise, consumed by the feel of him, the taste of whiskey and Dean, the sheer overwhelming need. Your fingers scrabbled at the hem of his shirt, tugging it upwards, desperate for skin.

"Dean…" It was barely a breath, ragged and pleading. "Don't stop."

A low, predatory chuckle rumbled in his chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark pools of hunger, a smirk playing on his kiss-swollen lips. "Good," he murmured, his thumb brushing roughly over your peaked nipple through the fabric of your bra. "Because I wasn't planning to." He shifted his grip, carrying you the few steps to the nearest motel bed. "Let me make you feel it, sweetheart. All of it."

He lowered you onto the scratchy comforter, following you down, his body covering yours completely. There was no more talking.

Arguments dissolved into gasps and moans. Frustration melted into desperate touches. Clothes became obstacles ripped away with impatient hands – buttons flying, fabric tearing. His mouth was everywhere: hot and demanding on your neck, sucking bruises onto your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast before closing hungrily over a nipple, drawing a sharp cry from you.

His hands mapped your body with possessive urgency, calloused fingers tracing your ribs, dipping into the hollow of your navel, sliding down to grip your thigh and hike it higher over his hip. The first touch of his fingers against your slick heat drew a ragged sob from your throat. He teased you relentlessly, circling your clit with agonizing slowness before plunging two fingers deep inside, curling them expertly.

"Dean! Please!" You arched against him, your nails scoring down his back.

"Tell me," he growled, adding a third finger, stretching you deliciously, his thumb pressing hard against your clit. "Tell me what you want."

"You!" you gasped, writhing beneath him. "Just you! Now!"

He didn't need telling twice. With a groan that sounded ripped from his soul, Dean positioned himself, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. He held your gaze, his own eyes wild with need, the last vestiges of anger completely consumed by raw desire. Then, with one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside you.

The sensation was overwhelming – a perfect, stretching fullness that bordered on pain before dissolving into pure, blinding pleasure. You cried out, wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him impossibly deeper. He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm from the start, each powerful thrust driving the breath from your lungs. The bedframe slammed against the wall in a frantic, rhythmic protest.

It was fierce, primal. Every unresolved argument, every moment of tension, every spark of frustration fueled the fire. He fucked you like he fought – relentlessly, passionately, giving no quarter. You met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him down for bruising kisses. The sounds filling the room were raw: the slap of skin on skin, Dean’s guttural groans, your own keening cries, the creak of the protesting bed.

He shifted, hooking your leg over his shoulder, changing the angle. The new depth drew a scream from you as he hit that spot inside you with devastating precision. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. "That's it, sweetheart," he rasped, his pace faltering slightly as he watched you unravel. "Come for me. Let me feel it."

The command, coupled with the relentless pressure, shattered you. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your body clamped down around him, milking him as you cried out his name, trembling uncontrollably.

Feeling you convulse around him was Dean’s undoing. With a final, deep thrust and a roar that echoed off the cheap motel walls, he followed you over the edge. His hips jerked erratically as he emptied himself deep inside you, his body collapsing onto yours, his forehead pressed against your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your sweat-slicked skin.

Silence descended, broken only by the frantic pounding of two hearts slowing gradually, and the soft drip of the leaky faucet in the bathroom. The motel room smelled of sex, sweat, gunpowder, and Dean.

Slowly, carefully, Dean shifted his weight off you, pulling you with him until you were both lying tangled on the rumpled sheets. Your limbs were heavy, pleasantly numb. He gathered you against his side, your head finding its familiar place on his chest, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

Skin slid against skin, cooling in the stale air. You traced idle patterns on the sweat-damp hair scattered across his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

The silence stretched, comfortable now, charged with a different kind of energy – the aftershocks of shared intensity. You felt him press a kiss into the top of your hair, surprisingly soft.

"Still think I don't listen?" His voice was a low rumble, rough-edged but lacking its earlier bite. There was a hint of smugness, but underneath it, something softer, almost… tender.

You tilted your head back to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, a satisfied, lazy smirk playing on his lips. The familiar teasing glint was back, but tempered now. You felt a smile tug at your own lips, a mix of sass and the bone-deep contentment humming through your veins.

"Oh, I heard you loud and clear, Winchester," you murmured, your voice husky. You reached up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with a fingertip. "But next time? Maybe try using your words before you decide to shut me up like that." Your smile widened, pure sweetness laced with challenge. "Though… I’m not exactly complaining about your methods."

Dean chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. He tightened his arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer. "Noted," he murmured, his lips brushing your forehead again. "But no promises, sweetheart. Sometimes…" He trailed off, his fingers tracing idle circles on your bare hip. "...sometimes shutting you up is just too damn satisfying."